Twice Tempted Read Online Free PDF

counter. “Last of the brats gone?”
    Fighting a grin, Fiona lifted her apron from a hook by the door and slipped it over her head. “Indeed, they are, Mrs. Quick,” she said as she reached around to tie it. “You are once again safe from shrill voices, sticky fingers, and the tramp of small feet.”
    In response, Mrs. Quick went after her carrots as if they were tender young necks.
    Mrs. Quick was another new experience, left behind with Margaret’s blessings. A large, rigidly groomed woman with a taste for bright colors and sherry, the housekeeper was dour and acerbic, the majority of her interactions consisting of her opinions on the twins, the school, and the world. Nothing pleased Mrs. Quick except a perfect pie crust, and she thought women knowing Latin or mathematics went against all that was holy.
    On the other hand, she enjoyed nothing more than a challenge, and trying to help Fiona stretch their budget to make ends meet was a definite challenge. Besides, this was the only house that put up with her temperament. Even Mrs. Quick’s sister had declined the opportunity to take her in.
    She seemed to understand Mairead better than most, though, and had some excellent ideas for keeping her occupied. If she was the price Fiona had to pay for warmth, food, and safety, she was glad to pay it.
    “Well, then, Mrs. Quick,” she said, smiling. “How may I assist you?”
    Mrs. Quick gave her a quick scowl. “You can get out of my kitchen. Sit down somewheres. You look like death on a stick.”
    Fiona managed a smile. “How could I? We’re rich today, Mrs. Quick. An entire ham hock, and we didn’t even have to step out into the fog to get it.”
    But Mrs. Quick was correct. She was beginning to feel like death on a stick.
    Mrs. Quick gave an impatient hmmph . “You tell me. What good is Latin to a butcher’s daughter?”
    Fiona sat at the scrubbed table and picked up an onion and a knife. “Maybe none. But maybe Nancy will become a governess herself. Think of the opportunities a good understanding of the romance languages provides.”
    Mrs. Quick didn’t bother to answer. She just reached over, snatched the knife from Fiona’s hand, and pointed it at her. “Your sister will be here soon. You’ll get no rest then. So get it now.” Fiona balked, but Mrs. Quick smacked her wrist with the flat of the blade. “Go on. Nuthin’ you were gonna do I can’t.”
    When the older woman also grabbed the onion, Fiona knew it was time to surrender. Getting slowly to her feet, she smiled. “I would kiss you,” she said, “but I fear it would only make you more severe.”
    “I’d wallop you like a redheaded stepchild,” the older woman said, then pointed toward the back stairs and resumed her glare.
    Fiona smiled and waved, but she obeyed. Sleep did sound seductive, come to think of it. Just a bit, like a refreshing sip of water. She could lay her head on a soft pillow and dream of sines and cosines. Of ham hock-and-vegetable soup.
    It was inevitable, of course. Halfway up the stairs, she was brought up short by the sound of the front door knocker. She knew she should go down and answer it. She spent a moment making sure her lace collar was flat against her ubiquitous black kerseymere dress, perfectly aware she was hesitating as long as she could in the hopes Mrs. Quick would intervene.
    Just when she’d decided to turn around, she heard the slam of a knife against a butcher block. “Don’t you worry yourself,” came the strident notes of sarcasm. “I was just dyin’ to talk to strangers.”
    Then came the footsteps, sharp, precise, impatient. Fiona smiled.
    She was turning to follow, when she heard a man’s voice. “Excuse me. Is Mrs. Margaret Bryan at home?”
    Fiona stumbled to a halt, her heart seizing. It couldn’t be.
    Could it?
    Just the possibility took the stuffings out of her knees, landing her on the steps like an eavesdropping child. She couldn’t breathe, of a sudden; it felt as if bubbles had