the night before, then too unsettled by the appearance and disappearance of her cat today to think too deeply.
She caught his right hand and looked at it. âYou have more calluses on this hand than the other.â
âOf course,â he said.
âWhy?â
ââTis my swordarm, Abigail.â He put his callused hand to her brow. She wasnât feverish. Indeed, she was chilled. âPerhaps we should repair to the fire,â he said, pulling her in that direction, âthen you should tell me of yourself. Forgive me for not having asked sooner. Your sire will no doubt be grieved over your loss. I will take you to him as soon as may beââ
âHoney,â she said, âI think you should sit.â
âWhy do you call me honey?â he asked, finding himself being urged toward a chair. He sat to humor her.
âItâs a term of endearment.â
âLike Sir Sweetums?â he asked. âSaints, what a name!â
He would have expressed himself further on that, but Abigail had pulled up a stool in front of him and sat. The tunic he had given her to wear fell off one of her shoulders. It was exceedingly distracting.
He looked at her face and instantly ceased to mark what she said. He knew her lips were moving, but he couldnât concentrate on her strangely-accented words. There were surely a score of things that puzzled him about her, but he couldnât seem to focus his thoughts on a bloody one of them. All he could do was gaze at the woman before him and marvel.
Saying she cleaned up passing well was an understatement. Where she had come by that riotous mass of hair he did not know, but it certainly suited her. He could almost hear her saying it: âGarrett hair is never obedient.â He smiled at the thought. Indeed, Abigailâs hair seemed to be a reflection of the woman herselfâbeyond the bounds of reason or propriety.
And if her spirit hadnât intrigued him, her comeliness certainly would have. He found himself entirely distracted by thoughts of running hands and mouth over that bit of shoulder she couldnât seem to keep covered up. He followed the curve of her shoulder out to her arm and down to her hand. It was then he realized she was snapping her fingers at him.
âThe lights are on but nobodyâs home,â she was saying.
âAh,â he stalled, âI was thinking on your words.â
She jerked up her tunic over her shoulder. His tunicâhis clothing that was covering her lithe body, much as he wanted to be doing. Miles was on the verge of allowing himself to be distracted by that thought when Abigail waved at him.
âCome on, Miles,â she said, sounding exasperated. âPay attention. Iâm trying to tell you something very important.â
He blinked at her. âOh.â
She sighed with exaggerated patience. âAre you with me now?â
âIndeed, we are sitting here together.â
She dropped her face to her hands and laughed. Miles couldnât help himself. He reached out and ran his hand over her hair. It was pleasingly soft to the touch. It was not so dark as his, and with somewhat of a reddish tint to it. It was hair he wished he could sink his hands into as he sank another part of himselfâ
âGood grief!â Abigail exclaimed, jerking back upright. âCanât you just concentrate on what Iâm saying for five minutes?â
âIâd rather concentrate on kissing you, if itâs all the same to you,â he offered.
âNo,â she said, firmly. âIâm serious about this.â
And, suddenly, the truth struck him like a blow. He sat back and felt the blood leave his face. She was betrothed. How could he not have seen it before? Either that, or she was wed. She was no simpering maid who had to rely on her sire for every breath she took and every word to come out of her mouth. Abigail was far too sure of herself. She was likely of an