Until now.

  As she stood there, the rain began in earnest. The soft shower became a heavy sheet that soaked her boots and shawl and began to seep through her dress, and she broke into a run, anxious to escape the deluge. When she reached the covered porch, she took in deep gasping breaths, laughing as she wiped the water from her eyes and tried to ring out her hair. But it was no use. She was soaked.

  She rapped on the front door and waited for it to open. Long seconds went by. With the roar of the rain hitting the roof, perhaps the doctor hadn’t heard her knock. She tried again, banging at the door with a strong fist. Now that she’d stopped moving, she was starting to feel the cold.

  No answer.

  Even if Alec wasn’t home, she needed a place to wait out the storm, to dry off and warm herself before heading back. She tried the doorknob, grateful to find it unlocked. The door opened without so much as a creak, as if the hinges had been recently oiled.

  “Alec?” she called.

  All she could hear was the sound of the rain on the roof.

  On this stormy day, the space was dim. The hearth lay cold and dark, making Charlotte wonder if Alec was out on a night call. The wind slammed the door open, banging it against the wall. She left it open as she hunted for matches, easily located on the small shelf that hung near the front door.

  Wet clothes cold against her skin, Charlotte shivered. She was in dire need of a crackling fire. Bracing the door with her shoulder, she shut it against the strength of the wind that continued to howl outside. She reached for a match and lit a candle, using the shield of her palm to protect it from the lingering draft. Once the flame steadied, she set down the candle and removed her boots and stockings, her feet like ice.

  Wherever Alec was, he surely wouldn’t make the journey home until the rain let up. By the time he returned, she’d have erased all evidence of her visit and would be far away.

  With the candle, she ignited some kindling to start a small fire in the hearth. Once the kindling caught, she began adding larger sticks and, finally, a log. She watched as the flames licked the dry bark and then burned toward the center of the wood.

  The light from the fire was welcoming, the warmth immediate. Charlotte draped her wet shawl and stockings over the fire screen and positioned herself as close to the heat as she could bear, making slow rotations to dry out her dress. Her icy fingers were numb, and they hurt as the fire warmed them, feeling slowly returning to her extremities.

  She jerked at the sound of shuffling coming from one of the bedrooms, having been certain she was alone. Her heart pounded. She reached for the candle she’d set atop the mantel.

  Limping along on three legs, the pig came around the corner and hobbled into the main room.

  Charlotte placed a hand over her breastbone, laughing. “Look at you, walking.”

  The pig tottered over to her, and Charlotte knelt and scratched behind his ears. The pig nuzzled her hand, likely looking for the slops she’d forgotten this morning in her haste to get out the door. “The doctor has been feeding you, hasn’t he?”

  An answering snort.

  “That’s a good boy. Now, come lie by the fire. It’s quite chilly today.” Once she’d helped the pig stretch out by the fire, Charlotte went to the bedroom and took the blanket that lay at the foot of the bed. The wind roared. The rain poured down relentlessly.

  Back in the main room, she dragged the armchair closer to the fire, took a seat, and tucked the blanket in around her. With the pig at her feet, the comforting crackle of the fire drying her clothes, and her body finally warm, she allowed her eyes to drift shut, promising herself she’d sleep for only a few minutes and would soon be on her way.

  * * *

  Alec couldn’t think beyond putting one foot in front of the other. His body craved the most basic of needs: warmth, sleep, and food, preferably in that order. His neck stung from the hail that had assaulted him as he’d made his way out of the city, his coat drenched through from the rain that had resumed once the hail had abated. He unbuckled the saddle with cold and clumsy fingers. Once he stabled Fargo, it was only force of habit that had him checking the troughs of feed and water before he trudged up to his cabin.

  The all-night vigil spent with Mr. Browning, a longtime patient who suffered from heart failure, and his hysterical wife had pushed Alec to the edge of exhaustion. It had been a particularly bad spell for Mr. Browning, and although the man had seemed well enough when Alec had left this morning, it was only a brief reprieve. His heart would soon give out on him for good.

