Archive of Our Own

SLAM! "Who the hell are you?"

Taggie looks up from her work bench with a start. A circular saw slicing through a piece of oak deafens the sound around her, whirring loudly and sending sawdust everywhere. Stopping the mechanism, Taggie lifts up her safety goggles to see a man dressed in a suit with a large book in his hand.

"Who are you?" she gapes back at him while Gertrude barks and growls at the well-dressed intruder.

"This is my house. Who are you? What are you doing in it?"

The man's overt arrogance only serves to flare up the irritation in Taggie's chest. "I don't know who you are, but you don't own it anymore. It's mine."

The man rolls his eyes, putting a hand on his hip. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if I sold my house. And I know for sure there are clauses in my leasing contracts for tenants that say no drastic changes to the architecture of the home. All renovations must be approved by the home owner," he snarls, looking around at the mess in her (or perhaps... his) kitchen.

Glaring at him, Taggie sets down her tools and plucks the gloves off of her hand. Stepping over the large logs of wood, she picks up the thick packet of paper her solicitor dropped off early in the morning. "It s-s-says here that this property is up for lease and owned by Edward Campbell-Black, who is an 80-year-old man, not you. He told me that I am free to renovate the house as I see fit." Really, is this the type of pompous prick that Patrick had warned her about would be waiting for her in the Cotswolds?

"No," the man replies curtly. Pointing at the sheet, he jabs his finger against the paper. "The lease says that this property is owned by the Campbell-Black Trust, and I inherited all of my family's property long ago. So while it might say Edward Campbell-Black, I have the final say on what happens here. Now what the fuck are you doing to the Priory?"

"You're letting her build a fucking bed and breakfast in the Priory?" Rupert roars down at Gerald, who is happily soaking a sugary biscuit into his piping hot tea, unbothered as he flips through the pages of yet another memo he's drafting on Rupert's behalf.

The younger man shrugs absentmindedly, focused more on the paper than on Rupert. "Your father didn't seem to have an issue with it. That place has been empty for years. He thought it would bring in good money. With Corinium making the Cotswolds popular again, it'll likely bring in tourists to stay all year round." Then, exhaling a sound of approval, he looks at the biscuit in his hand. "This is just lovely. Want one?"

Slapping his hand away, Rupert collapses into the seat next to him, defeated. "My father isn't in control of these accounts anymore, you should have asked me. Did you ever think that I wouldn't want some twee little tourist trap right next door to Penscombe?" He was already well known enough in the papers as a rake and a womanizer, it wasn't that he didn't enjoy having women fawn over him, it was just that he didn't like it in the place that he called home. One had to have peace somewhere.

Picking up the biscuit from the ground and brushing it off, Gerald glares at him. "I didn't think you'd have a problem with it. You could use the cash, and you spend so much time in London. Miss O'Hara is on her own, it's not like she's going to cause any problems."

"Easy for you to say, her saw nearly had Rocky bolting when he heard it," Rupert grumbles, tapping out a cigarette from his pack to light. "How can a child like her even afford to lease the Priory?"

"Well, it's half broken down," Gerald says a matter of factly. "We lowered the lease in exchange for a renovation of the interiors. She's got quite a lot of work ahead of her, I doubt the work will stop any time soon."

"Who the fuck approved the renovations? That home is historic. Wait, don't tell me— my father?" He'd been looking for a way to turn a buck on the Priory for years, deeming it a useless property better destroyed than lived in.

"Your mother." Then, after a prolonged, grumpy silence from a scowling Rupert, Gerald puts down his cup and sighs. "Listen, Rupert, the house is dilapidated. No one would lease it after they saw the work it needed done. We tried to negotiate the price, but it simply wasn't worth it. Your mother wants to keep the property, but there's few options that we have. Now, Miss O'Hara is going to make it turn a profit — profit that you will see a cut of. I don't see what's wrong with that."

"I don't want to see a single tourist on my land," Rupert growls.

"There's only four rooms for her to rent out, it'll hardly be a bustling metropolis," Gerald scoffs.

"I don't care. Once people find out who's her neighbor, you know they'll find themselves at Penscombe 'accidentally,'" Rupert says acerbically with air quotes.

His secretary waves his hand half-heartedly. "She fully understands that the two properties are separate. People won't even be coming in for half a year. And perhaps by the time they start booking rooms you'll have a better relationship with her. Now try one of these."

Rupert scoffs, doubtful of Gerald's assumption but takes the biscuit out of his hand. Biting in, he immediately tastes the warmth of spiced ginger and molasses. Finally, something decent in his day. "Fuck, that is good. Where'd you get them? London?"

Gerald grins like the Cheshire cat. "Your new neighbor."

"Oh, fuck off."

Aside from the worst landlord in the world, Taggie adjusts quickly to the Priory and the Cotswolds.

"Tag, I don't know why you insist on doing this. Your catering business was far more successful. Now you're stuck in the country alone with endless renos and Tories."

Taggie keeps the phone held between her cheek and her shoulder as she sorts through an assorted box of nails and screws. She rolls her eyes hearing her father's disdain on the other side of the line. It wasn't that her family didn't support her opening an inn, it was more the fact that none of them seemed to believe she'd be able to do it alone. As if she hadn't done everything alone her entire life, as if she hadn't held up the family with ever chore, every extra hour, every forgotten personal desire. "This is my dream. It was so affordable, I had so much of Gran's inheritance left over to really help me make this place a home. Also, I like being alone! I've been able to get so much done here on my own."

"Are the people nice, love?" her mother pipes in, having clearly taken the phone from her father.

"For the most part," Taggie says, biting her lower lip as she gets up to stir the pot of soup bubbling on the hob.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, my landlord's a bit of a pain."

Behind her mother, she can hear her father yell hah! I told you! But her mother hums on the other end of the line. "Isn't your landlord the father of Rupert Campbell-Black?"

"How do you know Rupert Campbell-Black?" Taggie tries not to let her temper rise thinking of the presumptuous man who showed up at her door a few weeks ago. He hadn't appeared since then, but had made his opinions clear through several letters reminding her of "quiet hours" and that there would be new fencing installed at the border between the new properties to keep unwanted guests out.

