Forcing her eyes anywhere but on him, Bronwyn belatedly glanced over the inside of the folly, which had probably been divided into four or five rooms at one point, not to mention the upper levels that led to the tower. “What do you think is up there?”

“Not sure. The stairs have fallen in. Probably just a bird or two, I imagine.” One brow raised, he stared pointedly at her. “Don’t dawdle. Your turn.”

“Fine.” She breathed out. “Face the other way.”

***

Valentine thought she would put up more of a fight. What they were doing was truly scandalous in the eyes of British society…especially for an unmarried couple. But they weren’t in England and this was a matter of actual survival. If the chill took root in her lungs, she could become quite ill, and they had already avoided being grabbed and gutted. It made no sense to give in to something completely within their control for the sake of propriety. Not on his watch.

The rustle of clothing reached his ears.

“I’m finished.”

“Give me those—” Without thinking, he turned and promptly lost the power of speech. She looked like a Titian painting, all dewy, creamy skin and long, sinuous limbs. Thick, loosened brown hair tumbled over her shoulders in a riot of waves and curls nearly to her waist. Her bare knees were curled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. A sheer shift hid all of the delicate, feminine parts from his view, but the hollows and lines of her body left him breathless. He cleared his throat and finished what he’d been about to say. “Clothes, please.”

With a blush on her cheeks, she pointed to the bundle beside her. Silently, he took the discarded apparel, including his coat, and hung them over the wall next to his. The faint scent of cinnamon and baked apples wafted from the clothes, and he fought the instant urge to lift them to his nose and breathe them in. That would not do.

He scowled. “Why do your things smell like a harvest festival?”

“I visited an apothecary once that made perfumes and soaps. I chose a scent I liked and a special soap was prepared for me. It’s a bit too sweet, I think, and everyone seems to think I’m hiding a Marlborough pie in the pockets of my skirts.”

With a huff, Valentine didn’t answer. It wasn’t too sweet at all, and he didn’t want to dwell on the slew of lascivious images that rushed into his brain at the thought of what truly lay beneath those skirts and had nothing to do with apple and custard whatsoever.

“This is not so bad, is it?” he said, settling himself a good distance away from any tantalizing scents on the other side of the fire.