Chapter Sixteen
Freya hugged Lord Graham’s evening coat tighter about her.
She should go below and find a servant to light the hearth in her bed chamber.
She had rung for a servant nearly two hours earlier, but no one had reported to her quarters.
Naturally, she could set a fire herself, but as Lord Thompson supposedly rarely entertained, Freya was not confident the fireplace had been properly cleaned before her arrival.
She would not bring a house fire to her new friend’s future.
She could sleep with multiple blankets for one night. “Not perfect, yet not the end of the world,” she murmured as she turned at the end of the hallway to return to her room. She had assumed the walk would not only clear her thinking, but also warm her up.
She wondered, Is Lord Graham attempting to protect me? The other ladies appeared to handle the chaos well. Does His Lordship think I am too fragile? That I cannot adjust to his pledge to assist the Home Office? Or does he not desire me? That last question was the one that worried her the most.
Freya braced herself against the wall underneath a painting of the previous Earl Thompson’s image. “I suppose it is best that I now know there is no future other than to be Lady Hodge and tolerate my husband’s desires.”
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, but she made herself breathe through the deep sorrow. Slowly, she pushed herself upward and turned again towards her quarters.
Aaran glanced to the clock on the mantel.
Nearly midnight. He had heard Lady Freya’s continual pacing.
Of course, it could be Hartley or Kepper, but Aaran knew both of Duncan’s men had had enough of Thompson’s brandy to keep them asleep.
Moreover, the lady would be consistent in her pacing, while not being noisy.
Women were more considerate in such matters.
She crossed again between her quarters and the area at the top of the stairs.
He thought if it were not so late nor so cold, she would be pacing the long drive from Thom Manor to the main road to the village.
Instead, she was wearing a groove in the long runner carpet that marked the length of the hallway, as if she were a lion in a cage often seen at traveling carnivals.
Was her restless night related to this evening’s shooting?
She had perhaps finally realized the danger that followed his brothers and him around.
Ladies Emma, Theodora, and Annalise, as well as Miss Whitchurch, had lived with danger before becoming wives to his brothers.
Lady Freya had simply contended with that miserable piece of humanity known as Lord Iain Cunningham.
Aaran swallowed the groan of pain rushing to his lips as he dropped his legs over the edge of the bed and placed his feet on the brocade rug marking this part of his bedchamber.
“Dare I?” he murmured to the room, though his decision had been made before he tested his complaining knee, which was boldly protesting the damage he had inflicted upon it this evening.
The extremely hot bath had eased the shards of pain, but even the welcoming heat could not move the kneecap and the ligaments back in place.
He claimed his banyan from the end of the bed and slipped it over his shoulders, overlapped the front, and loosely tied the braided material about his waist.
Lady Freya’s shadow slid across the opening at the bottom of Aaran’s door. Assuming he was covered enough not to shame himself or her, he crossed to the door and waited until he heard her return steps before opening the door to his suite.
Her Ladyship gasped and stumbled. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she swatted at his fingertips.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped. The moonlight sent a shaft of light near the stairs and lamps in both his quarters and hers sent a lopsided circle of light outside each room.
No candles were lit along the hall, which Aaran thought to be odd.
“Knowing confidence that nothing was amiss,” he whispered.
He assuredly did not want either Hartley or Kepper to overhear them and come to examine the situation.
Yet, Duncan’s assistants were not really what was most important in Aaran’s mind.
He had previously thought Lady Freya’s face the most compelling one he had ever known, but standing before him in her stockinged feet and her hair hanging loose to her waist was as if his dreams had come true.
Moreover, she still wore his supper coat clutched tightly about her.
The fact they were essentially alone had his pulse hitching higher.
He studied her from where her sock-covered toes curled into the braided carpet runner to where she tugged his coat tighter about her.
He wondered what she wore beneath both her robe and his coat and what would she do if he chose to explore the possibilities.
He glanced to her face to discover the tight line of her lips and Lady Elsbeth Duncan and her Scottish folklore would call it the look of hell and damnation in Freya’s eyes.
