***
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said, closing the door to the old black Jeep we rarely used.
Miles glared at me. The little light that had been left had fully waned, and the only visibility we had was courtesy of the lights on our cars.
My lips twitched at the sight of him. “I don’t like to say this, but I told you so.”
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Do you really have a winch on that thing?”
“Yep. But I would like to hear you tell me I was right.”
He sighed. “Princess, I’m soaking wet. Can you gloat in the dry?”
“Not. A. Princess!” I snapped, turning to open the car door.
“What are you doing?”
“Turning the car around so I can save your miserable arse, or should I just drive back up to the house and leave you here?” I shot him a look and got in. I shut the door and maneuvered until the Jeep was now backing up to him, then got back out again. “You can hook this up. I’m still soaking from my earlier jaunt, my foot hurts, and I’m not about to wander through three feet of water.”
“Four,” he muttered, taking the winch from me.
“Ah, right again.”
“I believe you called five earlier.”
“Close enough.” I waited until he’d hooked it up. “Right, let’s do this before the wind picks up.”
“It’s going to get worse?”
“Welcome to the countryside,” I said dryly. “This part of the road is a wind tunnel, so unless you want your car on its side in this water, let’s get moving.”
That made him react.
We both got in. It took us a good ten minutes because of the rubbish visibility, but I was able to pull him out of the flood water and into a dry space where we took off the winch, checked his car worked fine, and he turned it around. Miles followed me back up to the house and pulled up behind me, then ran back to get the gate.
That was nice.
My ankle was really hurting now, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it there without doing the same to the other one.
Apparently, anything was possible today.
We went in through the front door—carpets be damned—and I finally took him up on the offer to help take my boots off. My foot felt a thousand times better being out of the shoes, but I was still absolutely freezing and soaking wet.
“Oh,” I said after a moment. “I need to find you some dry clothes.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“You’re soaking.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I keep a spare set in the boot. It’s not like I have a clean job.”
“Oh.” That was true, I supposed. Always handy, especially in inclement weather like this. Rain did tend to sneak up on one unannounced in this country.
Miles darted outside and returned in less than a minute with a backpack.
“Your clothes are in there?” I eyed it. “That doesn’t look like it holds warm clothes.”
“Warm enough,” he replied. “Anywhere I can change?”
“Oh, sure. Um, follow me.” I motioned to the stairs, hobbling slightly. “None of the spare rooms are made up, but I can get sheets and do that for you.”
“You can barely walk up the stairs.”
“A gentleman would carry me, especially since I just saved his arse, but I won’t judge you for not doing that. Besides, I need to get changed myself.” I made it to the top successfully and hobbled my way along to one of the spare rooms that was as far away from my room as possible. “Here,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll get some sheets while you change. If you put your wet clothes in the laundry basket there in the corner, we can wash and dry them tonight.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I swallowed and backed away, heading in the direction of the airing cupboard where all the bedding was stored.
At least I hoped that was where it was stored.
Thankfully, I was saved the embarrassment of having to traverse a four-hundred-year-old manor house for spare sheets by the fact they were in the exact place I thought they would be.
Not that anyone would know I had to search everywhere, except perhaps Miles if he caught me.
That was enough to make me thankful. God only knew I didn’t need to be embarrassed in front of him anymore than I already was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I gathered the clean sheets and limped back to Miles’ room. I really needed to sit down in the kitchen and bandage my foot. I was almost certain there was a first aid kit under the sink or in the mudroom that would have one in it.
Almost.
I cleared my throat and knocked on the door. Miles’ muffled, “Hang on,” came a moment later, and I leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off my ankle.
Did I mention my ankle hurt?
Stupid bloody rain.
Stupid bloody weather.
Stupid bloody—
“What are those?”
I looked down at the sheets in my hand. “Sheets. For the bed.”
“Oh.” He almost looked surprised. “Want me to take those?”
I blinked at him. “No, I can make the bed.”
“You can barely walk.”
“You’re my guest. If anyone finds out I didn’t look after you properly, I’m finished. Just move out of my way and let me make your bed up for you.”
“Ah, there’s the polite hostess I knew you had in you.”
“You’re getting on my nerves with your attitude.”
“Excuse me, princess, but I’m not exactly thrilled about this turn of events.”
“If you call me princess one more time, I shall haul you out of my house and throw you into a puddle.”
“Oh, I’m scared.” His lips almost twitched into a smile. Almost. Almost, damn it. Why did he never smile? And why did I want to make him smile so badly? “You couldn’t haul yourself out of the house in your current state, let alone me.”
“Just move.” I pushed past him and walked into the large room. It was as elaborately decorated as the others, with old, dark wooden furniture. The rug under the bed was almost threadbare, but Aunt Cat insisted it offered character, as did the slightly worn curtains.
Thank God she’d lost the blackout blind battle.
Those were currently closed, meaning the only light in the room was the old brass chandelier overhead. It had five lights, and the bulbs were energy savers that took forever to warm up, so Miles had the bedside lamps turned on as well as the one on the antique desk in the corner.
“It’s like Blackpool illuminations in here,” I muttered, setting the sheets on the storage trunk at the foot of the bed.
“You sound like my mum,” Miles said dryly. “God forbid one turned on a light before the streetlights came on.”
I fought back a giggle. My dad had always said the same thing when me and my brother were kids—and when he’d finally taken us to the famous Blackpool Illuminations one November, we’d laughed and told him our house was nothing like that.
For one, our lights were inside.
Two, we didn’t have hot doughnut stands lining the street.
We’d immediately petitioned for that but had wholeheartedly lost on account of us being under the age of thirteen and not considered reliable business sources. My efforts of pointing out that Harry Potter was only published because of a child were ignored, and I’d had the last laugh when, several months after we officially opened the gardens to the public, a snack stand had opened near the house.