"Well, he's a notorious rake, darling. And he's the new minister for sport. A real favorite of the Milk Snatcher's. I'm sure your father would love to hear that he's a rotten landlord."

(And she can hear her father yelling back, I'm not surprised!)

"I haven't seen him since I first moved in," Taggie admits. "He was horrid then, but he's kept his distance. As long as he stays away, he can do and believe whatever he wants. The other townspeople are nice though. One of my neighbors, Lizzie, brought over some eggs from her home. And another named Ricky offered to lend me some of his workers to help carry some of the heavy furniture up the stairs."

"Oh, and is this Ricky handsome?"

Taggie blushes, thinking of the tall and broad-shouldered neighbor with a devastatingly handsome face marred with just one sharp scar cutting down his face. "He's good looking, but he's married," she says simply, knowing her mother knew about Ralphie and her recent heartbreak. Both her and her sister had been insistent on her finding someone else quickly to help balm over the pain. But she wasn't ready for just anyone, much less an affair with a married man.

"Well, find yourself a good looking lord or something. I'm sure the countryside is crawling with them. Perhaps Rupert Campbell-Black will warm to you."

"He's not a lord," Taggie says quickly, shutting off the stove and turning to reach for a bowl in the cupboard. And she's sure that Rupert Campbell-Black would be the last man to be found in her bed. Outside, there's the faintest sign of drifting flurries falling on the lawn. "Oh, it's snowing!"

"Well, lord or not, I hear he's fun. Bundle up, darling. It's going to be a cold winter. We'll be over to visit when you finally open up."

"Thanks, Mum," Taggie mumbles. The thought of her family visiting and criticizing every change or decision she's made makes her stomach churn with discomfort. Eyeing the flurries, she wonders if her timeline for finishing the Priory is a little too ambitious. Then again, who's ever heard of a snowstorm hitting the Cotswolds?

"Well, Penscombe wasn't built to withstand something like a snowstorm, Mr. Campbell-Black," says Mr. Bodkin, taking off his cap and scratching his head at the mess in front of him in the lower floor of his house. The freak blizzard had struck overnight and, at some point, a frozen pipe had caused the metal to burst, leading to flooding, then more freezing, and finally structural damage to one half of his home.

"There's been storms here before, Bodkin," Rupert grumbles. "How long will it take to fix?"

"Can't rightly tell," the older man shrugs. "Normally we'd get someone to take a look at it to assess the damage, but the snow is still falling and it's so thick, no one will be able to get out here. Not to mention the holidays ahead."

"Fucking hell, so I'm going to just have to freeze for a few days?"

Mr. B looks at him grimly and shakes his head. "'Fraid it might be more than just a few days." And then, shifting uncomfortably, his groundskeeper looks at him guiltily. "Also, the missus and I had that trip planned for Nice next week. No one could have seen this coming, but I could sta—"

"Don't think of it," Rupert waves, shaking his head. "Go on your holiday. I'll head to London."

Twisting the cap in his hand more, Bodkin shakes his head. "Sidney's gone just yesterday, sir. And the roads aren't safe to drive anyway."

"And my fucking helicopter is still in London," Rupert rolls his eyes and grumbles in frustration. "Give me the number of the plumber, I'll talk with him and get something figured out. Are the pipes still leaking?"

Bodkin scratches his head. "I did my best to repair it and keep it from causing more damage, but it's probably best to shut the water off just in case. I spoke with Frank over at Eldercombe, he said the same happened to the house when Mr. France-Lynch was out in America two years ago. Took months to fix."

"Good god," Rupert groans, thinking of the mounting costs of the job, not to mention the fact that his home wouldn't be liveable. "Okay, well shut off the water. Pack your bags, and go to France. I'll give you a ring if it isn't fixed by the time the holiday's over. No point in us all suffering in this ice box. I'll arrange something in town until I can get a more permanent plan set in place."

And that was a great plan. Except, the inn was full in town. Turns out, Penscombe wasn't the only house that ran on weak pipes. Couple that with the uptick in visitors from the city, and Cotchester was bustling with far more people than usual. With the roads iced over, Rupert's options dwindled.

And that's how he ends up at the door of the Priory, after hours of contemplating whether to impose on Ricky or perhaps try and make the drive to Bath, and roll the dice on whether there would be any housing there for him to rent out. By the time he arrives at the old house, it is glowing orange with warm light shining out through the frosted windows. The night is cold and quiet, the snow blanketing over the countryside and making every sound muffled and fuzzy. The only thing he can hear is the music playing from inside the house. Well... that and the hammering that is shaking the walls.

"Fucking hell," he mutters to himself as he knocks on the door. No answer. He knocks again, this time louder. Then again, rapping until his knuckles are bruised. Finally, he resolves to full on banging with his fist, working up a sweat and getting thoroughly irritated.

"Coming!" a voice shouts from the inside and he hears the shuffling of feet before the door swings open. Taggie O'Hara is standing there, swaddled in a thick jumper with another cardigan on top. Her hair is a frizzy auburn mess piled on top of her head, and her pale, creamy skin is tinted pink at her nose and cheeks from the chill. She looks adorable, if one fancied a frumpy, church mouse. "Oh," she says, suddenly. The smile on her face instantly evaporating at the sight of him.

"Expecting someone else?" he smirks, eyeing her homely garb. Surely, this was not meant to entice a man?

"Oh, I just thought you might be Lizzie. She mentioned bringing over some more eggs," the girl mumbles, nibbling at the corner of her lip. "Are you here to complain about the noise?" she asks, looking at him cautiously.

"I'm here to temporarily take residence in the house that I own," he says, pushing past her and walking into the Priory, which is only moderately warmer than the freezing temperature outside.

"W-w-what?!"

"The pipes at Penscombe burst and there's no one to look at it. Had to turn off the water, and it'll be ages before it is fixed."

"A-a-ges?"

Rupert looks at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to accept that this is her new normal. "Listen, I don't like it either. But this is an inn, isn't it?"

"Not yet! It's barely liveable right now!" she protests, shoving him aside and gesturing to the walls covered in thick plastic and the sawdust everywhere on the ground. "I've barely finished with my own bedroom, and I'm focusing on the kitchen right now."

