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"Yes, well, my uncle was the original
apothecary but he moved to Edinburgh with his wife so my father
took over."

"Your father or you?"

Mariah started at the question.

Being from London, Mr. Haverton would no
doubt be extremely disapproving of her profession. And it wasn't
even a profession, not really. She didn't get paid for it, though
Lord knew she should have really since most of the work in the
apothecary was done by her.

But still. From a respectability point of
view, and from a not having one's mother descend into a fit of
despair and mourning point of view, it wasn't a
profession
.
A hobby, more like.

"I help out," she admitted now, carefully. "I
have an interest in medicine and herbs and healing, and my father
is good enough to indulge me."

"Ah, I understand," he said, then added with
a mischievous glint in his eyes; "I was only asking because of the
sea of the sick and infirm demanding your presence just now."

"What? Who?"

"I believe I have just made the rather loud
acquaintance of a Mrs. Callahan, a Mr. Davies and a Miss
Thornsworth."

"Oh, blast!" Mariah said with feeling as she
jumped from her chair, uncaring of the fact that she had used such
language in front of him. "They're going to come here then."

"They are?" he asked, brows raised.

"Yes, they are. They always do on the rare
occasions that I'm not there."

"But you shouldn't even be here, should you?
You should be at the Manor doing your job."

All of a sudden, he sounded like the proud,
arrogant man she'd met yesterday and Mariah was immediately on her
guard. Memories of their kiss and her subsequent escape flooded her
mind and her cheeks flamed in response.

"Yes, well. I had thought that perhaps you
would no longer need me," she mumbled.

"Are you finished sorting the library?"

"Of course not."

"Then I need you."

Mariah told herself not to feel anything in
reaction to his words. He meant them in terms of finishing the
task, nothing else.

"I do not think it would be a good idea, Mr.
Haverton."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"What if I promise to stay away from you?"

No
! Her mind screamed.

"That won't be necessary," she muttered
trying not to beg him to do the exact opposite.

"I'm afraid it will be," he answered, a wry
smile hovering on his lips.

"Why?" she whispered, suddenly feeling a
change in the atmosphere.

He stepped closer and Mariah felt a visceral
tug of desire in her abdomen. And elsewhere, if she were being
honest.

"Because you ran away yesterday due to my
attentions. I don't want you to run away, but I can't guarantee
that I can keep my hands off you. So I'll stay away."

Oh my. That was quite an answer. And although
his words played havoc with her heart, she couldn't resist arguing
the point.

"I ran away because you insulted me," she
contended.

"I did not."

"Did too," she countered, not unlike a
child.

"I did not," he bellowed, sounding infinitely
more childish than she.

"You said I couldn't kiss properly," she
shouted.

"God dammit. You are the most infuriating
female I've ever met," he barked rather rudely, to Mariah's way of
thinking. "I most certainly did
not
say you couldn't kiss
properly. If you couldn't kiss properly, I wouldn't be standing
here wanting nothing more than to kiss you again."

His words succeeded in ending any
conversation and any ability Mariah had of forming a coherent
thought. Excepting one. The thought that if she did not feel his
lips pressed to hers again, she would surely perish from pure
desire.

They stared at each other, his almost black
eyes boring into hers.

This was madness. She barely knew the man,
liked him even less. Yet her body was traitorous in its longing for
him.

He stepped closer and it was all Mariah could
do not to launch herself at him.

"This is madness," he said quietly, echoing
her thoughts.

"I know," she agreed, surprised that she
could even speak.

"And yet…"

He reached out, brushing her cheek with his
knuckles and Mariah shuddered in response.

She was shocked by how much his simplest of
touch affected her.

"Miss Bolton, I—"

Whatever he'd been about to say was
interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

Mariah started then stepped back from
him.

"That'll be the army of the afflicted, will
it?" he asked drolly and Mariah was both impressed and a little
insulted that he sounded perfectly normal while she was going up in
flames.

"It must be," she confirmed dully, knowing
she was in for a morning of imagined illnesses and persistent
complaining.

"You know," Haverton said, a smile playing
about his mouth, "if you were to come back to the Manor you
wouldn't have to deal with any of them. You could bury yourself in
the books you are so fond of and not deal with a single person all
day if you so choose."

Mariah couldn't deny that it sounded
tempting.

Especially because she would be in close
proximity to Brandon Haverton. Which was ridiculous, but true.

The loud, nasally sound of Mrs. Callahan's
voice reached them in the drawing room and Mariah made an
instantaneous decision.

"Fine, I'll come," she said in a fierce
whisper, "but we'll have to sneak out the back way."

"You can't be serious," said Mr. Haverton
incredulously but his words were muffled; he was speaking to her
back as she left him behind.

They darted through the hallway and ran
toward the back of the house. It was ridiculous, running around
one's own house like a burglar but there was nothing else for
it.

Either they would get caught by Mrs.
Callahan, in which case Mariah would be stuck listening to her
imaginary diseases all day, or they'd get caught by Lilly or Mama,
in which case Mr. Haverton would be stuck trying to avoid the
parson's trap all afternoon.

They reached the conservatory and slipped out
into the garden beyond.

Mariah beamed at her co-conspirator,
delighted with their success.

"My horse is in the stable," said Mr.
Haverton, but he offered her an answering grin, which promptly
stole her breath all over again.

"Not to worry," she said, almost giddy with
relief and with being in his company, "we can sneak round to the
stables now. I shall have to collect the gig in any case."

"Your house is rather larger than I
expected," said Mr. Haverton as they walked around to the stables
at the back, keeping a close eye out for perspective
interrupters.

"It is?"

"Indeed. When I saw the size of your father's
surgery, I assumed that the family lived in the building too."

