Francesca was kneeling by the fireplace, attempting to spark a flame. From the sound of her mutterings, she wasn’t meeting with much success.
“Dear heavens!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”
“I had trouble finding a place to tie Felix,” he explained gruffly. “I had to build him a shelter.”
“With your own two hands?”
“I had no other tools,” he said with a shrug.
She glanced nervously out the window. “Will he be all right?”
“I hope so,” Michael replied, sitting down on a three-legged stool to remove his boots. “I couldn’t very well slap his rump and send him home on that injured leg.”
“No,” she said, “of course not.” And then her face took on a horrified expression, and she jumped to her feet, exclaiming, “Will you be all right?”
Normally, he’d have welcomed her concern, but it would have been far easier to milk it if he knew what the devil she was talking about. “I beg your pardon?” he asked politely.
“The malaria,” she said, with a touch of urgency. “You’re soaked, and you’ve just had an attack. I don’t want you to-” She stopped, clearing her throat and visibly squaring her shoulders. “My concern does not mean that I am more charitably inclined to you than I was an hour ago, but I do not wish for you to suffer a relapse.”
He thought briefly about lying to gain her sympathies, but instead he just said, “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite. Chills don’t bring on the disease.”
“Oh.” She took a bit of time to digest that information. “Well, in that case…” Her words trailed off, and her lips tightened unpleasantly. “Carry on, then,” she finally said.
Michael gave her an insolent salute and then went back to work on his boots, giving the second one a firm yank before gingerly picking up both by the tops and setting them down near the door. “Don’t touch those,” he said absently, moving over to the fireplace. “They’re filthy.”
“I couldn’t get the fire started,” she said, still standing awkwardly near the hearth. “I’m sorry. I haven’t much experience in that area, I’m afraid. I did find some dry wood in the corner, though.” She motioned to the grate, where she’d set down a couple of logs.
He set to work igniting a flame, his hands still stinging a bit from the scrapes he’d incurred clearing the bramble out of the chicken shed for Felix. He welcomed the pain, actually. Minor as it was, it still gave him something to think about other than the woman standing behind him.
She was angry.
He should have expected that. He did expect it, in truth, but what he didn’t expect was how much it would sting his pride, and, in all honesty, his heart. He had known, of course, that she wouldn’t suddenly declare her undying love for him after one episode of relentless passion, but he’d been just enough of a fool that a tiny little piece of him had hoped for such an outcome, all the same.
Who would have thought, after all his years of bad behavior, that he’d emerge such a hopeless romantic?
But Francesca would come around, he was fairly certain of that. She’d have to. She’d been compromised- quite thoroughly, he thought with some measure of satisfaction. And while she’d not been a virgin, that still meant something to a principled woman like Francesca.
He was left with a decision-did he wait out her anger, or did he needle and push until she accepted the inevitability of the situation? The latter was sure to leave him bruised and gasping, but he rather thought it presented a greater chance of success.
If he left her alone, she would think the problem into oblivion, maybe find a way to pretend nothing had ever happened.
“Did you get it started?” he heard her ask from across the room.
He fanned a spark for a few more seconds, then let out a satisfied exhale when tiny orange flames began to flicker and lick. “I’ll have to nurse it along for a little while longer,” he said, turning around to look at her. “But yes, it should be going strong quite soon.”
“Good,” she said succinctly. She took a few steps backward until she was butted up against the bed. “I’ll be right here.”
He couldn’t help but crack a wry smile at that. The cottage held a single room. Where else did she think she was going to go?
“You,” she said, with much the air of an unpopular governess, “can remain over there.”
He followed the line of her pointed finger to the opposite corner. “Really?” he drawled.
“I think it’s best.”
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine.” And then he stood and began to strip off his clothing.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He smiled to himself, keeping his back to her. “Keeping to my corner,” he said, tossing the words lightly over his shoulder.
“You are taking your clothes off,” she said, somehow managing to sound shocked and haughty at the same time.
“I suggest you do the same,” he said, frowning as he noticed a streak of blood on his sleeve. Damn, but his hands really were a mess.
“I most certainly will not,” Francesca said.
“Hold this, will you?” he said, tossing her his shirt. She shrieked as it hit her in the chest, which brought him no small measure of satisfaction.
“Michael!” she exclaimed, hurling the garment back at him.
“Sorry,” he said in his most unrepentant voice. “Thought you might like to use it as a cloth to wipe up.”