Chapter 6 - Maddy
Six
Maddy
Ihold out until mid-morning, but it’s no use. I can’t spend the whole day cleaning in this state. It’s a lost cause.
Every time my housemaid’s dress whispers against my legs, my breath catches and my nipples harden into beads. As I push the vacuum cleaner around a stately reception room, my core temperature climbs and climbs, my low belly twisting in anticipation, until I’m fit to combust.
All I can think of is West, and the hungry way he kissed me back last night. The rigid line of his cock beneath me. His heat and strength and the deep rumble of his voice. Honestly, I can’t believe I was ever so bold as to sit in my boss’s lap and kiss him square on the mouth, but now that I have?
I’m hooked.
And I can’t dust or sweep or vacuum for another sexually frustrated minute.
Glancing guiltily around the room, I abandon my work supplies right where I stand, not even bothering to unplug the vacuum cleaner from the wall. I’ll come back for this stuff later, okay?
Right now, I have a lord to find.
I check his study first, naturally, but the room is empty, cold ash in the grate. Books line the shelves that cover most of the walls, but they’re no help. Nerves squirm in my belly at the sight of the desk—the scene of last night’s crime—and my palm grows damp where it clutches the door knob.
He’s not here. Damn.
Where the hell is West?
I hurry to his private wing of the manor next, checking the lord’s personal rooms, but there’s no one here at all.
His bed is neatly made, and the walls are lined with yet more bookshelves, while virtually every free surface is populated with a plant pot or five.
An indoor jungle. The rug on the floor looks old but expensive, like it was handwoven by artisans in a far off country.
My lips press together as I linger in the doorway, warring with myself.
A big part of me wants to tiptoe inside, root through West’s drawers, then bury my face in his pillow and inhale, searching for his woodsy scent.
Drowning myself in intimate details of him.
Those urges are barely held in check by the sane part of me, my inner good girl, who lectures me about privacy and boundaries as I force myself to close West’s bedroom door.
Another time.
Next I try the kitchen. Mrs Ainslie spares me a single glance, then goes back to clanging pots and pans and stirring a giant vat of casserole as it billows steam.
The air in here smells like rosemary, tomato and garlic.
My stomach growls automatically, but it’s not the casserole that I’m starving for. Not really.
“Have you seen West?” I ask from the doorway.
Mrs Ainslie yanks out a drawer, rooting through stainless steel implements. “Didn’t catch that. Speak up, girl.”
I clear my throat, cheeks growing hot. “Have you seen Lord Westmore? He asked me to, um. To bring him something.”
Mrs Ainslie tosses one shoulder in a clear sign for: I could not care less. Well, at least she’s not grilling me on why the boss who famously hates me suddenly wants me to play fetch. That would be awkward.
“He was out in the grounds last I saw through the window.” The kitchen windows are almost entirely fogged over, but a small circle is still clear in the center of each pane. Like a row of little portholes out onto the island. “Marching over to his greenhouse.”
My heart lifts, but I force myself to hold back. To nod casually, and act like I don’t want to sprint hell for leather across the grounds.
“Okay, cool. Thanks.”
When I open the back door, the cold slap of salty winter air is a shock to my overheated skin. Goosebumps erupt on my bare arms and legs, and I start to shiver. I shove the door closed behind me, careful to wedge it shut because the last thing I want is Mrs Ainslie out for my blood.
I’m not that brave. No one is.
The sky is pale, with no obvious clouds in sight. In the distance, the sea is choppy and slate gray, foaming at the crests. I set off jogging over the rolling grasses to where West’s greenhouse hunkers, almost as big as the manor itself, the wind whipping at my dress.
It makes sense that the greenhouse is so huge, I suppose.
The rare and exotic plant samples that West has collected from around the globe are his most treasured guests on this island.
Certainly he never seems to invite humans round.
My mouth twitches in fondness for my surly boss as I hurry along the paved path that leads to the greenhouse.
This uniform is really designed for days spent indoors, working up a sweat amid the central heating. It’s no match for the frosty winter wind, and by the time I reach the door, my teeth are chattering.
It’s unlocked. The door swings open with a hushing sound, humid warmth hitting me like a brick wall.
Thank god.
The greenhouse is stuffed to the high ceiling with what seems like a mini rainforest, complete with looming trees, dangling vines, and a thick understory of ferns, flowers and other plants.