"This house was furnished when you got here, surely you didn't throw out all the beds," he says, looking around at the mess.

"Of course not!" Taggie says hotly. "They're in fine condition! But the rooms aren't well insulated and the house is drafty. I don't even have enough sheets right now for a second bed."

"I'll have one of the grooms bring over some from Penscombe," he says breezily. "Oh, and my dogs will need a place to stay too."

"Your dogs?" Taggie says incredulously. And, as if on cue, a small mangy mutt turns the corner of the foyer and starts barking at him.

"Yes, my dogs. I know you might not be familiar with the concept since that thing could hardly pass for a rat," he gestures to the canine.

"How dare you!" she gasps, rushing over to lift up the pup into her arms, letting the creature bury her face into her jumper. "Gertrude is a loyal and noble dog."

"Then she'll have no trouble making friends with mine," he says simply. Setting down the one bag he packed with a few shirts and trousers, he walks past her toward the kitchen. This room, contrasted to the rest of the house, is bright and warm. There's a delicious scent wafting through the air and it feels distinctly more like a home.

"You can't just barge in here like— like— like a tyrannical lord!" she yells, chasing after him.

"I'm not barging in anywhere. This is my property," he repeats slowly, emphasizing his words. But when all she answers him with is a scowl, he decides to switch out the stick for the carrot. He knows his options are slim to none, if she actually threw him out, he'd have to end up groveling to someone who matters. Sighing, he rubs his temple. "Listen, how about I forego rent collection for as long as I am here? You'll be able to save that money for whatever you need and I'll have somewhere to stay temporarily. I wouldn't be here if I had any other options."

This catches her attention. She opens her mouth but, contemplating her words, she closes it again. She does this a couple more times, stammering and struggling to think of the proper words, before she wilts a little. Victory. "Fine. But you can't complain about my renovations while you're here."

"Fine," he lies. "Now, let me call up Dizzy."

"Dizzy?"

Dizzy turns out to be a beautiful woman in her thirties and one of Rupert's grooms. She arrives about two hours later with a pack of dogs in tow and another kit bag full of clothing. She is ridiculously glamorous for someone who works in a stable, but Taggie keeps her mouth shut as Rupert converses with her outside the house, pretending to focus on peeling green beans. Taggie watches from the window as the dogs circle him and the woman before she gets onto a horse and rides back toward Penscombe.

"The fucking house is colder than the arctic, apparently," he grumbles under his breath, shaking off the snowflakes in his black and grey hair as he drops his bag down at the door and lets the pack in.

"You didn't mention how many dogs you had," Taggie says, exasperated.

"Well, I couldn't very well let them freeze," he says. "This isn't even all of them. Dizzy's got one and Ricky's got two others, but he's got enough to deal with at Eldercombe, I couldn't exactly give him more dogs on top of the animals he has to raise in his own yard."

"Ricky France-Lynch? You know him?" Taggie perks up.

"Something like that. He's an old friend," Rupert says offhandedly, but when Taggie meets his eye, his face splits into a mischievous grin. "He's married, you know."

Frowning at the implication, she scoffs. "I know! Why does everyone think I'm trying to have affairs with married men?" Honestly, it was as if the world had never heard of a single woman.

This makes Rupert laugh heartily as he shrugs off his coat and crouches down to pet one of the hounds. "I didn't say anything."

"I know what you meant," she frowns, walking back to the stove to dish some spaghetti onto a plate. Looking at the large pile of food she's made (she's never been good at cooking for just one), she looks back at Rupert. "Do you want dinner? I made spag bol."

Standing up, Rupert stretches his arms and looks at the plate curiously. "I'll try some," he says casually.

But before she can bring their plates over to the table, she gets tangled up with the barking and yapping herd of canines who quickly rush to her side. "Oh!"

"For fuck's sake," Rupert groans. "Get over here!" he yells in a deep voice before whistling sharply at the pack. Two of them manage to listen, and sulk back to their master, while the last one continues to eagerly wag its tail and bound around her.

Smiling down at the dog, she artfully steps around him to place the plates on the table before crouching down to pet him. "Hello boy," she coos at him, scratching behind his ear. "What's your name?"

"That's Nimrod," Rupert groans. "An aptly named dog." Then pointing at the other two he says, "Beaver and Blue."

Gertrude takes this moment to shove her way in between Taggie's hand and Nimrod, not-so-kindly taking back Taggie's attention with a low growl. "This is Gertrude," she says to him. "Stop that, darling, be nice," she chides Gertrude, who still gets a few loving scratches behind her ear.

"I gathered," he says dryly. "And should I call you Miss O'Hara or Agatha?"

"Taggie," she says quickly to correct him. "You can call me Taggie. Should I call you Mr. Campbell-Black?"

"Not unless you want to don a French maid costume, Taggie," he grins slyly. "Rupert is just fine."

Taggie can feel a blush creeping onto her face, annoyed at his teasing. She's known men like him. Ralphie and Patrick had more than enough friends who flirted relentlessly before quickly losing interest. The thought of her ex makes the bile bubble up in her stomach and she swallows thickly to push away any foul thoughts. Without a clever comeback, she simply grabs the cutlery and sits down at the table, setitng down his plate in the place across from her. Nimrod trots over before placing his slender head on her thigh, looking up at her patiently with large brown eyes and a pleading expression. "Shouldn't you feed them?" she asks, pointing to the lurcher.

"Dizzy fed them before bringing them over. He's just being a pest," Rupert says, snapping his fingers to try and get Nimrod's attention. But, when the dog stays in his place, he simply waves him off, muttering under his breath, before swirling up the spaghetti on his plate to eat.

Taggie watches him, waiting for his reaction, and it doesn't disappoint. Letting out a small grunt of approval he nods as he takes another bite. "Good?" she asks, not able to help herself.

"Fucking delicious," he says, sounding almost resentful to admit it, which only makes Taggie smirk as she swirls the pasta on her own fork. She wasn't good at much, but she was never bad at cooking and gaining his approval, as stupid as it seems, lifts her spirits just a bit, even in this awkward situation.

