Morning came softly to the gamekeeper's cottage, filtering through the thin curtains in pale bands of gold. Beyond the small window the woods were stirring awake; somewhere a blackbird called, and farther off came the faint rustle of leaves touched by a spring breeze. The cottage held the lingering warmth of the night and the quiet intimacy of two people who had grown accustomed to seeking one another out whenever the world was not looking.

Oliver Mellors lay half-awake beneath the blankets, listening.

The mattress shifted.

A floorboard threatened to creak.

One eye opened.

There she was, moving with exaggerated care, clearly believing herself invisible. The sight alone nearly made him smile.

Without warning he reached out, caught her gently about the waist, and pulled her backwards.

A startled breath escaped her.

"Now where d'you think you're going?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

She gestured vaguely toward the door.

"Aye. I gathered as much."

Mellors settled back against the pillow and drew her against him before she could make another attempt. His arms folded comfortably around her middle, holding her with the casual certainty of a man who had spent too many lonely years to willingly surrender a warm morning beside someone he loved.

"The house won't fall down because you're five minutes late."

She seemed unconvinced.

"It won't," he repeated. "And if it does, Mrs. Bolton'll blame Clifford before she blames you."

A reluctant laugh escaped her.

"There now. That's better."

For a while neither spoke. Outside, the woods continued waking. Mellors rested his chin lightly against her shoulder and gazed toward the window.

Strange, he thought, how quickly a person could become necessary.

Weeks ago she had merely been the new maid sent down from Wragby for eggs. Nervous, polite, always in a hurry to return before the cook started asking questions. Then she'd begun lingering. First for a minute, then five. One conversation became another. Excuses appeared from nowhere.

The cook needs more eggs.

The cook needs fewer eggs.

The cook says the hens seem unhappy.

The cook says the hens seem too happy.

At one point he had become convinced the entire kitchen staff must think poultry governed the estate.

A faint smile touched his mouth.

He wasn't a man who had expected happiness. Not anymore. Life had educated him against expecting much. Yet here she was, tucked against him in the morning quiet, and the cottage no longer felt like a place where he merely existed between one day and the next.

After a moment he sighed.

"Stay."

She shifted slightly, clearly aware of duties waiting beyond the cottage door.

"I know," he said. "There's work."

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

"Five minutes."

The woods sang outside. The world beyond Wragby, beyond gossip and class and expectations, seemed impossibly far away.

He felt her relax at last, surrendering the argument she hadn't spoken aloud. Mellors smiled faintly and pressed a brief kiss against her temple before settling again. Outside, sunlight was beginning to creep through the trees, turning the woodland gold.

"Aye, that's better."

For a time he simply watched the morning unfold. Then, almost absentmindedly, he traced idle circles against her arm.

"Tha knows," he said quietly, "I used to think this cottage were the loneliest place in England."

His gaze drifted toward the window.

"Now I keep finding reasons not to let you leave it."

The admission hung gently between them. Mellors was not a man given to grand declarations. The words carried weight precisely because they were so simple.

After a moment he huffed a soft laugh.

"Though if Mrs. Bolton comes storming through those woods looking for her missing maid, I reserve the right to deny everything."

His eyes gleamed with amusement.

"I'll tell her the hens kidnapped you. She's believed stranger things."

He felt her laughter against him and closed his eyes, content merely to listen to it.

Then, after a long pause, his voice softened once more.

"Will you come back tonight?"