A Willful Marriage. Peggy Moreland

ado, she caught up the fabric of her dress and climbed the stairs. Brett stood at the foot of the staircase and watched, her every step awarding him a more revealing view of her bare legs. Long, graceful, well shaped, he could almost imagine the feel of them wrapped around him. He shook his head, dispelling the image. What in the world had come over him? This woman was his grandfather’s mistress, for God’s sake!

      He continued to watch until she reached the landing and disappeared down the dark hall, and wondered at his own sanity.

      A night in his grandfather’s house with his grandfather’s mistress. What in the hell had possessed him to ask for a room? He shook his head at his own stupidity and headed out the front door.

      

      Brett poured himself a cup of coffee, nursing its warmth between his hands as he rested a hip against the countertop and stared over his shoulder out the kitchen window. Outside sleet fell, exposed in the glow of the security light above the garage. The weatherman had been right, he acknowledged ruefully. The ice storm had arrived and in a matter of hours, the roads would be closed. Thanks to Gayla’s generosity, though, he wouldn’t be caught out in it.

      Gayla? Generous? He sipped his coffee, puzzling over that particular possibility. At least in this instance she was, he amended. She might not be so accommodating when she learned who he was and his plans for Parker House.

      He shook his head as he thought about her. It was hard for him to believe that she was his grandfather’s mistress, but he couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation for her presence at Parker House or the extent of her grief. Although he didn’t have much to commend his grandfather for, he could certainly salute his taste in women. Gayla was slender—he had detected that much through the shapeless dress—yet blessed with enough curves to satisfy any man’s tastes.

      “I see you found the coffeepot.”

      Brett jumped at the sound of her voice, fearful that somehow she’d managed to read his thoughts. He forced himself to take a deep breath before he turned to fully face her. He shifted the small of his back to rest against the countertop and lifted the cup in salute. “I did. And thanks.” He tipped his head in the direction of the window behind him. “It seems the weatherman was right, for a change. It’s already sleeting.” He offered her a grateful smile. “If not for you, I’d probably be stuck on the side of some road out there, freezing.”

      She waved away his thanks. “Never turn away a guest,” she said as if quoting some unwritten law. At his puzzled look, she explained, “An innkeeper’s rule for survival.” She crossed to the coffeepot and poured a cup for herself. “Have you eaten? I could prepare something for you, if you like.”

      “Thanks, but I grabbed a bite at a café on Main Street before I came here.”

      “Dessert, then?” she asked. “I made a pound cake this morning, just in case—” She stopped herself before confessing she’d baked the cake in hopes that Ned’s daughter would show up for the funeral. When Brett continued to look at her, waiting for her to finish the statement, she blushed and turned away.

      “In case what?” he pressed.

      “In case any of the mourners came by after the funeral,” she finished lamely. She set her cup aside and busied herself gathering plates and silverware.

      Brett couldn’t resist asking, “Did anyone come?”

      “No,” she replied, her voice carrying a tinge of disappointment. “I’m sure it was the weather that kept them away.” She turned to him and forced a cheerful smile. “But you’re here, so it won’t go to waste. If you’ll have a piece, that is?”

      And how could he refuse when she looked at him that way, obviously not wanting to be alone? He nodded his agreement. “Can’t let a good pound cake go to waste, now, can we?”

      He pushed away from the sink and followed her to the table. She lifted off the domed top of a crystal cake plate, cut a generous slice of cake and levered it onto a dessert plate. Her movements were graceful and sure as she moved to the refrigerator and removed two bowls. From one she poured a measure of thick strawberry sauce onto the cake and from the other, a dollop of whipped cream. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t one bit hungry, Brett’s mouth watered as she slipped the plate in front of him. She stepped back, folding her hands neatly at her waist. “Would you care for anything else?”

      Brett picked up his fork and gestured to the chair opposite his. “Sit down and join me. I hate to eat alone.”

      She sat—although he could tell she would rather have fussed around the kitchen—and twisted a napkin she plucked from the table between her fingers. He toyed with his fork and tried like hell to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. He finally took a bite of the cake. “This is real tasty. Do you do the cooking around here?”

      “Thank you and, yes, I’m the cook.” She laughed softly. “And the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid and the concierge and the gardener.”

      He lifted his gaze, his jaw slack with surprise. “You mean you do it all? There’s no staff?”

      “No one other than myself, but really there’s no need. Business is usually slow in the winter months. In the summer, if we are booked for several weeks, I’ll hire a temporary to help out with the cleaning, but for the most part, I can handle the work.

      “That’s what makes a bed-and-breakfast so appealing,” she explained. “People want to feel as if they are staying in a home, not a hotel. And that’s what I try to provide. Home-cooked meals, served in a warm and homey environment.”

      Her sincerity and enthusiasm for Parker House and her job surprised him. It also drew a few questions. Like, how did she find the time—or the energy, for that matter—to serve as the old man’s mistress if she had all the responsibilities of running the place? From what he could see, the place was huge. -

      “How many guests can you put up at a time?”

      “There are six guest rooms, plus, last year we remodeled the carriage house and turned it into a bridal suite for honeymooners. It’s more private and there is a little sitting area off the back with a hot tub. It makes a romantic setting on a summer night.”

      He absorbed all this, wondering how he could establish her relationship with Ned without asking outright. “Has the house been in your family long?”

      She looked surprised, then quickly shook her head. “The house doesn’t belong to me. I just work here. The house is—” She swallowed and amended, “Was Mr. Parker’s.”

      “The man who was buried today?”

      “Yes.” She rose, picking up her still-full coffee cup, and carried it to the sink.

      “What will happen now that he’s gone?”

      Her back to him, she lifted a shoulder. “That’s up to his heirs.”

      “Do they live in Braesburg?” Brett asked, wanting to see how much Gayla knew about his family.

      “No,” she replied as she ran water into the cup. “I’m not sure where they live. Mr. Parker never spoke much about them. His attorney is handling all that.”

      She finished washing out the cup and laid it gently on the drainboard. She stared out the window for a moment, her wrists resting on the sink’s edge, her shoulders slumped as if weighted by an unusually heavy burden. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever thoughts she’d been focused on, and plucked a dish towel from the drainboard. She slowly dried her hands as she turned. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she asked, all signs of the melancholy gone. “I can give you a quick tour, then show you your room.”

      Brett shoved back from the table, anxious to see more of the house his mother had grown up in. “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d left it by the back door, then followed her through the kitchen door and out into the hall.

      “The