Dinner passes by uneventfully, though it's a bit awkward as Taggie sits and listens to Rupert complain about the burst pipe and the cramped town and the fact that he doesn't know when he'll be able to go home or even out to London with the weather the way it is. Everytime there's a silence between them, she finds herself looking up and catching Rupert's curious eye. She's both desperate to know what he thinks and terrified to hear the criticisms that are undoubtedly on his lips.

By the time dinner is over, she's grateful to have some breathing room without him as he wanders the house. After cleaning up, Taggie makes her way up the stairs looking for her unwanted guest.

"You weren't kidding about the state of things up here," he grumbles, walking out of one of the bedrooms and bringing with him a chill from the barely furnished space.

"Well, that one might be the warmest outside of my room," she says, looking at the closed door down the hall. "It has its own hearth so I've been keeping it lit at night to keep warm." Walking to the door, she opens it and a heat wave emanates from within along with a bright, orange glow. This, instantly brings the dogs scrambling over to enjoy the fire.

"Traitors," Rupert mutters under his breath. "Don't suppose you're feeling particularly generous as a host and are open to letting me have your bed?"

Taggie nibbles the bottom of her lip, the suggestion instantly gives her a flashing image of Rupert, in her bed with that incorrigible smirk on his face. "No," she shakes her head, eager to hide her blush. "Not with the snow coming down the way it is out there." When she looks up, Rupert is once again smiling deviously at her, as if he's read her mind perfectly.

Striding over, he leans against the door frame to look inside, the scent of his cologne hitting Taggie's nose. She closes her hand into a fist and bids herself not to be affected by the intoxicating fragrance. "You've got plenty of space in here!" Rupert exclaims, pointing at the spacious master bedroom and shaking her out of her reverie.

"Yes, I'm intending to let it out when we open."

"Christ, it's balmy in here compared to the rest of the house," he complains, looking back at the dark hallway of doors. "Best hope I don't get sick, angel, you'll have a real handful to deal with then."

Taggie groans, looking back at her warm bed and wondering if she could stomach a few weeks on one of the cold mattresses in the other room. No, she couldn't. But then, neither could he, she realizes. Then, in a harebrained effort to try and find a solution, she suggests, "We could bring a mattress in here and you could sleep on the ground." Rupert looks at her incredulously and Taggie instantly wilts and looks away, playing with her bangs and kicking herself for the suggestion. Stupid Taggie, always giving her opinion when it was unwanted, she thinks to herself. Of course, he wouldn't want to sleep on the ground. "Sorry, that's a silly thing to say. A member of Parliament sleeping on my bedroom floor," she mutters quietly, chewing the corner of her lip.

Rupert lets out a bark of laughter. "I was a showjumper, you know. Slept in my fair share of caravans and even a couple times in the barn." Sighing and putting his hand on his waist, Rupert examines the space of the bedroom again and nods. "Better than freezing to death, I suppose."

Taggie's blankets smell like cinnamon and sugar. Did she eat biscuits in bed? Perhaps with a warm cup of tea, curled up with a book, one hand petting her dog, the other flipping the pages?

Rupert stirs on the ground in front of the fire two nights later, tossing and turning while trying to stop thinking about the mousy girl who can't seem to stop piquing his curiosity. In their time together, Rupert spends most of it babbling during meals to fill the silence. The rest of the time is spent trudging back and forth to Penscombe for things he left behind like his briefcase and thicker clothes.

It's only when he lays his head on the soft pillow every night that he realizes he still doesn't know much about his young tenant. Part of him, shamefully, crafted an idea the first night to annoy her so much that she'd simply give up her renovations. But after forty-eight hours of her blushes, her shyness, her innate sweetness, he is beginning to reconsider his initial plan completely.

It just isn't fair, he reasons, pitting her against him. That would be like placing a lamb in front of a lion and asking the little helpless bit of wool to defend herself against a predator. The few times he's poked at her and made fun of her, all he's felt afterward is regret for dampening her mood. So, pestering her was no longer in the cards.

But, the alternative had slipped into his mind sometime between the first night of her offering him a space in her room to sleep and and the third night of watching her slide into bed in a full flannel nightgown that looked made for a grandmother. The alternative was worse. Much worse. Seduce her. Get her in bed. Get her beneath him. Enjoy her the way he wants to.

For a brief moment, he imagines what she's like. Soft, perhaps a little timid, but achingly wet. The hours he's spent with her assures him that there is little cruelty, if any, in her body and even when she's upset with him, there's a gentle generosity that is so rarely seen in other people. She'd be utterly delicious to spread open and bring to an earth-shattering climax. Rupert groans quietly, shifting again on the mattress to face the fire while trying to will his cock to give up the vision.

Because where would that go? It would end as all his relationships did. The woman scorned and broken hearted, and then Taggie, like every woman before him who learned to hate him the more she got to know him, would run back to where she came from, just as he intends.

The fantasy infects his mind, seeps into his brain and takes root there. And in his dreams, he feels her long legs wrapping around him, her plush lips pressed to his skin, her soft voice crying out his name. He wakes up hard as a rock and welcomes a freezing cold shower he takes in the morning to shake some sense into him.

It would be so easy, a dark part of him says. She'd probably even enjoy it.

But it would be wrong. It was the very fact that she was so kind and innocent that it was so very wrong. And perhaps a decade ago, Rupert might not have blinked at this idea, but now, older, the concept leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Women like Taggie O'Hara are not meant for men like Rupert Campbell-Black. Not even to toy with.

The thoughts continue to war with each other in his head throughout the morning, even as he tries to focus on the paperwork that he's brought with him to give him something to do. Sitting in the kitchen, he does his best to ignore Taggie as she strides around the room in her well-fitted jeans and a large jumper, dragging planks of wood back and forth. She's given him a pair of noise cancelling ear covers to block out the sound, and he imagines he looks like an idiot sitting there at the table working while she's carrying lumber around the house.

She's a hard worker, of that he has no doubt. He's spent the last few days watching as she slowly compiles pieces of furniture and paint to revitalize an old house that he always found to be quite dour and empty. In her wake, the Priory feels warm, cozy, and completely inviting.

