Christine Johnson - Legacy of Love

“I’ll cook something later.”

“You know how to use a stove?” She could not imagine Brandon cooking. Ever.

“I’m a bachelor. I have to do many things for myself.”

She doubted he had ever cooked or cleaned. Men of his social class hired housekeepers or ate at a club or restaurant. They did not cook.

Still, she kept her doubts to herself. It was pleasant working beside him. She kept glancing over to make sure he wasn’t making a bigger mess, and occasionally she found him looking at her. Their glances didn’t meet for more than a second, but each time it sent an unexpected thrill through her.

When he worked near her, she could smell that sagelike scent that was all his. She closed her eyes to drink it in, and jumped when he touched her.

“Are you all right?” He looked concerned.

Oh, yes, she was more than all right, though if she had to admit it, his nearness both excited and terrified her. And when she stuck her hand in her apron pocket and felt his handkerchief with his monogrammed initials, she ran her fingers over the embroidery and imagined what it would be like to be Mrs. B.L.

“Can we make another duff?”

Anna shook her head. “The fruit and nuts have to sit for a week.”

“A week? Why would you make such a difficult dish?”

“For Christmas. It’s like plum pudding.”

His gray eyes twinkled in the electric lights. “Like in Dickens’s Christmas Carol?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps there’s something else you can make.” He stood and mopped his forehead.

She noticed he’d stopped using his cane a while ago, and though he balanced against the table when moving about, he could stand perfectly well without the aid of his cane.

“What happened to your leg?” she blurted out, and then, when she saw his expression tighten, instantly regretted the question. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s an honest question. It happened in the war.” He offered no further explanation.

“It’s not much, hardly noticeable.”

If anything, his scowl deepened.

Anna tried again. “The cane is so distinguished. Don’t all rich men carry them?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You think I’m rich?”

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, as if she’d just accused him of the worst thing possible. “W-w-well, you have a nice house, one of the biggest on the hill.”

At last his expression eased, though it didn’t return to the pleasant conviviality of moments before. “I suppose it would seem big to you.”

The words cut deeply. Yes, she was poor, and he was rich, but he didn’t need to be rude about it.

“It was meant as a compliment. I counted seven bedrooms, two parlors, a formal dining room, this large kitchen and two washrooms. You even have running water.”

After a moment, he apologized. “I appreciate your powers of observation and your curiosity.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to personal questions.”

“I won’t do it again,” she said, fingering the handkerchief.

His mouth quirked up at one corner, making him look younger and even a bit mischievous. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Anna fought an answering grin. “I’ll try not to pry.”

His laughter rumbled with surprising warmth. “Stay curious. If not for curiosity, Mr. Carter would never have found King Tutankhamun’s tomb.”

A thrill ran through her. Brandon had just compared her to Howard Carter. Maybe he would help her follow in the man’s footsteps.

“I want to do that, to find a lost tomb like he did,” she gushed, the words coming out so quickly that they jumbled together.

He smiled, and a dimple appeared in his chin. “Maybe someday you will.”

Anna caught her breath. He’d practically promised to help her.

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