Accidental Courtship. Lisa Bingham
Who needed a wife when Creakle was around?
He moved gingerly, mentally assessing new aches and old wounds. He wiggled his toes, then his feet, then allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Near as he could tell, he had no numbness or tingling other than that caused by the cold.
Safe for another day.
Jonah was about to settle back—even if it meant foregoing the warm cup of cocoa and the plateful of food—when there was a sharp rap at the door.
Now what?
Barring the entire mine collapsing, he wasn’t in the mood for company. But late-night interruptions were part of the job.
Hauling himself to his feet, he padded to the door, whipped it open and offered a curt, “What is it?”
He immediately regretted his harsh tone when he saw Miss Havisham standing on his doorstep, her hand poised to knock again.
“Dr. Havisham,” Jonah drawled. They’d parted company less than an hour earlier, and he would have thought that her pride would still be too dented to warrant a confrontation with Jonah. Yet, here she was, standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour.
She lowered her hand and shifted uncomfortably.
“Mr. Ramsey. I...uh... I hope you’ll pardon my interrupting your night like this.”
So formal. So... British.
She chafed her hands together, but he was betting it had more to do with nerves than the cold.
When she didn’t speak, he peered behind her and said, “Actually, I think we’ve left night far behind us and we’re well on to morning.”
She grimaced, but didn’t appear inclined to leave. “Be that as it may, what I have to say won’t wait.”
He was beginning to understand why Batchwell and Bottoms had insisted on the “no women” clause. He sighed, holding the door wider. “Then you may as well come in.”
Her lips thinned. Which was a shame.
“I don’t think that would be...appropriate, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Miss—”
She scowled.
“Dr. Havisham,” he corrected himself quickly. “I think we sailed past appropriate hours ago. And I, for one, don’t intend to stand in the cold waiting for a formal invitation. So you can either come in where it’s warm, or you can hold your peace until morning.”
A crease appeared between her brows, but she didn’t move.
“If it will make you feel better, Gus Creakle lives here, as well. He’s as good a chaperone as you’re going to get in these parts, especially in the wee hours. I promise. Neither he, nor I, will bite.”
She finally offered a grudging, “Very well, then.”
He held the door open, allowing her to step inside, then closed it before the winter air could taint the warmth of the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of cocoa?”
Her brows lifted.
“Creakle has a fondness for the stuff, and he’s left me half a pot.” He hooked a finger through a pair of tin mugs stacked on the open shelf above the dry sink.
She shook her head, but when he poured a healthy measure into one of the cups, he saw the way she breathed deeply of its heady scent.
“I insist, Dr. Havisham. A nice cup of cocoa will warm you up before you have to brave the cold again.”
Miss Havisham hesitated, but finally took it, wrapping her hands tightly around the mug.
Too late, Jonah realized that Dr. Havisham, for all her bravado, didn’t have a coat—and the dress she wore offered no real protection against the elements.
“Have a seat over there near the stove.”
He gestured to the worn, overstuffed chair that Creakle had ordered all the way from Boston nearly a half dozen years ago. It was old and scarred and had begun to conform to the shape of Creakle’s backside, but, other than Jonah’s rocker, it was the only comfortable chair in the house.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I—”
“Miss... Dr. Havisham,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “I’ve been on my feet all day, and good manners forbid me from sitting until you do.”
She looked instantly ashamed. “Oh, of course.”
Dr. Havisham brushed by him in a wave of something that smelled like...orange blossoms? Then she sank into the chair in a flutter of skirts. Funny how he hadn’t noticed until now that her dress was a good six inches too short. And the bust was a little too large. Had she borrowed it to replace the wet and torn suit she’d worn while tending to the wounded? Although the simple brown garment was serviceable enough, especially with the overwhelming apron, it couldn’t have offered her much warmth.
The thought made Jonah feel unaccountably...guilty.
“Would you like a blanket to put around your shoulders?”
She stiffened—as if the very idea was a mark of weakness, or worse, a sign that she’d strayed into the realms of impropriety.
“No. Thank you.”
He gestured to the food Creakle had left on the table. “Did Stumpy bring you a plate like I requested? Creakle’s left me more than I could eat.”
“I’m fine. But you should have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. You must be starving.”
Her pronouncement was firm, but he saw the way her eyes skipped from him, to the plate, then back again. Ever so subtly, she moistened her lips.
Which told Jonah that Stumpy, cantankerous man that he was, probably hadn’t roused out of his bed long enough to send her anything.
“Please. I insist you have your dinner, Mr. Ramsey. We can talk while you eat.”
Jonah didn’t bother to ask her again. Instead, he grabbed another plate from the cupboard, then two knives and forks. After dividing the generous portions in half, he handed her the food and a set of utensils.
“Dig in,” he said curtly. “Or we don’t talk.”
She opened her mouth—and he was sure she meant to argue—but she finally offered a soft, “Thank you.”
Taking his own meal, Jonah settled into the rocker, wincing slightly.
“Do you want to say grace, or shall I?” he asked.
“Oh, I...uh—”
Obviously, she thought he was a complete heathen because his suggestion startled her. So Jonah bowed his head, closed his eyes and offered, “For this and all we are about to receive, we are truly grateful. Amen.”
“Amen.”
For the first time that night, Jonah was able to sink back into the rocking chair and allow the tension to flow from his tired muscles. But something about his expression must have alerted the doctor, because she eyed him with concern, and her close scrutiny had the power to set his teeth on edge. He’d seen that look often enough in the last ten years. It smacked of pity—and if there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity. But he managed to avoid her gaze by concentrating on tearing his biscuit in half and piling it with ham and cheese.
“Were you injured today?” she asked gently.
The woman was observant. He had to give her that at least.
“No.”
“You seem to be favoring your back. Have you pulled a muscle?”
“No, ma’am. It’s merely an aggravation of an old wound.”
She looked unconvinced.
“Honest,