  The light emanating from the front window didn’t register until Alec had walked inside to find a fire roaring in the hearth. He shut the door behind him, the room’s warmth encircling him at once. Had Vera come by earlier and laid the fire? He removed his soaking overcoat and pulled off his wet boots, only to discover a small pair of lady’s boots at the edge of the rug.

  All at once Alec came fully awake. A trail of water led from the front door toward the hearth. His gaze caught on a pair of stockings and a shawl draped over the fire screen.

  And there, in the armchair by the fire, pig at her feet, was Charlotte.

  Asleep.

  Her breathing was soft, marked only by the rise and fall of her chest. Damp curls tumbled over her shoulder. She had her legs tucked under her, and across her lap was draped Alec’s own blanket. Her eyelids reflected the glowing dance of the fire, her cheeks rosy from its warmth.

  He stood there, dripping wet, hands and feet still numb, unwilling to move. Oddly enough, it eased his exhaustion a fraction to see her nestled in his chair, having made herself at home.

  Which was ridiculous, given how obvious the truth was. She’d been wet and cold and his cabin had been a place where she could dry herself out and get warm. She’d gotten caught in the downpour and come here as a matter of necessity.

  Necessity, he told himself firmly.

  Yet that knowledge didn’t stop Alec from reveling in the feeling of coming home to a cabin that wasn’t empty. A warm hearth, a set of boots beside his own, a shawl drying by the fire.

  Alec removed his cravat and hung his coat and vest next to Charlotte’s shawl so they could begin to dry. He knew he should wake her, but he stalled, combing back his damp hair and running a hand over his beard.

  The pig grunted a little, rolling onto its side, as if it meant to try to rise. Alec went down on one knee, rubbing the pig’s belly gently. “Shh,” he urged. The pig demanded his attention, and he indulged the creature for a full minute before he rose and went to his desk, tempted to light a few more candles and return to the research he’d abandoned when he’d been summoned by Mrs. Browning.

  Instead, he picked up his chair, carrying it across the room to place it in front of the fire a mere foot from the armchair where Charlotte slept. He sat down heavily—too heavily. The chair’s legs scraped against the puncheon floor.

  Charlotte let out a gentle moan before blinking awake. “Oh.” She blinked again and then sat up and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh! You must think me very forward, making myself at home like this.”

  Alec should, he knew. It was forward. But seated near her, the fire’s light scattering shadows, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Did you get caught in the storm?” he asked, voice soft.

  She nodded. “I meant to be gone by the time you returned.” She cocked her head, listening to the rain on the roof. “You rode through the storm?”

  “Aye. But it’s good you waited here. There was some heavy hail for a bit. Just pebble-sized, but they stung mightily.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, where he’d taken the worst of it. “It’s back to raining now, with no sign of letting up.”

  Her smoky gray eyes still blinked away sleep. “You were out all night?”

  He nodded. The fire’s heat reached slowly through his clothing, melting away the worst of the cold as it reached his core. But where before his eyelids had been heavy, now, sitting beside Charlotte, his limbs thrummed with unanticipated tension.

  She gave him a measured look, taking in his wet and rumpled clothing. “You must be exhausted. I’ll make some tea for the both of us. One should never start the day without tea.” She got to her feet, and Alec didn’t miss the bare toes peeking out from beneath her dress.

  He’d seen plenty of women’s stockingless feet as a doctor examining a patient. Seeing Charlotte’s bare feet as she made her way across the room toward his small cast-iron stove was something else entirely.

  Right now he was not a doctor.

  He was a man. Seeing an intimacy, a vulnerability usually reserved for marriage. The simple domesticity of the picture was so unexpected it hit him like a blow to the chest.

  Alec squeezed out a breath and got to his feet. He couldn’t sit another moment. “I have no tea. Only coffee,” he said abruptly, hoping to dissuade her.