By noon, the snow is falling even harder and Taggie is visibly sweating as she makes herself a sandwich at the kitchen counter. She looks up and her eyes meet his and he sees her cheeks turn pink before she quickly looks away, the furrow in her brow deepening. It would be so easy. There's never a moment when he looks up at her that she isn't sneaking a glance at him. Her curiosity will be the death of her, he thinks.

Oh, but it would be such a sweet death.

When he looks up again, she is in front of him with a sandwich, gesturing for him to take off his ear covers. Lowering them to his neck, the world shifts back into focus as all of the muffled sound comes to the forefront. Music plays quietly in the background and he can hear the crackling of firewood in the distance along with the sound of something bubbling away on the stove.

"Ham sandwich?" she says, pointing to the ingredients on the counter.

Reaching for the plate, he nods, before asking, "What about you?"

"This one is mine," she frowns, setting it down on the table in the seat across from him loudly. "Surely, you know how to make a sandwich on your own."

He scoffs, laughing to himself at her attitude, but gets up and slowly walks to the counter, feeling her eyes on his back. Plucking out a plate, he butters two slices of bread and takes some thick cuts of ham before walking back to her.

"That's all you're putting in it?" she asks, her face falling, before looking at her own plate. "There's lettuce and tomatoes, and there's some mayonnaise that I made yesterday."

"This is just fine," he smiles condescendingly, sitting back down. "Hope you show a bit more hospitality to your guests, though."

Frowning, she takes another bite, crumbs from the bread spilling down her front. "I've fed you three meals for the last two days, and I've been working all morning. I'm tired," she complains, glaring at him. "My guests will be wanted. Of course I'll be hospitable to them."

I could make you want me. But he pushes aside that dark voice and chuckles. "I'm sure you will." Leaning over to eat, his back cracks and he groans, rubbing his spine as he chews.

"Are you alright?" she says, looking at him dubiously.

"Fine. It's just been a while since I've slept on the ground."

"I thought you'd slept in barns before?" she says in a slight mocking tone, repeating his words from two nights ago.

"I did. But I suppose I'm not 26 anymore," he grumbles to himself, rubbing his hip that is aching in a way that is wholly unwelcome.

To his surprise, she doesn't have anything to say about that, instead chewing quietly and avoiding his eyes.

"What are you building exactly?" Rupert asks after a long period of silence, nodding to the pile of wood. He'd attempt to actually make her talk about herself today rather than babbling like a fool into an awkward silence. Perhaps it would give him the ammunition he needed to will her away without hurting her.

"Some shelves for an expanded pantry," she replies, looking back and gesturing to the larder. "It's far too packed in there, I need more space for my cooking ingredients and some more storage."

"Well that explains all the huffing and puffing around all morning," he chuckles.

She surprises him by looking up at him with an irritated expression. "You know, you could help me, rather than just sit there. With two people, I could get the job done faster."

Rupert laughs, shaking his head. "I'm already excusing your rent. Now you want me working for you as well?"

"You barged in here, I didn't ask you to come," she snaps, clearly exasperated as her face turns pink.

"You didn't force me to leave either."

Her eyes widen so far that her lashes are pressed against her eye lids. She looks like a little doe. She's adorable when she's upset, he chuckles to himself. Perhaps that was what made it so easy to tease her, just to see the plethora of reactions that she could deliver to him.

Standing up from the table, she brushes off the crumbs and glares down at him. "Well then you can leave now. I'll pay my rent if it means I don't have to deal with you anymore," she says sternly, stomping to the sink.

"There's no need to be dramatic, Taggie," he says teasingly, eyeing her backside again as he finishes his sandwich.

"I'm not being dramatic!" she exclaims, washing her dish. Setting it down on the rack to dry, she spins on her heel. "You don't have anywhere to go, so I let you stay. You're not my guest, you're not my friend, and you aren't even nice. I've been working all weekend, and I'm tired," she complains, her voice cracking a little. And Rupert would be a fool if he said he didn't notice the bruised dark shadows under her eyes. "People like you always want more than anyone is willing to give. You take and take. Well, if you don't have anything nice to say," she continues with a huffing breath, "don't say it! And if you're expecting a five star service, you can forget it." Throwing down her tea towel on the counter, she turns to reach for the handle of the cast iron pot covering a stew bubbling away and instantly yelps when she grabs the burning handle, jerking her hand back.

Rupert's on his feet faster than he realizes and instantly at her side. "Christ!"

"Ow!" she hisses, turning to run her hand under cold water as Rupert leans over to shut off the hob. "Hey! That's still cooking!"

"It burned you, it needs to cool down," he says, irritated at her stubbornness. "Let me see." He crowds up next to her and takes her hand out from under the running water to inspect it. She hisses as he runs his thumb over the burn mark on her palm. "It doesn't look too bad. You should have left a towel or something on the pot to protect yourself," he says.

"I know!" she replies, a bit of affront in her tone as she tries to drag her hand back from his grasp, but he holds on tighter.

"Do you have burn cream?"

She shakes her head, lower lip wobbling a little. "I haven't got anything like that. I need to go buy more supplies for the house but I haven't had a chance with the snow."

Sighing, he looks around at the mess in the kitchen. "Is there a clean kitchen towel somewhere? This should be wrapped up at the very least."

Her lip wobbles more and she looks down, hiding her face from him as her bangs cover her eyes. "No," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "The washer isn't plugged in properly, so I haven't done laundry yet. Everything's been washed by hand."

Walking away from her, he digs through his briefcase before plucking out a handkerchief. Folding it in a triangular fashion so that the center of it is the thickest part of the makeshift bandage, he returns to her side and slowly takes her hand to wrap the fabric around tightly.

"It's alright. The burn isn't bad," he says softly, after a heavy silence descends on the two of them. Tying the fabric tightly to affix it in place, he pats her hand lightly. "There."

"Thank you," she whimpers. Looking at her hand, he watches as she examines his handiwork and he wonders if she has any barbed comeback for him. But rather than snap at him again, she looks up with glassy eyes and blinks earnestly. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you."

