Chapter 15 #2
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Mrs. Fairfax is gone. So is the little girl. Which means I’m alone in this estate with Mr. Rochester and whoever else might be lurking in the shadows.
And just like that, the fantasy of my perfect hiding place evaporates into steam.
“Are you asking me to leave?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it, my voice cracking with panic. “I mean, if there’s no child to care for...”
If they don’t need a nanny, they don’t need me. And if I have to leave this island, I’m dead. If Gil’s people don’t find me within hours, the FBI will drag me back in handcuffs. I’ll be facing murder charges and a death sentence before I can explain my innocence.
“Quite the opposite,” he says, his voice smooth as satin. “With Mrs. Fairfax away, I was hoping you might handle a few household tasks.”
Relief floods through my system so fast my head spins. I still have shelter. Still have time to figure out my next move.
“Of course,” I blurt. “Whatever you need. I’m happy to help.”
He inclines his head. Gives me a wintry smile but doesn’t reply. My breath quickens. Why isn’t he accepting my offer?
I lean forward, trying not to sound desperate. “I can do everything around the house. I can clean… cook. I know all the basics and can make fancy dishes. Just as long as there’s a recipe book.”
His eyes flicker with something that might be interest. “Then I look forward to tasting you.”
My brain stalls. My pussy clenches. Every nerve ending springs to life. Did he just...
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice breathy.
“Your cuisine,” he says, but there’s something in his eyes—a smoldering heat, a touch of humor—that makes me think I didn’t imagine the double entendre.
“Right. Cooking.” I take a gulp of coffee. “I won’t disappoint you.”
He stands with that same fluid grace. Then he slides on the jacket with an elegance at odds with how he handled my foot last night. Each gesture is controlled, deliberate, like he’s choreographed his entire existence.
“Wonderful,” he says, pushing in his chair. “I’ll leave you to settle into your new responsibilities.”
He strides out of the room, leaving me alone with my throbbing heart and his manly scent.
I sit at the table, stunned, unable to complete this beautiful breakfast. My pulse won’t stop racing. One brief conversation has thrown me from hopeful to fearing for my survival, and back to hope. No matter how many times I replay his words, I get stuck on one thing: he wants a taste of me.
Not my food. Not my feet. Me.
I study the chair he vacated, trying to reconcile that calm, controlled man with the desperate beast who came in his pants while humping my bed.
The disconnect is staggering. Rochester moves through the world like he owns it, completely self-possessed.
But the man in my room was hungry. Feverish. Almost reverent in his need.
Could they really be the same person? Or am I so eager for answers that I’m seeing connections that don’t exist?
Maybe the isolation is getting to my head. Maybe I’m losing my mind on this Godforsaken estate, creating elaborate fantasies to cope with the loneliness.
But the bruises on my ankle are real. So is the memory of his tongue on my skin. A man was definitely in my room last night. The same man who left me that note asking me to wave back.
The question is: who?
After eating, I carry the plates to the kitchen, still trying to find answers. A pile of dirty dishes sits in the sink. Mrs. Fairfax must have left this morning with Adele in a hurry.
And there’s something new on the counter by the spice rack. A torn piece of paper, ragged along one edge like it was ripped from a notebook. It’s set square to the counter, as if someone measured it with a ruler.
I approach it with a frown.
The handwriting is cramped, irregular, like the writer was in a bad temper. At the top is the name I’m using: Annalisa Burlington.
And beneath that, a list:
Gather fresh eggs – beware of the rooster
Prepare stew base with rabbit in cooler (debone completely)
Polish west-facing windows (ladder in garden shed)
Oil all door hinges (start with guest quarters)
Boil linens – use cellar basin
Change guest linens on first floor
Sweep and mop grand foyer
Arrange flowers in main hall
Wipe down portrait frames
Scrub guest room fireplaces (check for nests)
Beat dust from hallway and guest room rugs (use line behind house)
The list keeps going with a string of empty checkboxes next to each item. It’s detailed, deliberate, like someone’s been planning these tasks for weeks.
My jaw drops. “Didn’t know I was being hired as a housemaid.”
This isn’t the light household help Mr. Rochester made it sound like over breakfast. This is full-scale domestic drudgery. Scrubbing fireplaces? Deboning rabbits? What’s next, mucking out stables?
I have no idea how to prepare rabbit. I’ve never seen a cellar basin in my life. And who warns someone about a rooster like it’s a guard dog?
But what choice do I have?
I fold the paper and shove it in my pocket. Looks like I’m getting housebroken.