  She lit the coals in the stove and stirred them. “Your shocking words the other day made me suspect you were a heathen, but this confirms it. Coffee it is.”

  On the rare occasions Alec shared his views on God, he was the recipient of disapproving looks and pity. To have Charlotte make light of it . . . his mouth hitched up a little at the bewilderment of it.

  She began rummaging through his things, looking for the coffee grounds. “I dearly hope you have sugar.”

  He reached for his black bag and dried it off, then opened it and began sorting through its contents. He mentally willed the rain to stop, despite the futility of it.

  Charlotte filled the Neapolitan copper pot with water Alec had drawn yesterday, added the coffee grounds she’d found in the cupboard, and set it on to boil.

  He needed something between them, some form of distraction. “I wouldn’t have guessed you knew how to make a cup of coffee,” he said without looking up. He rolled up a bandage and returned it to his stores.

  She stirred the coals again. “My family has what many would consider a tainted background. Though my grandmother married a duke, she came from the humblest of beginnings. The daughter of a crofter who lived in a one-room cottage. My cousin Tavish was born in a home that was not much bigger.

  “And while I was raised in a home befitting a duke, it was the greatest adventure when I was allowed to stay over with Aunt Olivia and her boys, where I slept on a straw tick and learned to harvest peat moss for the fire and draw water from the well.” She looked up at him, her mouth pursed in a half smile. “And, of course, how to boil water and make coffee.”

  For every one thing Alec learned about this woman, he wished to know a dozen more. But something was bothering him. “So you lived a life of affluence and they lived in relative poverty? How do you explain that?”

  “The same way you’d explain why you didn’t allow the Maganns to put you through medical school.” She gave him a coquettish grin that went straight to his chest. “That Scots pride you won’t own up to.”

  Blast. It needed to stop raining. Yet still it came, ignorant of his pleas, its warlike drumbeat peppering the roof and sides of his cabin. He returned his bag to its place near the front door.

  “I received a letter from my family at long last,” Charlotte said, filling the silence. “My parents wonder if I made the right choice in coming here.” She plucked his tin cup off the shelf and found a chipped teacup in the same cupboard where he stored the coffee grounds. “They won’t say as much, of course, but I can read between the lines. Truth be told, I’ve wondered the same a time or two myself. It’s taken me some time to find a sense of purpose.”

  He crossed the room to his desk, desperate to anchor himself in his research. “And that purpose is the swine lying over there on the floor?”

  Mirth filled her expression. “Don’t mock me, Alec.”

  He stilled at the sound of his name on her lips—he’d forgotten he’d given her leave to use it. The room, the short space between his desk and the stove, seemed to shrink.

  Unaware of the maelstrom she’d unleashed in him, Charlotte went on. “I joined Mrs. Borden’s Education and Improvement Society for Women. For the past few weeks I’ve been teaching a young woman named Clara to read and write.”

  Alec raised his head. “It’s admirable work, to be certain.”

  “Hard work.” She grinned. “The truth is I can barely keep up with her.”

  A pouch containing a new batch of surveys from the poorer sections of Philadelphia rested on the hook near the shelving. He pulled it down and removed the sheath of papers. “She’s hungry to learn?”

  Charlotte traced the rim of the teacup with her forefinger, gingerly touching the chip. “Oh yes. I took my own education for granted, but being with Clara reminds me what a gift it is. She’s plowing forward, and I’m just trying not to stand in her way. I’m grateful to be a part of her journey, even for just the brief time I’m here.”

  Why was it so jarring to be reminded that her stay here was of a limited duration? In a short time she’d managed to become a fixture in his life. A rather inconvenient fixture, to be sure, but a fixture all the same. He ran a hand through his hair, then began arranging the papers on his desk, organizing them by date of death.

  She removed the pot from the stove and flipped it upside down, allowing the boiling water to filter through the coffee grounds and into the empty chamber. “The Maganns told me you are one of the few doctors here in Pittsburgh who provides medical treatment to anyone, regardless of their ability to pay. And here I thought you Americans were all driven by greed.”

