Francie gulped her tea, leaving off any attempts to be ladylike. That had gone well, she thought. She'd brought him tea and acted as though everything was perfectly normal. For all she knew he licked women's fingers all the time and she really shouldn't think anything of it. She was regretting sweetening her own tea now, as the flavor would mostly likely always remind her of that moment. The shock of his tongue swiping against her fingertip and then, lud, her finger in his warm mouth.

She understood perhaps a bit better now the girls who had fallen under the spell of a man. Cleadon was small enough that she'd only known one such girl who had found herself in that way. But tongues wagged and told stories of people known over the years. Before meeting Mr. Burnham she'd always thought that the girls were clearly foolish. Now she didn't find herself judging quite so harshly. She didn't think herself capable of making a truly horrible decision when it came to it, but she felt the temptation.

Among the terrible decisions she could make, she was sure, was to marry him if he asked. Not that he would ask. He'd clearly only asked Phoebe out of a sense of duty to a dead friend. But she'd seen how autocratic and bullheaded he could be, and she knew they would make a terrible couple. He would say something domineering at the wrong time and she would probably shoot him again. That almost made her giggle. No, she wouldn't shoot him. But she would be tempted! Just as tempted as she was right now to kiss him. He was, all in all, the personification of temptation for her to sin. Perhaps she should visit the church in advance of Sunday, just to pray out her wayward thoughts.

"Miss Walters?"

She turned to his voice and it was clear that she needed to stop thinking about him, because he was somehow even more attractive than he'd been earlier. His dark hair fell over his brow, and his amber eyes glanced at her before casting down toward the ground, as though he were shy about what he was about to say.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I thought it might be helpful if I sharpened all your scissors."

"Oh," she said, confused by his mundane topic. "Yes, I suppose it would."

He arched a brow. "If you know where they all are? I've seen a few pairs sitting about."

She laughed. "Yes! We can never have too many pairs of shears! But there are only five pair." She dug in her apron pocket to produce hers. "If you start on these I will go find the rest."

After unlocking the front door for business, as though they might have a customer come in, Francie busied herself with finding all their pairs of scissors. Her mother's were still tucked away in the drawer upstairs where she'd put them once mum was too ill to work. Phoebe's were tucked in her cousin's apron hanging in the back room. The special large pair used for cutting heavy fabric were in the workroom. But she couldn't find Lydie's anywhere.

"Sorry," Francie said, "but my little cousin must have taken hers."

Mr. Burnham paused at his work and grinned. "Well, won't she be sad hers aren't as sharp?"

Francie wished he wouldn't do that. Grin, that was. Bent to his work with his sleeves pushed up and his hair in his eyes, adding a grin to it was beyond bearing. Rather than answer his roguish smile she marched back out to the front counter. They were very unlikely to have any customers today, but if any came by this was typically the time they would do it. She certainly couldn't go back to the workroom until she had decided that Mr. Burnham was less of a distraction.

Reggie. He'd suggested that she call him Reggie. Could she? Would she? It was such an intimate thing to call a man by his Christian name. What would her name sound like on his lips? Miss Walters always sounded so formal, but would Francine sound less so in his bass voice? Would he call her Francie?

She was, she knew, well and truly sunk. Phoebe needed to come back from London right now before Francie did something unwise.

 

***

 

Miss Walters was clearly not the type to make too much of a fuss about services rendered. She'd dumped the pairs of scissors on him as though it were his job. She was so perfunctory about it that he was surprised she hadn't included the kitchen knives as well. Then she'd disappeared to other parts of the shop as though on urgent business.

Sharpening edges had always been a favorite hobby of his, oddly. He loved to take an edge to such a fine sharpness that you could shave with any of his knives. He most likely shouldn't take the scissors to quite such an edge, but it was tempting. The sound of the stone on metal was a soothing rhythm, and soon he forgot about his growing attraction to Miss Walters, the loss of his friends, and the potential danger his one remaining friend might find in London. It all evaporated into a litany of metal on stone. 

That was until, at least, Miss Walters came back to the workroom and took up her sewing again. He kept his focus on his work, as he had long since discovered the error of distraction with a sharp blade. But part of him was also aware of her. The tendril of hair that had escaped the twist at the back of her neck and curled against her cheek. The way her brow was furrowed in concentration as her fingers flew over of the slick fabric. How she periodically tapped her foot, as though there might be a tune playing in her head that only she could hear. He was, truth be told, far too aware of her overall.

Did she take any such notice of him? She hadn't spoken when entering the room, and there had been silence other than their work ever since. Was she returning to the sullen quiet of the last few days? He missed her wicked tongue, dammit. Not that he should really think too much about her tongue, because his thoughts strayed from what it might say to how it might taste.

"Bloody hell." He'd known the price of distraction, but let his mind wander anyway. He stuck the bleeding digit in his mouth while Miss Walters came over to tend him.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

He forced himself to set down the offending scissors rather than throw them in anger. "It's nothing," he mumbled around the bleeding finger.

"Let me see," she insisted.

Her tendency to play nursemaid was a bit irritating. On the other hand, she was the one who'd shot him, so she had a lot to make up for. He held his hand out, with the small slice on his middle finger immediately welling up with blood.

She frowned and said, "Stay still," before turning to riffle through the stack of scraps in the corner of the room. She brought back two small lengths of cotton and wrapped his finger carefully.

"Don't you want to put some honey on it?" he asked. He'd meant to make light of their earlier encounter but her eyes went wide and she swayed away from him.

"We will see how this heals," she said quietly.

Bloody hell, he'd not meant to make the girl afraid of him. Perhaps he should even avoid doing so, as she was so quick to the trigger. "My apologies for earlier."

"Oh! I... No, there's no need." She seemed flustered and was avoiding his gaze again. She ran her fingers over her apron as though suddenly concerned she might have something on them. It didn't speak well of him, he knew, but he rather liked flustering the girl. It was hard to gain the upper hand when your first few moments included being shot, so he was going to press his advantage.

"But Miss Walters," he said, dropping his voice to a deeper tone and spreading a hand over his chest melodramatically. "My mother would be beside herself if she heard of this. That I, her youngest son, could treat a gentle lady with such disrespect. Please say that you'll forgive me." Now she was blushing. A pretty English rose, indeed! What would she do if he read poetry to her?

"D-don't be all bacon-brained," she stammered. "If you truly wish to apologize then keep being useful."

Reggie howled in laughter. Just when he thought he had her cornered she came out swinging again!

"What?" she demanded

But he was laughing too hard to explain, and after a bit she relaxed and chuckled before taking herself off to the front of the shop.

No, his time spent with Miss Walters would not be boring.