It takes him a moment to realize she's crying, but the sight of those tears instantly puts him on edge. "I was being an ass," he admits, suddenly unsure of what to do. He wasn't sure he'd been around long enough to be defined as the type of person who takes and takes by her, but that was the kind of man that he was, wasn't it? Helen had been sure to remind him of that dozens of times. Every paramour who had ever been rejected had called him a selfish man who took everything from them, their youth, their love, their hearts. Guilt clots at his throat as he looks at the bandaged hand and wonders if it's worth simply braving the cold of Penscombe at this point.

"No," she shakes her head, hugging her middle. "You lost your home. I should have been more sympathetic. I've just been working so hard, and I've been cooped up here. I think I'm going a little insane," she says, looking up at him as tears stream down her blotchy red face.

"I'm told spending extended time with me will make any woman insane," he jokes, trying to comfort her and feeling oddly heroic when she cracks a smile and laughs.

He's desperate to reach out and wipe away some of the tears on her face, even if he knows he has no right, and so he keeps his hands to himself as her crying subsides. "Oh," she worries, looking at the kitchen. "I don't know if I'll be able to finish that second shelf today now."

"Just do it tomorrow," he waves.

"I have a strict schedule. I want to open by February and at this rate I won't be done until July," she says, nibbling at her bottom lip, her blue-green eyes darting around the room as if spotting each task that she'll be failing to complete today as her shoulders slump.

Looking at the piles of wood, he sighs, "What else do you have to do?"

"Just finish the shelves. But I was already behind from yesterday. And with the snow, I don't know when my next supply delivery will come. Men are supposed to come next week to install insulation for the house, but with the storm backing everything up, I might freeze to death before that happens." Then, staring at him as he steps back and rolls up his sleeves, she asks, "What are you doing?"

"Well, seeing as I caused you to burn your hand, the least I can do is help you like you asked me to," he says, removing his Rolex and pocketing it.

Taggie protests about five times before she quietly stands next to him as she instructs him on how to cut the pieces of wood into the proper size. Occasionally, she looks ready to take the saw from him, but he nudges her away and orders her to direct him on what to do instead.

"I didn't lose my hands," she protests as he takes the power drill from her. "I can do this easily."

"Just hold this down," he says, lining up two pieces of wood. He points to one of the planks. "Keep it in place so I don't have to clamp it."

She grumbles under her breath but does as he asks. He leans in and weaves his hand between hers to hold the wood still as he lines up the tool and watches as the screw digs into the planks and locks the two pieces together. Looking over, he realizes he can feel the heat radiating off of her body and smiles when they meet eyes and she's beaming.

"Thank you for helping me," she says softly and that quiet, dark voice telling him to simply take what he wants shrinks into almost nothing. The last thing he wants is to prove her worst suspicions about him right. The last thing he wants to be is the person that she describes him as.

"Any time, angel," he says without hesitation before finally pulling away from her.

The rest of the day is spent assembling the shelves, which thanks to Taggie's meticulous but messy notes, means that it's essentially brainless work at this point. Taggie stays close to him, leaning over and adjusting things when they need to be adjusted, treating him to her warm vanilla and caramel scent and a close-up look at the beautiful fan of her lashes. By the time dinner rolls around and he's washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he isn't sure what exactly he plans to do with her. Seducing her never seemed so appealing and appalling at the same time.

Dinner is a hearty beef stew that he helps her ladle into bowls and brings to the table. It's, once again, fucking delicious and he wonders why a girl like her is here of all places.

"So, what's the plan? Are you cooking for everyone when you have guests here? You've certainly made enough to feed a small army."

Taggie laughs lightly, but he senses some heaviness there as she shrugs. "I suppose. I guess my old habits die hard."

"What does that mean?"

"I used to cook dinner at home all the time for my family. And then I worked at a restaurant and did catering. It would actually be the one thing close to what my life was like before all of this."

"So what made you come here then?"

"I can't just want to live in the Cotswolds?" she shrugs, pushing around the meat in her bowl.

"You can, but normally people don't just move here alone to open an inn. Especially not someone as young as you."

"I'm twenty years old," she says, as if she's forty.

"Like I said. You are young. If I didn't know better I'd say you were running from something," he says offhandedly, but when she goes quiet, he realizes he's hit the nail on the head. "What are you running from?"

Taggie remains silent, crushing a piece of carrot under the back of her spoon slowly. "I'm not running. I just don't want to be in Fulham anymore."

"Is it because of a boy?" he asks, going to his first suspicion.

She scoops a piece of meat and chews on it slowly before nodding.

"I see." A broken heart. You could mend it. (And then I'd break it all over again, he reminds his inner voice.)

"That isn't the only reason," she says quickly, as if sensing any potential pity. Picking up his empty plate and her half-full one, she walks to the sink. "My gran also died recently."

"I'm sorry," he says, getting up to follow her, wanting her closeness. .

"It's okay. She was old. But she left me a large amount of the inheritance to open this inn. She knew I wanted to run an inn and I couldn't afford it even with all of my jobs. And after Ralphie... I wanted to leave Fulham. The money gave me an opportunity that I didn't have before."

"And that's why you're breaking your back to make this work?" he nods to the house.

"It's not hard work," she confesses, setting down the plates by the sink and turning to him. "I actually quite like working with my hands. It's just..."

"What?"

She goes silent, and then she looks up at him with her soft eyes. "Can I tell you a secret?"

He nods, suddenly desperate to be her confidante. He steps closer to her, as if readying himself for her to cup her hand against his ear and whisper something only for him to hear. He hasn't earned it. Hell, until five hours ago, he was still planning her downfall. But, he eagerly wants to know the secret now that she's mentioned it.

"I think I lied to you."

"You think?"

"You were so rude to me. And you just barged in here without announcing it," she says. "I was annoyed. But, it's also nice to have you here. Nice not to feel... alone. If I'm honest, I don't know if I fully thought out this plan of moving. I didn't expect it to be so quiet. I didn't expect to feel so isolated." She hugs her arms around herself and looks down at Gertrude, who is sitting on the ground, eyeing both of them with a tilt of her head. "I spent so much of my life with my family, cleaning and cooking and taking care of them. I don't know what to do now that I have no one to take care of."

