All About Seduction(70)

Not trusting her voice, Caroline nodded.

Oh God, she couldn’t use Jack knowing this sweet girl was to be his wife.

Jack sat at the table writing on the sheaf of papers Mrs. Broadhurst had left him. Would she come to him tonight? She had for the last three nights and it was torture to have her so near, yet be unable to do anything more than listen as she read to him or talked about her idea to offer meals at the school so the families wouldn’t feel the loss of wages so keenly.

He wanted her badly enough that if he didn’t get out of here soon, he’d embarrass them both by pulling her into his bed. But he had no clothes and his boots had disappeared. He didn’t want to brave the cold with just stockings and a nightshirt, although it might come to that.

The door clicked open behind him, and he tried to mask his stiff intake of breath.

She drew near and his senses swirled with her soft scent. His blood fired. But she hovered just out of reach.

He didn’t know where he stood with her. She’d tolerated his probing questions, but had not always answered them. Occasionally it seemed as if she were baring her soul and glad to have him as a confidant. He didn’t dare question why, for fear she wouldn’t like the answer and would stop coming to him in the night.

Which would be a good thing, he told himself sternly. If their shoulders brushed as she read to him, she’d stiffen and move away. Not exactly the response that would lead him to believe she’d allow more contact. By the time she left in the early morning hours, he’d be randy as a goat, but trying to keep her from seeing how much being near her affected him.

And there was no telling what Broadhurst would do if he found her in a laborer’s room. Broadhurst might have come from nothing, but to him the line between a mill owner and millworkers was demarcated in stone.

“What’s this?” she asked, picking up his drawing of wheels connected to a mechanized shaft.

Jack tapped his pencil on the table. He should have been working on his words. The dictionary she’d brought him was full of so many it seemed it would take him a lifetime to learn to spell them all. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right wheel configuration for horseless carriages.”

She frowned. “These don’t look like train wheels.”

“They’re not. It is just a matter of time before someone figures out how to make carriages that run on roads, not tracks, but the wheels are a problem.” Needing to put some space between them so he could clear his head, he reached for his crutches and stood.

She blinked her crystal blue eyes. Eyes he wanted to drown in. “Regular wheels won’t work?”

He dropped his gaze to her lips. Which was worse—or better. To touch his lips to hers would be heaven.

She lowered her gaze and put the paper down with jerky movements. Sidling to the chair beside his bed, she picked up the book and held it in front of her chest like a shield.

What would it take to get her to yield to him? At times it seemed like maybe she wanted him to touch her, but he was too uncertain to risk it. At first he wouldn’t have placed that much importance on it, but now he didn’t want to hurt her. Just two nights ago she had let him see her vulnerability, when she admitted that his willingness to intercede with her brother had affected her. Not that he could have done much more than interrupt their conversation. A conversation Caroline had waved off as a silly family matter when he asked what her brother had said to upset her.

She seemed skittish tonight. Uncertain. Instead of stepping closer, he held up the drawing. “With a carriage, you want as little friction with the road to make it easier for a horse to draw it, but with a mechanized carriage, you would need the wheels to transfer the power from the engine to the road. They would have to be wider for more friction and made out of a different material so as to not tear up the roads.”

She stared at him, her lips parting. A jolt shot straight to his groin.

He took a few steps toward the bed. Would she allow him to hold her?

She skittered toward the fireplace, the book against her chest.

His crutching around left him tired, and he couldn’t follow her as she darted around the room. He crutched to the bed and sat with a thump. “Will you read?”

“Jack . . .” She bit her lower lip and turned her head.

He waited, hoping there would be a word of encouragement that she was as aware of the sizzle in the air as he was.

Her gaze fastened on the tied bundle of treats resting on the sideboard. “You didn’t eat the shortbread?”