Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston

how to play upon a young woman’s heart. Love came in many disguises, some even more hurtful than the pain his parents inflicted on each other.

      Perhaps he could watch out for her. Perhaps he could warn her away from the worst dangers of love.

      No. He needed to stay away from her. She tempted him too much.

      She handed him his jug. ‘Such as it is.’

      He nodded thanks.

      She sat in her chair and they sipped the hot liquid that only retained the barest hint of tea. The fire dwindled to embers, but Marc held off on placing the last of their wood on it. He glanced around the room and wondered if he ought to try to break up the furniture.

      It seemed an extreme measure and greatly unfair to the owner of the cottage.

      Miss Summerfield yawned and curled up in her chair.

      He reached over and touched her arm. ‘You should lie on the cot and get some sleep. I’ll move it closer to the fire.’

      ‘Where will you sleep?’ she murmured.

      He shrugged. ‘The chair will do.’ He’d slept in worse places.

      The wind found its way through the walls of the cabin. Miss Summerfield shivered. ‘It is cold.’

      And it would get colder. ‘You’ll be warmer on the cot.’

      She did as he asked and she was soon tucked in under her blanket as close to the fireplace as he could place the bed.

      He watched her as she slept and shivered as the temperature dropped even further and the fire consumed the wood. He scavenged the cabin and found a few more lumps of coal, but the room was very, very cold.

      She woke, shivering, but not complaining.

      There was only one way he could think of to keep her warm now, but it was a proposition that no young lady should accept. It was also a thought that consumed him much too often.

      She rolled over and gazed at him. ‘You should take a turn on th-the cot. You must be colder than I am.’

      ‘I’m not going to trade places with you, Miss Summerfield.’

      She got up and carried her blanket over to her chair. ‘I’ll sit here, then.’

      He raised his voice. ‘Get in the cot.’

      She looked at him in defiance. ‘No. It is your turn.’

      ‘Do not be a damned fool, Miss Summerfield. Get in the cot.’ There was no sense in them both sitting up all night, shivering.

      She glared at him. ‘The only way I’ll get in that cot is if you are in it, too.’

      The cold was addling her brain, he thought. But this was the answer, the consuming thought. He should not take advantage of it, but, if he did they’d both be warm.

      ‘Very well.’ He inclined his head towards the cot. ‘Get in the bed and I will join you.’

      An anxious look crossed her face and she hesitated, but she carried her blanket over to the cot and lay down, facing the fire. He covered her with another blanket and crawled underneath it.

      ‘Our bodies will warm each other,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Do not fear. This is for warmth and nothing else.’

      He hoped he could keep that promise.

      * * *

      Exhaustion helped where desire refused to waver. Even though she was warm and soft against him, the comfort of her had made him fall asleep almost immediately. He did not even wake to feed the fire the last lumps of coal. He knew nothing until the sound of muffled voices reached his ear.

      The latch of the door rattled.

      The worst had happened. They were discovered.

      ‘Miss Summerfield!’ He shook her, but had only time enough to bound from the cot when the door burst open.

      ‘Halloo there!’ a man cried.

      Miss Summerfield sat up.

      ‘I say,’ said the man, a gentleman by appearance. ‘What goes here?’

      He entered the cabin followed by two men in workmen’s dress.

      ‘Is that you, Miss Summerfield?’ the gentleman asked.

      Marc took charge. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

      Miss Summerfield covered herself with the blanket.

      ‘I am Lord Attison,’ the gentleman said indignantly. ‘And, more to the purpose, who are you?’

      Miss Summerfield answered before Marc could speak, ‘He is Mr Glenville, sir. Allow us to explain.’

      Marc put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘First he must explain why he barges in without so much as a knock.’ Put him on the defensive.

      Lord Attison shot daggers at Marc. ‘I was sent to find Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to her. ‘You have caused Lord Tinmore much worry, young lady, do you realise that?’

      Marc stepped between Miss Summerfield and Lord Attison. ‘Do you have some authority here?’

      Miss Summerfield answered, ‘He is one of Lord Tinmore’s guests.’

      ‘Well,’ Marc spoke sharply, ‘you may tell Lord Tinmore that it is a fine thing to let this young lady nearly freeze to death. You should have come earlier.’

      Lord Attison stuck out his chest. ‘And you should have returned her home, sir.’ His gaze shifted to Miss Summerfield. ‘Or would that have ruined your little tryst?’

      ‘You have it wrong—’ Miss Summerfield protested.

      Marc seized Lord Attison’s arm and marched him to the door. ‘We will discuss this outside and allow this lady to dress.’

      Once all the men were outside, Marc used his size to be as intimidating as possible to the smaller Lord Attison. ‘You will make no assumptions here, do you comprehend? This lady has been through enough without your salacious comments.’

      ‘Lord Tinmore—’ the man started to say.

      Marc interrupted him. ‘I will explain to Lord Tinmore and to no one else. And, you, sir, will say nothing of this until you are instructed by your host. Is that understood?’

      Possibly, just possibly Lord Tinmore would have sufficient power and influence to allow this incident to blow over without any damage to Miss Summerfield.

      Or himself.

      The cold of the morning finally hit him and it took all Marc’s strength to keep from dissolving into a quivering mess in front of this man. He wore only his shirt and breeches.

      And his socks, now damp from the frost on the ground.

      Attison looked him up and down. ‘Being undressed in front of an innocent young lady—’ The man smirked. ‘Or is she an innocent?’

      Marc seized him again. ‘Silence that tongue!’

      Attison’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he quickly recovered and pursed his lips. ‘I will leave you to Lord Tinmore, as you wish.’

      Marc released him and turned to the other two men. ‘Do you know who owns this cabin?’

      One man nodded. ‘Lord Tinmore. It is a groundskeeper’s cabin.’

      ‘Are we on Lord Tinmore’s property?’ How close were they to the house?

      ‘We are, sir,’ the other man answered. He gestured to the south.

      Against the milky-white sky rose a huge Elizabethan house with dozens of windows and three turrets adorning its roof.

      They had been that close.

      ‘The roads and bridges were flooded yesterday,’