The simple explanation opens up a world of understanding to him. The days spent with her had shown him that she was exceedingly independent, but not in the way that feminists were harping on about these days, as something empowering and positive. In another way that made independence and self-sufficiency Sisyphean. Like the only way to keep those people around her happy was to become someone who needed no one and someone who everyone needed. Like her only value was in what she could do rather than who she was.

Reaching out, he lifts her face to meets his with the crook of his finger. "I'm right next door. You don't need to feel alone, angel."

Her eyes darken as she steps closer to him and Rupert feels drawn to her like a moth to a flame. But suddenly, faced with the perfect moment to drag her in and drown her in his affections, he doesn't know what to do. Kiss her? And then what? Fuck her? Woo her? She'd been right calling him a taker. He'd taken up a spot in her home without asking, he'd upset her countless times with his goading and teasing. That broken heart of hers couldn't be mended by him, he'd only shatter it further. No, sleeping with her would only complicate things, especially since she was his neighbor. Not to mention the fact that she was just a year or two older than his own daughter.

She's delicate, something to be treasured. She doesn't deserve the nasty virus that every woman in Rutshire will catch eventually.

Fuck.

He pulls away by a hair's breadth and that hesitation is all she needs to retreat, color rising in her cheeks as she takes a couple steps back from him. It's for the best, he wants to tell her. Don't go looking at every man who shows you a scrap of kindness like that. They might not have the same kind of restraint I do right now.

"I should clean up," she laughs half-heartedly, looking at the sink full of dishes.

"I've got it," he says, looking at her injury. "You should finish your food, you barely ate lunch today," he notes at her half-eaten plate. "And with your hand, it's probably better to leave the washing up to me." He hates washing up, there was a reason why he left her to it yesterday. But he feels guilty doing it now, especially after this tense moment, especially after spending half the day fantasizing about her naked beneath him as part of his master plan. Some master plan, he thinks to himself as he watches her walk away with the bowl in hand.

Taggie finishes her bowl of stew dutifully as he's washing, before going upstairs to start the fire for the hearth. By the time he's done, a task more exhausting than mucking out a stable, the house is eerily quiet.  Was this what it was like for her every night? His dogs are undoubtedly asleep upstairs on his bed in front of the fire, and only Gertrude is left dozing on the sofa, occasionally watching him with slanted eyes that mirror her suspicion. As he climbs the stairs to the bedroom, the temperature of the house drops significantly outside the kitchen.

Knocking on the door, he pushes in to see Taggie brushing her damp hair in the same thick flannel nightgown. Rubbing his back he looks down at the mattress on the floor and chuckles at the sight of his dogs piled up on it, leaving no room at all for him. Well, at least the bed would be warm.

"Rupert?"He looks up at Taggie, who puts down her brush and fidgets with her fingers.

"Yes?"

"I think you should sleep in the bed tonight. I can sleep on the ground."

"Don't be absurd," Rupert shakes his head. "The bed probably smells like dog at this point and I've gotten used to it."

"B-b-but your back!"

"It's alright," he waves, feeling slightly humiliated that she wanted to give him the bed because he was borderline geriatric in her eyes.

He waits for her to oppose, but she falls silent before looking at her bed. "W-what about..."

Please, don't say it. I won't be able to say no.

"Well, I just think if you'll be here for more days...

Please don't.

"You could share my bed with me," she squeaks, squeezing her eyes shut.

Fucking hell.

She must take his stunned silence as apprehension and quickly adds, "You don't have to at all. I promise I don't have any ill intentions."

No, but I certainly do.

"And it will just be a few days until the insulation comes and we can fix up that other room." Hugging her stomach, she backs up a little. "The bed isn't large, but it's a double. It should fit two people. And I won't touch you—"

"Just for tonight," Rupert says quickly, eager to silence her concerns lest she make any suggestions and he gives up any form of restraint. "We'll figure something else out tomorrow."

She looks relieved as she nods quickly. "Of course!"

The bed, as it turns out, is not a normal double. Either that, or the space suddenly feels so much smaller when the woman in bed next to him isn't basically on top of him. They lie shoulder to shoulder, but Rupert is half-falling off of the bed when he gets in, trying not to touch any part of her. But there's no fear of anything bad happening when Nimrod bounds onto the bed at their feed, fully cramping them in like sardines.

"Nimrod!"

"It's alright," she says quickly with a small smile. "I don't mind."

It's a vastly different response compared to any other woman he's ever bedded who was always eager to kick the dogs from the room. "Behave," he orders Nimrod, who only curls up tighter against Taggie's foot.

When Taggie finally turns off the light, he's keenly aware not only of her foot, but every part of her.

"Good night," she whispers, turning her back to him.

"Night, keep your hands to yourself, O'Hara," he jokes, but more as a reminder to himself.

Turning back to look at him, she seems confused for a minute before she realizes he's joking, and she starts giggling in the dark. "You too, Campbell-Black."

The rest of the week proceeds in a similar fashion. Rupert attempts to get his work done while watching the snow come down like cotton falling from the sky. He eats lunch with Taggie, before settling down with her to help her fix up the Priory. As a man who has never particularly warmed to the idea of manual labor, he finds he doesn't mind it so much when it's Taggie asking him for help. Especially not when she beams up at him for helping him accomplish something she can't do alone.

The worst part of every day is the evening. When the two of them awkwardly walk around each other and fall into bed. It always goes the same way. A rigid sleep to begin with, desperately trying not to touch her, before sleep takes them fully and he drags her into his arms. In his dreams, Taggie is needy and wants him as badly as he wants her and in the dark of night, shrouded by sleep, her body has a mind of its own.

Having abandoned any attempts at breaking her heart, Rupert finds the task of remaining chivalrous ten times harder than anything he's ever done before. Especially when he wakes up every morning to find Taggie wrapped around him, her arm hugging his torso, one of her legs slung over his, sometimes with her face tucked into his neck. Needless to say, the most excruciating part of the daily routine is his cold showers in the morning.

