Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Madeline held on to Charles’s arm as he knocked on the door of Warren’s cabin. It couldn’t be larger than a single room, surely. Two windows framed the door. Beneath the windows on the narrow porch, chopped wood was evenly stacked, kept safely away from the falling snow.

She was about to peer inside the partially shuttered window when the door creaked open. Warren stood there in his shirtsleeves, silhouetted by the glowing fire within. He filled the doorframe, his presence instantly piercing her like an arrow.

“Charles—what—” His dark eyes went wide as he took in Madeline on his arm. He was immediately on alert. “What happened?”

“She tripped on the path and may have twisted an ankle. Let us in,” Charles muttered.

Warren stood back, pulling the door open wider. Charles led the way inside, taking Madeline by the hand. Her gaze darted around, memorizing the details of the one-room cabin. It was cozy. A narrow bed sat along the back wall, and there was room enough for a table and chairs near the large stone hearth. A kind of kitchen took up the other corner of the room, and there was a wash basin lined with freshly laundered clothes. Herbs hung suspended over the table, giving the entire room an earthy, spiced aroma. A pot of soup simmered on a chain over the fire, making Madeline’s stomach growl.

It was a comfortable space, she decided, even if it was far and away removed from her own lived experience.

Charles took off his gloves. Then he unwound his scarf and shrugged out of his heavy great coat, hanging it all on a pair of hooks by the door. Madeline stilled as he stepped up behind her, his hands brushing her shoulders. Warren watched as Charles unbuckled the clasp of her heavy wool cape, his chilled fingers brushing the underside of her chin. He slipped the cape off her shoulders, her golden curls spilling loose.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes lost to the intensity of Warren’s heated gaze. He took in her disheveled state, and she fought the urge to turn away or hide behind her hands. At the very least she attempted to smooth her numb fingers through her curls, working out the tangles as she tugged her long tresses over one shoulder.

Charles ignored the other man, hanging her cape next to his coat and ushering her to a chair. He dragged it closer to the fire. “Sit down and let me see that foot.”

“I’m fine,” she said, teeth still chattering.

“I’ll not let up until I know the extent of the injury.”

“What happened?” said Warren from his place by the door.

“My toe just caught a root and I fell,” she explained. “It was barely an incident. Mr. Bray is just being over-protective.”

She could feel Warren frowning, even with her back turned. “Why were you out in this weather? It’s supposed to storm all night.”

Madeline sank down onto the wooden chair.

“We were delivering the baskets,” Charles replied, dropping to one knee by her side.

“In this weather?”

“Christ, enough questions. Be useful and get her something warm to drink. She’s nearly frozen.”

In moments, Madeline heard clanking and rustling form behind her, but she couldn’t turn away from the flames, not as the fire worked its magic, warming her up from the outside in.

“May I?” Charles murmured, tapping her knee.

She glanced down, eyes wide. “I…yes, alright.”

He was methodical, lifting her sodden skirts only high enough to expose her left ankle. Then he was undoing the laces of her leather half-boot. As he slipped it off, she winced.

“Your foot is like ice,” he said, massaging her ankle with gentle fingers. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“It’s fine,” she murmured. “We were nearly finished.”

“She should take the stockings off,” came Warren’s voice. “Dry them by the fire.”

She stiffened. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. We don’t want to intrude. We’ll be on our way again soon.”

But Charles was already reaching up under her skirts, searching for the top of her stocking.

She hissed, slapping at his hands. “I will do that, sir.”

He sat back on his heels, letting her push his hands away. His expression was still unreadable. Was he angry? Annoyed?

Face aflame, she tried to keep her skirts lowered as she peeled the wet stocking down her leg. She was mortified as she handed it over to Charles, who handed it directly to Warren. He placed it on a drying rack by the fire’s edge.

“Now the other one,” Charles directed.

“That foot is fine. I only twisted the left one—”

“Take it off.”

The tone of his voice had her reaching for the laces, but he beat her to it, carefully tugging the knot free and loosening the top of the boot enough to slip it off. He waited for her to peel off the other stocking, which he handed to Warren.

And then she was sitting before Warren’s hearth, her dress up around her knees, her stockings and boots perched at the fire’s edge to dry. At least from this angle, the men could hardly see anything. She wiggled her frozen toes, the heat almost painful.

“Here.” Warren tried to hand her a steaming cup of tea, but Charles stood, snatching it from his hands.

“I will do that.” He turned his back on Warren, offering it to her himself, his face still that same mask of frustration and pain.

She sighed, accepting the tea with a murmur of thanks.

“What happened?” Warren said for a third time.

Madeline glanced between the men, her anxiety rising. Did he suspect what she did? Would he be angry with her too? “We told you…we were delivering baskets to those caught in the Carrington fire—”

“I’m not asking what you were doing,” he said gruffly. “I mean what happened. Between the two of you, what happened?”

She stiffened, turning away to face the fire, the cup of tea warming her frozen fingers.

“Leave it alone,” Charles muttered.

Warren folded his thick arms across his broad chest. “You’re in my house. I get to ask questions in my own house, Charles.”

“Leave it, John,” he repeated, his voice little more than a growl.

She could feel Warren’s eyes on her. She could always feel him. In the span of three days, he’d burrowed beneath her skin. She took a sip of the tea, avoiding his gaze. It was strong. An odd brew, both peppery and herbal. And there was a natural sweetness to it too…mallow root perhaps?

“Ahh,” he said from behind her, and Madeline knew she was caught. “She told you then. I figured she would, what with a proposal on the table.”

Charles launched to his feet. “God damn it, John. I said leave it.”

“In my defense, the first kiss happened before I knew you were back.” Warren sounded almost amused. Just as she thought, it was all a tease. It didn’t mean anything to him. She was a fool to ever think otherwise.

“And it will not happen again,” Charles challenged.

“She’s not your wife yet. Until she is, I think the lady gets to make her own decisions,” Warren countered. “Besides, perhaps seeing her in my arms will light a fire beneath you to make up your damn mind.”

“Don’t bloody test me, John.”

“Then don’t be a damned fool.”

She spun around on her chair, setting the cup of tea aside as she took in their angry postures. “Mr. Warren just likes to tease,” she tried to soothe. “It meant nothing. Just ask him.”

Charles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the burly gamekeeper. “Is that true? Kissing the woman who has offered me her hand meant nothing to you? Just one more game?”

Warren shrugged. “Sure, we’ll go with that. I’m just a tease. Nothing I say or do ever means anything.”

But Charles wasn’t backing down. “Then explain the first kiss, John.”

Warren met him stare for stare, dark eyes meeting golden brown.

Ever so slowly, Charles’s shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. “John…”

“Stop,” the gamekeeper growled, his dark gaze darting to Madeline and back to the vicar.

Both men stiffened. A thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them with a look.

Madeline felt an odd sort of tingling. It started in her chest and spiraled outward. It was a sense of knowing something before one actually knew it…a nervous sort of stumbling upon the truth. She leaned back, eyes wide, taking in the pained expressions on both men’s faces.

“Oh god,” she murmured, her gaze settling on Warren. “It’s you.”