Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Both men tensed. Baptiste bolted from the counter, nearly mowing over Merritt as he rushed to his feet. They dashed through the two dining rooms and into the reception hall. Baptiste took the stairs three at a time and reached Hulda’s bedroom first, Merritt three paces behind. The chef, still wielding his hammer, barged in so roughly he almost tore the door from its frame.

A million half thoughts rushed through Merritt’s mind, centering on Hulda’s welfare. Had someone broken in? Was it a rat? Was it—

Hulda in her underthings?

Baptiste was inside the bedroom, but Merritt halted in the hallway, peering over the big man’s arm, to where Hulda stood in nothing but her drawers, chemise, and tightly laced corset. Her hands swung up to cover the cleavage spilling over the latter’s top, and her face bloomed like a summer hibiscus.

“Get out!” she screamed, obviously very hale and unharmed.

Baptiste, equally as red, tripped over himself in his rush to close the door. Slam it, really.

Merritt tried to speak but found he couldn’t. He was still trying to catch his breath. Understand what on earth the scream had been about. And why Hulda was trouncing around in her underwear.

His thoughts lingered on that last question, and the visual that went with it.

Baptiste cleared his throat. “We will not speak of this.” His long legs carried him to the stairs.

“Indeed,” Merritt muttered, confused, and very aware of the woman on the other side of the door.

He certainly would not be sleeping tonight.

Merritt did, eventually, drift off, which lent to a late waking. He scrubbed his face with cold water, brushed his hair and left it loose—he lived on an island, for heaven’s sake, no need to concern himself with fashion—and dressed, forgoing the vest because why bother. Beth was polishing the banisters when he came downstairs, and she nodded to him without meeting his eyes, which was curious. Hulda had just finished breakfast and was carrying her dishes to the sink.

Discomfort crept up and down Merritt’s esophagus like a colony of termites. “Mrs. Larkin, I’m glad to catch you. I must apologize on behalf of Baptiste and myself; we heard a scream and were rather rash in our discovery of its source.”

She set the plates down. “Indeed you were. Or at least, Mr. Babineaux was.”

He let out a relieved breath upon hearing her heap most of the blame on Baptiste, suddenly glad the Frenchman was so much quicker than he was. Guilt quickly followed. He wanted to see how the chef was faring after the embarrassment, but Baptiste did not wish to discuss last night’s incident.

Wiping off her hands, Hulda turned to face him, every bit as stern and upright as she’d been the day Merritt met her. He’d begun to suspect it was a comforting mask she wore—the utmost professionalism to hide unwanted emotions and discomfiture. Another page turned in her metaphorical book. “I appreciate the apology. I was teaching Miss Taylor some country dances, and in her excitement, she leapt atop my trunk, which was empty. We both toppled over, and she shouted in surprise.”

“Beth?” Merritt repeated without thinking.

Her brow furrowed. “I presume you have not yet apologized to her.”

“I . . . admittedly, I hadn’t noticed Miss Taylor was there as well.” His chest warmed. Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his neck to have something to do, realizing he’d just unwittingly admitted his eyes had gone straight to Hulda and never strayed. “I will”—he turned to hide his face—“go do that right now.”

“Mr. Fernsby.”

He paused.

Hulda scanned the ceiling. “Owein has been very responsive to us, ever since we learned his name.”

Merritt relaxed a fraction. “I’ve noticed the same.”

“I recall you were not fond of the idea of hiring employees initially. Perhaps, with some additional training, staff may not be necessary.” She offered the information carefully, almost as though it were rehearsed. “Owein’s adept at keeping himself orderly, as we saw from the lack of neglect upon your arrival, and he’s assisted me in simple chores as well. You needn’t worry about Miss Taylor. She will not be short of work so long as she’s affiliated with BIKER.”

She didn’t look at him on that last sentence, but out the window. The streaming sunlight highlighted the flecks of green in her eyes. Why wouldn’t she look at him?

Did Hulda not want to leave? The thought made his stomach tighten and the termites repopulate. As she was an employee of BIKER, Merritt had little say over her comings and goings. Was it too much to hope she didn’t wish for him to follow through on the professional advice she was offering?

Could he convince her to stay? Stay . . . for him?