Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(81)

And just as she had a few days earlier, Poppy thought, this is the man I’m married to.

Except that now, she felt a stirring of gladness.

Chapter Twenty-two

Harry had never known such sleep, so deep and restorative that it seemed he had never experienced real sleep before, only an imitation. He felt drugged when he awoke, drunk on sleep, steeped in it.

Squinting his eyes open, he discovered that it was morning, the curtained windows limned with sunlight. He felt no overwhelming need to leap out of bed as he usually did. Rolling to his side, he stretched lazily. His hand encountered empty space.

Had Poppy shared the bed with him? A frown gathered on his forehead. Had he slept all night with someone for the first time and missed it? Turning to his stomach, he levered himself to the other side of the bed, hunting for her scent. Yes . . . there was a flowery hint of her on the pillow, and the sheets carried a whiff of her skin, a lavender-tinged sweetness that aroused him with every breath.

He wanted to hold Poppy, to reassure himself that the previous night hadn’t been a dream.

In fact, it had been so preposterously good that he felt a twinge of worry. Had it been a dream? Frowning, he sat up and scrubbed his fingers through his hair.

“Poppy,” he said, not really calling out for her, just saying her name aloud. Quiet as the sound was, she appeared in the doorway as if she’d been waiting for him.

“Good morning.” She was already dressed for the day in a simple blue gown, her hair in a loose braid tied with a white ribbon. How apt it was that she’d been named for the showiest of wildflowers, rich and vivid, a gleaming finish to the bloom. Her blue eyes surveyed him with such attentive warmth that he felt a catch in his chest, a dart of pleasure-pain.

“The shadows are gone,” Poppy said softly. Seeing that he didn’t follow, she added, “Beneath your eyes.”

Self-consciously, Harry looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “What time is it?” he asked gruffly.

Poppy went to a chair, where his clothes had been set in a folded pile, and rummaged for his pocket watch. Flipping open the gold case, she went to the windows and parted the curtains. Vigorous sunlight pushed into the room. “Half past eleven,” she said, closing the watch with a decisive snap.

Harry stared at her blankly. Holy hell. Half the day was over. “I’ve never slept so late in my life.”

His disgruntled surprise seemed to amuse Poppy. “No stack of managers’ reports. No one rapping at the door. No questions or emergencies. Your hotel is a demanding mistress, Harry. But today, you belong to me.”

Harry absorbed that, a tug of inner resistance quickly vanishing into the pull of his enormous attraction to her.

“Will you dispute it?” she asked, looking vastly pleased with herself. “That you’re mine today?”

Harry found himself smiling back at her, unable to help himself. “Yours to command,” he said. His smile turned rueful as he became uncomfortably aware of his unwashed state, his unshaven face. “Is there a bathing room?”

“Yes, through that door. The house is plumbed. There’s cold water pumped directly from a well to the bathtub, and I have cans of hot water ready on the cookstove.” She tucked the watch back into his waistcoat. Straightening, she glanced over his na**d torso with covert interest. “They sent your things from the main house this morning, along with some breakfast. Are you hungry?”

Harry had never been so ravenous. But he wanted to wash and shave, and put on fresh clothes. He felt out of his element, needing to recapture a measure of his usual equanimity. “I’ll wash first.”

“Very well.” She turned to go to the kitchen.

“Poppy—” He waited until she glanced back at him. “Last night . . .” he forced himself to ask, “. . . after what we . . . was it all right?”

Comprehending his concern, Poppy’s expression cleared. “Not all right.” She paused only a second before adding, “It was wonderful.” And she smiled at him.

Harry entered the cottage kitchen area, which was essentially a portion of the main room, with a small cast-iron cookstove, a cupboard, a hearth, and a pine table that served both as workstation and dining surface. Poppy had set out a feast of hot tea, boiled eggs, Oxford sausages, and massive pasties—thick flaky crusts wrapped around fillings.

“These are a Stony Cross specialty,” Poppy said, gesturing to a plate bearing two hefty baked loaves. “One side is filled with meat and sage, and the other side is filled with fruit. It’s an entire meal. You start with the savory end, and . . .” Her voice faded as she glanced up at Harry, who was clean and dressed and freshly shaven.

He looked the same as always, and yet intrinsically different. His eyes were clear and unshadowed, the green irises brighter than hawthorn leaves. Every hint of tension had vanished from his face. It seemed as if he had been replaced by a Harry from a much earlier time in his life, before he’d mastered the art of hiding every thought and emotion. He was so devastating that Poppy felt hot flutters of attraction in her stomach, and her knees lost all their starch.

Harry glanced down at the oversized pastry with a crooked grin. “Which end do I start with?”

“I have no idea,” she replied. “The only way to find out is to take a bite.”

His hands went to her waist, and he turned her gently to face him. “I think I’ll start with you.”