"Ah, well my uncle used to live there until
he moved away. Although my father does own the building. In any
case, my mother would never agree to living in a shop. She's a
terrible snob," Mariah said with a roll of her eyes. "It would be
beneath her to live there. So we live here."

"You are refreshingly honest, Miss Bolton,"
was his response.

"I'm glad you approve. Most people find it
shocking."

"By most people, you mean your mother?" he
guessed with a grin.

"And my sister."

"You have a sister? Does she also indulge her
hobby at the surgery?"

Mariah guessed from his tone that he knew
exactly what she did at the surgery and that she wasn't some
spoiled debutante whose father indulged her silly whims.

"Lord, no!" she exclaimed now, "Lillianne
would faint clean away if she had to get her hands dirty."

At this, Mr. Haverton gave a bark of laughter
which did funny things to Mariah's insides.

"She is not like you?"

A gurgle of laughter escaped her.

"She is frivolous, flirtatious, well-behaved
and beautiful," said Mariah as they reached the stables, "so, no.
Not like me at all."

Mr. Haverton frowned at her.

"If she is beautiful, she is like you," he
said quietly.

Mariah ignored him because really, he
shouldn't say such things and she hadn't a hope of resisting him if
he continued to do so.

"Here we are," she said instead, leading him
in to where his horse was being fussed over by Jimmy, the stable
boy.

"'Tis a beautiful animal you have here, sir,"
Jimmy said as Mr. Haverton approached.

Mariah didn't listen to his response as she
set about readying the horse and gig but she could see him smiling
at young Jimmy and she was grateful to him for it.

Jimmy had come to them hungry and alone some
years before, after his father had left and his mother had passed
away. Mrs. Yates had brought him to Dr. Bolton for treatment of a
broken leg, though he would not say how it had been broken, and
once he'd recovered the good doctor had offered him a roof over his
head and work in the stable. It had proven to be a good decision
for all involved, for Jimmy was a pleasant lad and a hard
worker.

"Miss, let me do that," he suddenly spoke
from behind her.

Mariah dutifully stepped back and watched as
he attached the gig to Bonnie, their biddable mare.

"Miss Bolton, you will surely freeze without
a cloak or bonnet," Mr. Haverton's voice sounded behind her,
startling her and exciting her all at once.

She could feel the warmth of his breath on
her neck and knew that if she stepped back just a fraction, her
body would come into contact with his own. The temptation was
almost overwhelming but the man made a good enough point to
distract her.

He was right.

There was no way she could travel in just her
gown. Warm as it was, it would be no use against the bite of the
winter wind. And the fichu she wore at the neckline was no
substitute for a heavy cloak.

Mariah frowned in consternation. "You're
right," she admitted. "You make your way back now, and I shall come
directly."

"I do not mind waiting."

"Well, I mind you waiting," she blurted out
then coloured at his raised brow.

That had sounded unpardonably rude and he
hadn't been rude at all today. She wondered if there was something
wrong with him, actually, since he was so different to
yesterday.

"That didn't come out right," she said with
what she hoped was an endearing smile. "It's just, well, my mother
doesn't actually know you are here and if she were to find out it
would be, er, difficult for me."

"How so?"

"Well, frankly, because she'd either try to
have you married off to me or my sister before you'd finished
introducing yourself. She would absolutely forbid me from working
at the manor house if she knew you were in residence. And…" She
felt a familiar blush blossom in her cheeks "…I may have intimated
that you had a family. A large one."

His brows rose again. "How large?"

"There was possibly a mention of children
coming out of your ears," she admitted unenthusiastically.

"Ah."

"Quite."

"Well then, I suppose I shall see you at the
manor house."

"You're not angry?"

"Frequently. But not with you. And not about
this," he answered cryptically.

Mariah didn't waste time wondering at his
meaning, however. She watched as he rode out onto the road. Then
she turned and snuck stealthily back into the house to retrieve her
cloak.

So much for not seeing him again.

Mariah looked up from
the books littering the table in front of her and stood to stretch
out her cramping limbs, her eyes moving to the large window. She
started in surprise at what she saw; during the long hours that she
had spent ensconced in the cosy library, immersed in her work and
kept warm by the dancing fire, the weather had worsened
dramatically. It had gone from dry and overcast to lashing with
heavy snow and Mariah was kicking herself for not leaving earlier
when Fernshaw had suggested it.

But she'd just discovered a marvellous
collection of what she suspected were first edition
encyclopaedias
and she was impatient to get them catalogued
so that she could inform Mr. Haverton about just what a treasure he
had purchased.

It had absolutely nothing to do with just
wanting to see him again, she told herself stoutly. She didn't
believe herself one bit.

"Miss Bolton." The butler's voice sounded
from the door.

"Come in, Fernshaw. I am afraid that you were
right earlier. Could you please have the gig readied at once? I
daren't wait any longer to return to the village."

"Miss Bolton, I am not sure that you should
be travelling in such conditions. Unless I am very much mistaken,
there is a blizzard on its way."

"All the more reason to leave now," she said
injecting her tone with a lot more confidence than she felt.

The truth of it was that the thought of
travelling alone in this weather, even on roads she knew like the
back of her hand, was scaring the wits out of her. But what choice
did she have?

"Very well, Miss Bolton," said Fernshaw,
though he sounded less than pleased about it.

Mariah took one last worried look out of the
window then quickly donned her cloak and bonnet.

She had been an utter fool to become so
engrossed in her work that she barely paid attention to the candles
being lit around the room and the fire stoked to a blaze by a
quiet-as-a-mouse maid. The servants were too good at their jobs,
that was the problem. If the maid had stomped about it might have
brought her out of her all-consuming concentration on the
books.

Mariah made her way to the front hall and
opened the door to gaze out.

It was worse than she feared.