Francie worried her lip again. Somehow the blasted man continued to look more attractive rather than less so. After he'd scared the wits out of her in the hallway she'd thought twice now that he might kiss her. First on the stairs, when he'd warmed her to a delightful toastiness that she'd never felt before, and just now when he'd stood so close to her that she was afraid her chest would brush his if she took too deep a breath. He had been staring at her with a singular intensity that was unsettling and yet thrilling all at once.

She wished she could recover her equilibrium and chastise him as she'd done the first few days of their acquaintance. Somehow the caustic words wouldn't come and it felt as though her tongue was cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Especially once he took off his shirt. He was still watching her with that intense gaze, as though challenging her to notice. She did notice far too much about him.

As she drew close, however, she also noticed that his wound looked red and puckered. The light wasn't very bright in the room, so she turned to light a candle. Additional light didn't make the wound look any better. She checked both sides, and thought that the back fared slightly better than the front.

"Well," she said with a sigh, setting the candle aside. "It's fortuitous that we fetched down the honey."

"Honey?" he asked, confused.

"You've never seen a wound treated with honey before?" she asked, pulling out a spoon and dipping it in their small crock of the golden, sweet substance.

"No."

"I learned it from my mother."

"I'll be sure to tell Harry." His tone, while not entirely rude, indicated that he didn't consider her mother an authority on healing.

She should be outraged but instead found herself entertained. "You doubt me? Well, we will see how you feel after a few days."

"Like overly sweet toast, I imagine," he grumbled.

She started at his back, dabbing the sweet, sticky liquid on gently. Then she moved to do the same to the wound on his front. He was still staring at her, the lids of his eyes lowered to an almost sleepy expression. But even innocent as she was she knew it wasn't really sleepiness. As he continued to stare she felt herself blush so thoroughly that she was warmed clear from her toes to her nose. It seemed Mr. Burnham was a solution to her endless chilliness, if all he had to do was look at her to make her warm.

"We will let that dry a bit," she said, "since it would be too hard to wrap it. And really you don't want anything to pull at the wound, like fabric dried in the honey might."

She wasn't sure if he was even listening to her and she was afraid she might start babbling. Then he caught her hand in his own and drew her fingers to his lips.

"Sweet," he said, licking honey off the tip of one.

Her knees felt weak. "Mr. Burnham."

"Reggie," he corrected, putting her next finger in his mouth up to the first knuckle before licking the honey off.

"Reggie," she whispered, too overwhelmed with the sensations to say anything more.

When he put the third finger in his mouth she finally recovered her senses enough to stumble back. "I'm sorry," she said, as she couldn't think of anything else to say. She fled into the bedroom and closed the door. Her body was a riot of sensations. The blush from his notice, the coil of heat from her own desire for him, her embarrassment from both things, and her anger that she was in this position at all. It would be best, she thought, to focus on the anger. Snipe and bite and bully him until he thought her a shrew. It would be hard enough finding a place to recover her reputation, it would be harder still to do it with a babe. She didn't fool herself that he was interested in her as a wife. He didn't strike her as the type of man who was planning to settle down anytime soon, so encouraging even an iota of attention from him would be disastrous. She shouldn't have let him hold her on the stairs. And so what if the blasted man's wound became infected? He was undoubtedly too stubborn to die from it. She should stay far away from him for the rest of his time here.

She saw she was still holding the spoon with a dab of honey in it. Blasted man. She stuck the spoon in her mouth and let the honey melt over her tongue. Blasted, irritating man.

 

***

 

Reggie sat in the chair long after Miss Walters fled. What had he been thinking? She was clearly a sweet, young miss who deserved no less than his respect, and he was starting to sniff after her like a bawdy house whore who would do his bidding. Licking the honey off her fingers, however, had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. Hearing her little gasp of breath, watching her blue eyes widen and the pulse at her throat quicken. If she were of a mind, the little minx could seduce him with those eyes alone. He had already been thinking of other places they could put honey for him to lick off when he saw her expression change from seduced to panicked. That was all the reminder he needed that she was ultimately a sheltered, rural girl that he had no business dabbling with. He could just hear his eldest brother, Jeremy. 'If you can't marry them, don't dangle after them.'  Jeremy considered himself the ultimate arbiter of wisdom. Since he had a well-settled home with three children and a wife who had been considered a diamond of the first water in her season, it was difficult to gainsay him. However, Jeremy had never been pressed into military service nor asked to protect a woman in her cramped home. It was possible that even perfect Jeremy would find challenges such as these to adjust his character.

The kettle was boiling over so Reggie pulled it from the fire. Miss Walters had readied the teapot with leaves, so he poured in the hot water and left it to steep. He went to the door she'd fled through and braced his hands on the jamb. 

"I'm going downstairs," he announced. He strained to hear a response, but there were no sounds he could detect. "The tea should be ready shortly."

Giving up on trying to lure out the frightened girl, he grabbed his shirt and descended the stairs.

He wasn't a man given to idleness, but it was a challenge trying to decide what to do with himself in a dress shop. He had already checked for loose boards and nails, fixing anything that seemed amiss. Short of building on an addition he couldn't think of a thing to do. The alley behind, he thought, could just fit a small stone kitchen. That would be a mercy, he thought, for the girls in the summer. Cooking upstairs undoubtedly led to a smoky, hot, stuffy season. Rather a bit like a London crush.

Miss Walters had explained that they didn't dare cook downstairs and risk tainting their fabrics with the smell of soot or cooked meats. They kept their prized bolts fresh with dried flowers tucked in the folds. So a separate addition made sense, and stone would keep it as safe from fire as possible. Granted, he would only be here for another fortnight, but he couldn't help his mind from straying to the necessary improvements. Perhaps if he spoke to the merchant across the street the man could see to the construction. Reggie could draw up more than adequate plans in the time he had left.

He heard Miss Walters on the stairs and smiled. At least she wasn't trying to mask her descent as she had earlier. He didn't think he'd ever been closer to a heart attack than when she'd screamed. He busied himself with the figures he'd been calculating, not wanting to appear to be anticipating her entrance to the room. He didn't glance up until she was directly in front of him, and when he did he noticed she didn't meet his eyes.

"Your tea," she announced quietly, setting a mug in front of him. The fragrant steam soothed him. "I wasn't sure how you took it."

The truth was that he'd always taken his tea plain, as she'd served it. But just now he thought he might enjoy it with a bit of honey. "This is good, thanks."

She nodded and wrapped her fingers around her own mug, taking a sip as she walked toward the front of the shop. He'd wager that her tea had honey in it. If he kissed her now her tongue would be all the sweeter for it, and God's blood but he needed to not think about Miss Walters in that way.

Was it merely the forced proximity? Or was there something special about the girl herself? He liked her feisty nature, and what man in his right mind wouldn't be attracted to her face and figure? But she wasn't the sort of girl who deserved to be trifled with, and regardless of his misguided proposal to Miss Grenard he wasn't looking for a wife. If he was then certainly she didn't fit the bill. He needed someone gently bred enough to keep his family from looking down on her, and yet hearty enough to be the wife of a Navy man stationed overseas. He predicted she fell short on both counts. His mother and sisters would shred her composure like tissue paper, and more than five minutes in the Caribbean sun would find her crying for home. No. He'd best leave off any thoughts of seducing the girl. They would both be disappointed by the outcome.