When she continued to stare at him, he said, “I apologize for startling you.” Even he heard the desire in his tone, but there was nothing he could do to either prevent it or disguise it.
Therefore, he sighed heavily. “Is there something amiss?” He ran his fingers through his hair, finally realizing his face likely showed more than just the shadow of a beard.
“No one came to set a fire in my room,” she admitted as she glanced towards the still open door to her quarters. “I thought I could warm up a bit by walking back and forth before I crawled in bed.”
Aaran glanced to her quarters. “I can set a fire for you.”
“In truth, I am not confident the hearth has been cleaned. I feared if I set a fire it might cause damage,” she explained. “Last evening was not so cold, and I was housed in Mrs. Thompson’s quarters and we all had some wine and…”
“And you rang for a maid?” he asked though he knew the answer.
Thankfully, she did not speak to his need for assurances. Instead, she said, “When I first came up to my quarters, I rang for service.”
“Some two hours,” he murmured. He looked up and down the hall. “Let us see if one of the empty rooms has a fire already set with wood and coal. If so, we can light it and you can sleep in warmth. In the morning, the maid can assist you before the wedding and, later, with your packing.”
“Lord Thompson would not object?” she asked in hopeful tones.
“Thompson only has Miss Whitchurch on his mind, but he would be livid that no one addressed your needs,” Aaran assured.
“We shall not tell him,” she declared. “I do not wish a maid to lose her position because of me.”
Aaran would address the situation once Lady Freya departed for London.
“Permit me to fetch a candle, and we will look together.” Within a minute, they were opening the first door along the hall.
He doubted if she realized this room adjoined his.
His quarters were meant to be a suite for a husband and wife.
He led the way into the room. “There appears to be a fire set for use. There is also some kindling.”
At last, she, too, realized what happened as she glanced back to the close proximity of this room to his. “Might we check the other two rooms?” she asked softly.
“Assuredly,” he told her, but, as they both had begun to suspect, the lack of fire in the grates were purposeful.
After examining the second room, the one closest to Kepper, he said, “You may lock the door between us. Put a chair under the latch so the door cannot be opened. Lock the connecting dressing room from your side.”
She looked off to where he had pointed. “I suppose I do not have a choice.” A shiver shook her shoulders.
Aaran was not confident whether she was cold or embarrassed.
“I shall… I shall fetch my things… my things… for this evening and then return… to my assigned quarters to wait for this room to know warmth.”
“Instead, sit by the fire in my room. Your voice is beginning to sound as if you are shivering. It will take several minutes for the heat to take the sting from this room.”
She looked at him with suspicion.
“We will leave the door open,” he assured. “Moreover, no one else is along the hall to discover us alone. Both Hartley and Kepper were feeling no pain when they retired.”
“But you must be up early to assist Lord Thompson,” she argued.
“Much of my work for the government takes place in the night’s middle,” he admitted.
“I will not complain about having a mere seven or so hours of sleep. Now, hurry along. We have discussed this enough. You are cold and I am getting chilled, as well. We are practical and know how to solve this problem together.”
She did as he instructed while Aaran bent stiffly to add several rolls of paper between the mix of wood and coal set within the hearth.
Another roll of paper caught the weak flame of the candle he had set aside.
He dropped it into the middle of the other twists and sat back on his heels to watch the flame begin to take hold.
Next, he set the metal grate before the hearth.
Reclaiming his candle and bracing himself with his free hand, he pushed himself upward.
His injured leg burned from the effort, but Aaran breathed through the pain.
He watched the fire expand before he returned to his room where he found Lady Freya sitting before the hearth, her stocking covered toes stretched out to capture the heat of the flame and begging for the warmth.
He shook his head in amusement but made no comment. Instead, he crossed to the pail to scoop more coal and toss it into the flame. “Would you like some wine or brandy, my lady?” he asked.
“I am well, my lord,” she told him, as she tugged his coat tighter about her. “Did you manage the fire?”