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.”
“Put your shirt back on,” she ground out.
“And freeze?” he asked, lifting one arrogant brow. “Malaria or no, I have no wish to catch a chill. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” And then, over her gasp, he added, “No, wait. I do beg your pardon. You haven’t seen it. I didn’t manage to get anything more than my trousers off last night, did I?”
“Get out,” she said, her voice low and furious.
He just chuckled and cocked his head toward the window, which was thrumming with the sound of the rain against the glass. “I don’t think so, Francesca. You’re stuck with me for the duration, I’m afraid.”
As if to prove his point, the small cottage shook down to its foundations with the force of thunder.
“You might want to turn around,” Michael said conversationally. Her eyes widened slightly in incomprehension, so he added, “I’m about to remove my breeches.”
She let out a little grunt of outrage, but she turned.
“Oh, and get off the blanket,” he called out, peeling off his sodden clothing. “You’re soaking it.”
For a second he thought she would plant her bottom even more firmly against it, just to defy him, but her good sense must have won out, because she stood and yanked the coverlet from the bed, shaking off whatever drops she’d left behind.
He walked over—it took only four steps with his lengthy stride—and pulled the other blanket off for himself. It wasn’t as substantial as the one she held, but it would do. “I’m covered,” he called out, once he was safely back in his corner.
She turned around. Slowly, and with only one eye open.
Michael fought the urge to shake his head at her. Truly, this all seemed rather after the fact, given what had transpired the night before. But if it made her feel better to grasp at the shreds of her maidenly virtue, he was willing to allow her the boon…for the rest of the morning, at least.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“I’m cold.”
“Of course you are. Your dress is soaked.”
She didn’t say anything, just shot him a look that told him she did not plan to remove her clothing.
“Do what you wish, then,” he said, “but at least come sit near the fire.”
She looked hesitant.
“For God’s sake, Francesca,” he said, his patience growing thin, “I hereby vow not to ravish you. At least not this morning, and not without your permission.”
For some reason that made her cheeks burn with even greater ferocity, but she must have still held him and his word in some regard, because she crossed the room and sat near the fire.
“Warmer?” he asked, just to provoke her.
“Quite.”
He stoked the fire for the next few minutes, carefully tending it to ensure that the flames would not die out, stealing glances at her profile from time to time. After a while, once her expression had softened a bit, he decided to press his luck, and he said, quite softly, “You never did answer my question last night.”
She didn’t turn. “What question was that?”
“I believe I asked you to marry me.”
“No, you didn’t,” she replied, her voice quite calm, “you informed me that you believed we should be married and then proceeded to explain why.”
“Is that so?” he murmured. “How remiss of me.”
“Don’t take that as an invitation to make your proposal right now,” she said sharply.
“You’d have me waste this fabulously romantic moment?” he drawled.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought her lips might have tightened with the barest hint of contained humor.
“Very well,” he said, in his most magnanimous tone, “I won’t ask you to marry me. Forget that a gentleman would insist upon it, after what happened—”
“If you were a gentleman,” she cut in, “it wouldn’t have happened.”
“There were two of us there, Francesca,” he reminded her softly.
“I know,” she said, and her tone was so bitter, he regretted having provoked her.
Unfortunately, once he’d made the decision not to taunt her further, he was left with nothing to say. Which didn’t seem to speak well of him, but there it was. So he held silent, pulling the woolen blanket more tightly around his barely clad body, surreptitiously eyeing her from time to time, trying to determine if she was becoming overchilled.
He’d hold his tongue, forked though it may be, to spare her feelings, but if she were endangering her health…well, then, all bets were off.
But she wasn’t shivering, nor did she show any signs of feeling excessively cold, save for the way she was holding up various sections of her skirt toward the fire, vainly attempting to dry the fabric. Every now and then she looked as if she might speak, but then she’d just close her mouth again, wetting her lips with her tongue and letting out little sighs.
And then, without even looking at him, she said, “I will consider it.”