“Bloody hell,” Liam said with no apology as he crossed over, passing the six foot mark.
Molly stood stiffly. “I don’t need to be warmed. I mean, I would not want to inconvenience your brother.”
“Don’t be silly,” Becca said, leaving them alone as if it was nothing.
“I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Hedgeworth,” he said. Molly swore she could feel the vibrations from his chest traveling all the way through the floorboards.
“I’m sure it was a simple mistake,” she breathed.
“Nothing is simple. This is carelessness.”
He pulled off his gloves. Good God, was he going to do what she thought he was? Without stopping to ask her for permission he took her hands between his, rubbing them with calloused palms. The rough texture chaffed her skin as he worked his way unapologetically up one arm. Her gown was short-sleeved and she’d run off without her gloves, so she was bare-skinned up to her shoulders.
He didn’t miss any of it. Molly’s eyes widened as heat spread from his hands, and somehow all over her body. He smelled of the warm vanilla musk of the cigars he no doubt smoked, heightened now by his close proximity and rain-dampened shirt. The back of his hand was no more than two finger widths from her… She couldn’t think about it.
She hazarded a glance at his face as he started on the other arm. He was focused on his task as if it was of the utmost importance that he work blood back into her extremities.
“Better?” he asked, glancing up as if he’d sensed her watching him.
“Yes. Thank you.” She looked away.
“You should dry your hair.” He let go of her and snagged the hat pin out of her bonnet, setting it and her bonnet, on a table next to his gloves. She looked at them there—together—feeling a little giddy. Her wet hair was heavy and it rebelled against the combs holding it. Sodden, her curls fell into her face, her tortoise shell combs hitting the ground with a duel clatter. She brushed her hair away.
“Thank you,” she said, her throat tight.
A tiny smile quirked his lips as he bent to retrieve her lost hair combs, setting them on the table. He’d lost his no-nonsense expression. “You said that already.” His voice had changed; it wasn’t as forceful as before.
“Did, I?”
“I believe so, yes.” He gathered her wet hair up into his hands, squeezing it out.
Becca came back with a baby blue dressing gown and he backed suddenly away. “Come now, let’s dry you off,” she said.
Darcy Branwyn 
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