“Very good. Here now,” she said gently, and tucked the coverlet all the way around him. “Hold on to this.” She seized one of his chilled hands and closed his fingers over a blue knit corner.
She glanced up at him, to discover some expression she could not interpret fleeing from his face.
For a moment their gazes locked.
His eyes were glinting with unholy amusement. “Trousers now,” the wretched man said.
“Thank you. Yes. I know,” she said tersely.
She pulled in a sustaining breath.
And went to reach under the coverlet for the fall of his trousers.
He stopped her hand with his.
“Nay, Daphne. I was jesting. I’ll do it.” He sounded amused, but gentle.
His hand was still icy on her wrist and it oddly made her nearly frantic to help him.
But he’d noticed her distress. She was grateful, even as she felt ashamed, like the veriest virgin, and useless. Imagine feeling shame atnotunbuttoning a man’s trousers.
Then again, in all likelihood, she was very nearly the last woman on earth he’d want to undress for.
His hand vanished beneath the coverlet for a time.
“There. I’ve got the buttons,” he said. “I may need you to t-t-ug just the legs of them a little.”
His voice sounded somewhat strangled, too.
She was certain he was hardly savoring the need to be undressed like a helpless child. All the better to hurry this along.
She squeezed her eyes closed briefly, reached under the coverlet, and managed to pinch the nankeen between her fingers and tug. But the fabric hugged the great cannons of his thighs with as much loving tenacity as his shirt had hugged his torso, and ridiculously, she had to fight to drag them down. Her fingers brushed hard, hard, furred muscle and she felt it tense like iron.
Oh God oh God oh God.
When they finally collapsed in a heap at his ankles, she was envious. She wanted to collapse into a mortified, scorchingly blushing heap, too.
“So I’m nearly naked,” he announced, superfluously. “Our ordeal is almost over.”
She gave a short, strained little laugh.
She nudged the settee closer to the fire and gave him a little shove. He sat down, drawing the coverlet around him, huddled there while she whipped the blankets from her bed and covered him in layers like papier–mâché.
She dropped to her knees before him. “Hold out your hands. Keep the coverlet over them, the way you would mittens.”
Without question, he obeyed.
And one at a time, she took his hands between hers and chafed vigorously.
And this, and the crack of the fire, was the only sound in the room for a good long time.
She looked up when she sensed in his body an easing of his shivering tension.
She looked up at him. His eyelids had gone a little heavy. Likely he was exhausted.
“Thank you,” he said, after a moment. Quietly.
She paused. “How are they?”