The fire’s heat gradually worked through her cold external layers and dried the dampness on her dressing gown. The soup warmed her from the inside. Her aches returned as the numbness faded, but Clare was almost grateful for them. They made her feel human.
She rolled over to warm her back and startled. Dorran sat in one of the two wingback chairs by the fire, within arm’s reach, watching her. She hadn’t expected him to be so close. Before she could moderate the words, they’d already left her. “Have you been staring at me this whole time?”
He looked taken aback. “I can face the other way if you prefer.”
“No… sorry.” She attempted to sit and groaned from the effort.
“Try not to move too much.” He continued to watch her, but at least he was keeping his distance. “You lost enough blood to need a transfusion. You should rest until we can get you to a hospital.”
He was talking about a hospital. That was a positive sign. Still, Clare didn’t like lying on the floor. It made her feel vulnerable, as though she were something less than human. She eyed the second wingback chair. It was covered in an elegant green fabric, and the cushions looked soft. It was only a few feet away, and she would feel like more of an equal in it.
She lurched up, staggered, and would have fallen if Dorran hadn’t caught her arm.
“What did I just say?” He sounded frustrated, and Clare flinched. Even so, he helped carry her weight as he eased her into the chair.
Clare collapsed back, breathing more heavily than the task warranted, and checked that the dressing gown was still wrapped tightly around her. It was. “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I don’t need to be watched all the time.”
“You walked into a blizzard.” He slid back into his own chair then sighed and used his thumbs to rub the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry. I do not mean to snap.”
The apology surprised her. Clare wrapped her arms around herself, watching him carefully. He looked tired. His black hair was dishevelled from the melted snow.
Is he a sadist who kidnapped you? Or a man who saved your life?
He’d told the truth about the phones being dead. He’d also told the truth about the house being inside Banksy Forest—as far as she could tell, at least. So maybe he’d told the truth about the crash. Her arm tightened over the bandages on her stomach. She swallowed and took a risk. “Thank you.”
He blinked at her, and she broke eye contact. “For saving me. And helping me. Both times.”
“You’re… welcome.” Dorran sounded surprised. He stood and crossed the room. When he returned, he carried a glass of water and two tablets. He placed them on the small round table between their chairs. “For the pain.”
The tablets were unmarked. The cautious voice inside Clare’s head—the voice that sounded like Bethany—told her not to touch them. But Clare was trying to make a conscious effort not to be so brittle. She tipped the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.
Dorran picked up his mug and returned his attention to the fireplace. Bright embers lay scattered around the wood being consumed. It must have been burning for hours. The heat rolling off it was delicious, and Clare found herself leaning forwards in her chair. But she also couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the man sitting opposite her. His face was full of strong angles, as though he had been carved out of stone. She still couldn’t get a read on him.
It felt surreal. They were sitting together, enjoying the fire’s heat as though it were something they did every night, as though they had known each other for years. It left her feeling unsteady. She couldn’t stand the silence. “Do you own this house?”
“No. My family, the Morthornes, do.” His eyebrows twitched down very slightly when he said the word family.
Clare kept her guard up for any kind of negative reaction. “It’s a big place. Very… uh…”
“Pretentious?” He made a faint noise in the back of his throat, something that might have been a laugh. “Don’t worry. I will not argue on that count.”
Clare would have used more generous language, but Dorran was giving her a glimpse of his personality, and she followed it. “It must be an old building.”
“Yes. Winterbourne has not changed much in the past century. My family…” He hesitated. “They are fond of tradition.”
“But you aren’t?”
“Some of it is just inconvenient, such as my name, Dorran, after a forebearer. It is constantly misspelled.”
Clare clutched at the common ground. “People keep trying to put an i into my name.”
“What is it?”
She blinked, not comprehending.
He stared back. “Your name. You never told me.”
“Oh! Uh, Clare.”
“Clare without an i.”
“That’s it.”
This time, when he smiled, it looked real, and it didn’t immediately vanish.
Clare matched his grin and pulled her unhurt leg up to tuck under herself. “You were telling me about your family. How many are in it?”
He tilted his head back. “My mother, Madeline, two aunts and an uncle, six cousins, three second cousins, two nieces, and two nephews. We are not a small family.”
“So many…” Clare’s own clan was restricted to her sister and her aunt. She tried to imagine a family reunion with that many people attending. She didn’t think she could physically fit them into her house without them standing on each other. “How do you remember all of their names?”
Dorran laughed. The noise was so unexpected that Clare jolted. It was deep and sharp, and even though it ended quickly, it left her feeling warmer.
“It is not that many,” he said.
“All right. I guess not. Especially in this house. How large is it?”
“Inconveniently large.” He shrugged. “It does not only house our family, but the servants as well.”
Clare’s eyebrows rose. “Servants?”
“Staff,” he corrected quickly. Clare thought she saw a flicker of embarrassment, but it was hidden almost immediately. “My apologies. That is another part of tradition that is well outdated. My mother wishes for the staff to be referred to as servants.”
“They must work hard to look after the house.” The room was glamorous enough that Clare could easily imagine needing help to maintain it. It wasn’t hard to picture the estate run like a Victorian-era mansion.
“Sixty of them,” he confirmed. “Maids, a butler—not that we ever have guests—footmen, cooks, gardeners, and my mother’s personal maids.”
“You said she wanted to call them servants.” Clare took a stab in the dark. “Is she the head of the family?”
He glanced aside, giving Clare the impression that he didn’t like the question. “Yes. She inherited Winterbourne and has control over how it is run.”
Clare sensed there was something more to it, something Dorran was avoiding. His posture had grown tense. She steered the conversation back to safer ground. “You said you were here alone, though, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Every winter, my family travels south, to our estate in Gould. Once the snow sets in here, it is impossible to leave.”
A second estate, like some kind of aristocracy. I counted myself lucky just to have a cottage. “Why didn’t you leave with them?”
“I did, initially, but we changed plans early into the trip. I left them and came back, intending to spend the winter here alone. That was when I found you. The snow came in earlier than normal, and now, I’m afraid, we are trapped here until the storm clears and the roads are passable again.”