Free The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) by Diana Douglas

on his face.
    “What’s wrong?”
    He hesitated then swallowed. “Your hair.”
    She grimaced. “I know. It’s a mess. I should cut it.”
    “No!” It was almost a shout.
    She blinked.
    He looked away. “I just meant that you shouldn’t cut it. It’s very pretty.”
    “Oh. Thank you. Do you think you might have a comb or brush around here? If it dries like this I may not have a choice.”
    “I think so.” He handed her the dressing gown and towels. “I’m afraid this is the best I could find.”
    She took the items from him. “As long as I’m warm and dry, I don’t care what I look like. Thank you.”

    “I’ll hunt up a brush for you. It will give you enough time to get changed.”
    He turned quickly, left the room and made for the stairs, his wet boots squeaking with every step. He had been a few words shy of turning into a babbling idiot. Even wet and tangled, that river of fiery red hair streaming down her back was enough to push a man over the edge. He shook his head. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her hair or those lovely tilted green eyes or the sight of her wet riding habit clinging to her slender curves. Focus on what needs to be done. He needed dry clothes for himself and a hair brush. He reentered the chamber where he kept a scant wardrobe and a few personal belongings. Then rummaging through his bureau drawers he found an old pair of buckskins, woolen stockings and a white lawn shirt. He took a second pair stockings. Her feet would be cold.
    He shivered. This room was cold as the devil. If she was to sleep up here tonight he would need to light the fire. He found the tinder box and then realized that there was no wood in the hearth. He quickly checked the other chambers and saw that was the case throughout. What little firewood he had in the house was downstairs. The rest was piled outside, presumably soaked. It appeared he would be the one sleeping upstairs tonight and more than likely he would freeze his arse off.
    Cursing, he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. The wet boots and breeches were not so easy and it took a fair amount of effort to remove them. He toweled off and dressed quickly, grabbed a tortoise shell brush and comb from the bureau and then stopped short just as he was about to dash out the door. She needed time to change. Women always took such a bloody long time to change and she was without a maid. He couldn’t risk walking in on her. Not in the state he was in now.
    Jesus! Never in his life had he gone to so much trouble to not have sex. This was probably the most inappropriate situation he had ever been in and he had been in quite a few. He opened the chest at the foot of his bed and fished out two thick woolen blankets. She would get the fireplace and extra blankets as well. He dropped his bundle on his bed and crossed to the window to check the progress of the storm. Sheets of gray rain were sliding down the glass. Lightning turned the sky a bluish white and the trees bent from the wind. The rain was coming down harder than ever. If it didn’t let up soon, the stream would be too swollen to cross and if the bridge washed out, he had no notion of when they could return home. They should have crossed the stream when the storm first broke. But in the best of circumstances it was a thirty minute ride to Reston Manor and in this weather they never would have made it. Only a fool would try.
    He had done the only thing he could, but it was still a wretched situation. By the time he could get her safely home, the household at Reston Manor would be in an uproar and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to prevent it. With a groan, he picked up the items he had dropped and went downstairs to the drawing room she had appropriated as their haven from the storm.
    He came to an abrupt stop just inside the doorway. There was no doubt. The gods were laughing