Birds hop beneath strange-looking bushes, and insects buzz and flit.
The sound of burbling water echoes through the space, though I can’t pinpoint the source.
Paved paths wind among the foliage, sometimes looping back or leading to a dead end, and as I bite my lip and hurry through the greenhouse, it feels a little like I’m hunting the Minotaur in his own labyrinth. My heart thuds.
Is West here? Or is he back in the manor somewhere, tucked away where I won’t think to look? Has he changed his mind? Is he hiding from me again after all?
Doubts gnaw at me, eating away at the happiness in my chest, until I’m swallowing hard and forcing myself to take each step, then another; to check down each winding path and secret cul-de-sac.
I’m here now. I should at least finish looking.
Five more minutes, then I’ll take the hint and hurry back to my abandoned vacuum cleaner, queasy with hurt and disappointment.
That’s the mood I’m in when I round a corner and nearly trip over my aristocratic boss where he kneels on the path.
He’s wearing a dove gray button down shirt, rolled to the elbows and loose at the collar, a moss green waistcoat and dark pants.
His thick dark hair curls beneath his ears, and his beard is freshly trimmed.
The only admission to the fact that he’s gardening rather than sitting at a desk is a pair of worn canvas gloves.
Did West dress differently for all those expeditions he went on? Surely he did.
Or perhaps he bushwhacked his way through the jungle in a three piece suit. God, I’d have loved to see that.
As I come barreling around the bend in the path, West swivels to face me, his handsome features etched with alarm. But when he sees that it’s me, that apprehension melts into something softer. Relief.
“You came,” West murmurs, then pushes to his feet. It’s an awkward, painful-looking process, what with his injured leg, but I don’t look away or pretend it’s not happening. No: I soak up every detail of the man I’ve been craving non-stop since I left his study last night.
His debonair clothes, and the piercing depth of his gray eyes. The firm line of his jaw, and the swell of muscle beneath his clothing. The fine lines at the corner of his eyes, and the salt and pepper of the hair at his temples.
How old is he, exactly? Early forties? This is a man who has lived, who has seen the world and experienced great highs and lows, and he’s staring at me like I’m someone worth coveting. As fascinating as any of his plants—and believe me, that’s high praise.
It’s a trip.
“I came,” I agree softly. It didn’t feel like a conscious choice, not really. More like a primal urge, a natural imperative, to find the man who makes every cell in my body quiver with yearning. To find him and get as close as possible.
Even now, just staring at him, surrounded by plants on all sides, it’s a heady feeling. How badly I want West. How eager I am to give him everything.
After I left the study last night, our heated kisses felt like a dream. Like they couldn’t possibly have been real; like I must have fallen asleep in my attic bed after all and tossed and turned under the covers, overheating at the thought of my boss.
But here he is. Flesh and blood, with the same undeniable yearning in his gaze.
“Although,” I pretend to scold, propping my hands on my hips and tilting my head, “you said you wouldn’t hide from me.”
West glances around us, bemused. Like kneeling at the center of this otherworldly rainforest does not count as hiding at all.
“I always come here in the mornings,” he says.
“Well, I don’t know that.”
There’s a lot about this man I don’t know yet.
Thousands upon thousands of things, despite my nosy Googling.
But for the first time in my life, I’m not already planning my next caper, or plotting my escape to sunnier pastures.
I don’t wish I were somewhere else, reinventing my life for the fiftieth time. Reinventing myself.
I’m right where I want to be.
And maybe this man is a big mystery to me, but for the first time, I want to stick around and solve him.
“Sit there.” I point at the bench behind West, where his cane leans against the side. It has no back or sides; a completely no-nonsense design. His thick eyebrow raises, but my boss turns and limps to where I’ve pointed.
“I can stand just fine, you know.” West lowers down with a gentle sigh, and god, even sitting, his limbs are long and strong, his torso broad, his head barely lower than mine. This man is a magnificent sculpture, bad leg or no.
His eyes heat as I step forward, coming to stand between his spread thighs. Gesturing for his hands, I tug his gloves off one by one, yanking on the tips of the canvas fingers.
“I can do that too,” West says, clearly amused. “I can even tie my own shoelaces, darling.”
Ha.