  Alec lifted a brow. “As opposed to you British, who operate strictly on benevolence?”

  Charlotte inclined her head, her mouth lifted in a half smile. “Point taken.”

  He gave up trying to sort the surveys and walked to the window. “I give help where I can.” He thought of Matthew, who’d knocked on his door a few weeks before. “And most find their own ways to pay me for my services.”

  From where he stood, his back leaning against the wall, he observed the contradiction of a marchioness with regal bearing standing barefoot at his stove and pouring coffee. Its earthy aroma filled the room.

  “But my contribution is paltry in comparison to some,” he continued. “The Maganns, for example, are always finding ways to give.”

  She unwrapped the sugarloaf he’d forgotten he had, tapping off small chunks. “Sugar?” she asked, glancing up at him.

  He shook his head, crossing to the stove so she’d not need to bring it to him. “I prefer mine black.”

  Charlotte met his gaze, passing the cup of dark brew into his hands, her slender fingers grazing his. “Those who receive your care would hardly consider it a paltry offering.”

  The sincerity lacing her words warmed him far more than the steam that wafted from the cup. He took a sip of his coffee, hardly tasting it, then set it down on the stove.

  Far from the fire, this side of the room was darker. But if anything, the play of light and shadows only heightened his awareness of Charlotte’s beauty, the curl that was tucked behind the shell of her ear, the arch of her dark brows, her full bottom lip.

  Her eyes met his. Something swirled within their depths, a liveliness and intensity that made his gut tighten with longing. Her gaze dropped as she lifted the teacup to her mouth and took a sip, her tongue tracing her lip as she swallowed. She set the teacup down, her lashes still lowered.

  An unfamiliar hunger gripped him, growing with every word she spoke, her every glance in his direction. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to look at a woman this way?

  How long since he’d wanted to?

  Fear reared its ugly head, insisting that Charlotte posed a threat to his composure, to the tentative grasp he’d managed to keep on life these past three years. Guilt was fast on its heels, reminding him that he had no right to indulge in the company of any woman, let alone one whose presence was far from permanent.

  A host of shoulds crowded his mind.

  He should step back and put distance between them.

  He should pull out his research and bury himself in it.

  He should go outside and let the pouring rain pound some sense into him.

  But he was restive and undone, his defenses far lower than usual, so he did none of those things. Instead, he stood stock-still, allowing himself the pleasure of her nearness, breathing in the soft floral scent of her that hung heavy with the rain.

  * * *

  Charlotte swallowed, unable to lift her eyes above the triangle of skin showing at Alec’s throat, his wet cravat discarded. Only one button was undone, but it revealed just a hint of the light-colored hair his buttoned shirt concealed. Her stomach smoldered with softly glowing embers, sparks of yearning swirling through her veins.

  The mood in the room had changed as she’d handed Alec his cup of coffee. The space between them fairly crackled, warning of possible peril. If anyone were to discover them together with no chaperone present, the consequences would be dire. Her reputation would be left in shreds.

  But at this moment, with blood pumping through her body so furiously that it pulsed in her ears, it wasn’t her reputation she was concerned with, but her heart.

  And his.

  “Alec,” she whispered, her voice husky.

  At the sound of his name on her lips, Alec’s hazel eyes grew keen, like those of a stag caught in a hunter’s line of sight. Tension sheathed him, in every line and feature, as if he wasn’t sure whether to lean forward or away.

  Charlotte teetered on the edge of an unknown precipice, one she’d been walking toward from the instant they’d met. The moment demanded caution. Despite Alec’s strength, his determination, his stubbornness . . .

  He was fragile.

  And she would not be careless with a man whose heart had already endured so much.

  She lifted a hand and touched it lightly to his chest. The charged feeling of a lightning storm tiptoed up her skin. There was no give at all in the muscle beneath her palm, no reaction from him, save for the quickening of his heart.