Oliver offers to sew

The two of them took patient breaths until the noise of the previous visitor disappeared, and the forest sounds settled into their usual rhythms. Unable to remain so far away from her, Oliver’s shoe scraped and crunched across the clearing, mixing with the clunk of his crutches. He bowed, balancing on his sticks.
“I came …”
“Come in,” she interrupted and disappeared. He followed, pushing through the narrow opening and handily closing the door behind him.
Miss Gibbins knelt in front of the fireplace. He slid down into an unused chair. Not hers, so tidy and handily tucked by the fire, yet near a window. When she leaned over to stir the fire; he got an interesting view of her backside.
She didn’t speak, and he didn’t ask questions while she worked. Only when he had a cup of tea, and she was stirring something in a pot, did he lead with his opening question.
“I heard about the meeting at Baylis Hall yesterday.”
She didn’t stop stirring, but twisted to look at him over her shoulder.
“I can only presume that Mr. Shalbrook came home telling tales. I’m interested in hearing his view of our afternoon.”
The standoffish tone was back. Oliver mulled over his next question while he sipped his tea. She refocused on the pot, grabbing the handle with her skirt and pulled it off the fireplace trivet, bringing it to a small wood table by a window. Perhaps it had a pretty view, but the drapes were closed.
“Porridge?” he asked. She nodded, ladling honey into the pot. “I’ll be frank, Miss Gibbins.”
“Sarina, please.”
“Sarina.” He paused, tasting the name, sweetness. “Shalbrook boasted, yes, saying his connection with your brother made him a shoo-in with you.” He didn’t say ‘to bed her.’ He let her believe that the man sought a more honorable connection. He hoped she knew not to trust sailors.
“I wish my aunt had never sent me that letter.” She stared at the pot; the spoon no longer moving. He wanted to rush over, take her in his arms, and kiss a smile onto her face. But he was a sailor—an ex-sailor—and in the same league with Shalbrook. Oliver also couldn’t stand up without the help of his crutches.
“I came to offer my help,” he began anew.
“Help?” she snorted, her laughter lasting long.
Once her merriment finished, she spooned porridge into a bowl and shuffled to her seat by the fire. Near but separate.
“What can you do to help?” Her shoulders drooped; her body bent forward, not to eat, but as the situation with her aunt caught up with her.
Marry me, he thought suddenly. He’d not realized his intentions until that moment. But the desire to marry her, to tuck her against his side in comfort, came over him like a flush of heat. A fever of caring as much as it was desire.
“I can sew,” he said aloud.
“You, sew? You’re not a tailor.” When she laughed, he saw pearly white teeth. She had to calm down before she could spoon food into that lovely mouth. Coral lips closed around the spoon as she took a delicate bite.
“Do not disparage my abilities with needle and thread. Before I rose in the ranks, I spent my early years up in the masts. All seamen learn to be good with needle and thread as the wind is hel…” he clamped his lips together. “The wind is hard on the sails. We don’t purchase new ones; we constantly repair them.”
“Those are rough sails, not fine clothes.”
“Are there tailors at sea to sell us new clothes? We also repair our clothes. Give me a test. Put me to work. I want to help.”
Her right eyebrow rose high. “I won’t trust you with curves, but how are you with hems?”
“I have a fair hand with hems.” He gulped the rest of his tea—which was hard to do when grinning. After proving himself by threading a needle and hemming a scrap of cloth with deft, swift fingers, she permitted him to help.
The two sewed in comfortable, satisfied silence. He thought she only needed a cat to complete the domestic picture. No scene could be more congenial than the two of them sitting by the fire, sewing with a cat or small dog on the rug at their feet.
“Why don’t you have a cat?” he piped up, tying a knot and emphasizing the first word. His stomach growled in protest as if it wanted to eat the cat.
“Because of the badgers,” she answered without looking up.
“What badgers?”
“They live under the largest oak out in the clearing. You can’t have cats and badgers. I rather enjoy the badgers.”
He sucked air through his teeth. “Badgers? Aren’t they dangerous?”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Northampton. My father owns a shoe factory.”
“I suppose their reputation as fierce puts the fear of God into non-country folk. If you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. They are protective of family.”
He made a noncommittal noise, threaded his needle, and returned to work.

Today’s snippet is from my soon-to-be published novella, Hidden Love. Oliver Sexton-Brown lost his leg and his direction in life in service to his country. He is recuperating in an all-male manor house. However, new arrivals send him off adventuring into the nearby woods. He discovers a hidden cottage inhabited by a lonely young woman.

Sarina Gibbins is an unwanted relative, hidden from society by her aunt and forced to utilize her talents as a seamstress to pay rent for a dilapidated cottage. There’s something comforting about the intrusion of this hospitable sailor who makes her recall her brother, lost at sea, along with the family jewels.

I’m participating in MFRW Book Hooks—browse the current hop here:
https://airtable.com/appvKrW9skkDjJe1n/shrqsbVq9LOioYMUD