By the end of the next week, with Christmas at their doorstep, Dizzy calls to tell him that there are workers who have made it through the intermittent snow to look at the pipes at Penscombe and he sets off back to his home, leaving Taggie behind. The trudging walk through the snow is exhausting and by the time he arrives, he's panting and aching for the warmth of the hearth at the Priory.

"Mr. Campbell-Black," the workman greets him, shaking his hand. "The boys and I have had a look."

"Well, what's the diagnosis?"

"The pipes need replacing."

"Which ones?"

"All of them." The man winces when he sees Rupert's shocked expression and points to one part of the house as a concession. "All except the west wing guest rooms. Those pipes look newly laid and are fine."

Rupert rolls his eyes. "Yes, my ex-wife put in those rooms. Cost me a fucking fortune, I guess I see why now."

"Those rooms should be liveable for you, but we'll have to keep the water shut until we find a way to direct it to just those rooms while we fix things up."

"You could always try the train back to London," Dizzy suggests. "Or the old cottage. It's cold, but it's got running water at least."

Thinking for a moment, he shakes his head. "Make sure the horses are fed and the animals are kept warm. I'll stay where I am for now and try and come up with a solution."

"Alright, Mr. Campbell-Black," the worker nods, jotting something down onto a clipboard. "We've got a few other deliveries around the town, but we'll push yours to the top so we can get you back in the house sooner."

Nodding, Rupert is about to walk away, when he turns around, realizing something. "You don't happen to have deliveries going to the Priory, do you?"

Looking at his clipboard, the man nods. "We've got quite a large delivery. Still waiting on a few things, but don't worry, we'll prioritize you first."

"No, don't. Push them to the front, and start delivering what you have as you get it. I'll pay extra for the expedited work. And keep it that way."

"Are you sure?" the man asks with a questioning look on his face. "It's really no trouble at all."

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm staying at the inn, so you'll see me there. No need to mention this to the innkeeper, she's got enough to worry about," Rupert adds, which only makes the man smile.

"Ahh, I see. Alright then," he chuckles, making a note.

Rupert doesn't bother asking the man what he sees, instead he makes his way to the stables and saddles his horse, Rocky, before mounting him. "I'm headed back to the Priory. I'm not trudging through the snow again," he tells Dizzy, ignoring her when it looks like she has something more to say.

By the time he returns to the Priory, snow is starting to fall again, but he is quite proud of himself as he dismounts and walks the horse to the old dilapidated stable to rest.

"How is Penscombe?" Taggie asks, appearing behind him and swaddled in a thick pair of fleece trousers and a sweater, gum boots sinking into the freshly fallen snow. He's keenly aware that beneath those lumpy clothes is a lithe and supple body, one that he's gotten used to sleeping next to every night. One that haunts his dreams and makes his cock harder than stone when he thinks about it.

"Awful," he sighs, patting Rocky after finding some hay for him and feeding him a sugar cube. "You don't mind if I spend a few more days here, do you? I know it's Christmas, but—"

"Of course not," she says brightly, looking almost relieved. "What's that?" she points to a basket in his hand.

"One of my gardeners found these near the woods, figured you'd like them," he says, suddenly sheepish, and handing the basket over to her. The reality was he knew there were bundles of logs in the Bluebell Woods that grew oyster mushrooms around winter and had taken the longer path back to the Priory to pluck some up for her, feeling like a stupid school boy now that he's presented such a paltry gift. "Merry Christmas."

But Taggie blushes deeply and her smile widens when she lifts the little kitchen towel off the basket to see what's inside. You'd think he handed her bars of gold. "Oh this is lovely! Thank you!"

He can't help but smile back, wanting badly to touch her cheek and feel the heat of her blush contrasted to the cool chill of her skin in the winter. "Of course, angel. Now, do you think I can use your phone?"

"Can I speak to them? Helen, it's Christmas Eve. I just want to know if they liked their presents..."

Taggie quietly brushes the top of the steak and kidney pie with egg yolk and does her best not to eavesdrop on Rupert on the phone. Placing the pie back into the oven, she focuses on chopping lettuce as Rupert's voice raises in annoyance.

"I'm their father, I should be allowed to— Oh fuck off, Helen." Slamming the phone down, Taggie flinches a little but stays quiet as Christmas music plays on the old radio in the corner. She hears him sighing and peeks over her shoulder to see him rubbing his face. "Sorry," he mutters to her and Taggie quickly focuses back on the food.

"Is everything okay?"

"Just my ex-wife," he says and she hears him striding over to her. "God damn headache of a woman."

"I bet your children liked your gifts," she says offhandedly before realizing that she's overreaching and kicking herself internally.

Rupert leans against the counter next to her. "I'm sure they did," he sighs, plucking out a cigarette and lighting it.

"How many children do you have?"

"You don't know?" he says with a raised brow and Taggie looks at him a bit incredulous.

"No? Does everyone know how many children you have?"

Laughing, he blows out a stream of smoke and shakes his head. "I suppose it's a good thing you don't know." Then, taking another deep drag, he says, "Three. It's Tabitha and Marcus with Helen right now. And..."

Taggie stays quiet, dropping the lettuce and tomatoes into a bowl and drizzling the vinaigrette over it, trying to appear nonchalant and not desperate to learn about his family.

"Well, there's also Perdita. And she's at Eldercombe."

Taggie's head snaps up and looks at him in surprise. "Perdita? Isn't she—"

"She's Daisy's daughter. But no, Ricky isn't her father," he says, correctly assuming her line of thought. "Didn't even know she was mine until earlier this year. I suspect that's why Helen's being extra frosty this year with me."

Mixing the salad, Taggie tries to remember whatever information Ricky had told her about his family, but few details arise beyond Perdita's name and her assumption that Ricky was her biological father. "Shouldn't you call her too?"

Rupert shrugs. "We're not on the best of terms and I doubt she wants to speak with me right now."

"I'm sorry."

Shaking his head, Rupert walks away while ruffling his hair, bringing Taggie's attention once again to the strands of silver glittering through it. Had she thought him old when she first met him? Perhaps. But now, looking at him, even with the signs of age, her heart races with anticipation for the next time he'll pay a look at her. In fact, when he left for Penscombe this morning, she half expected he'd call her and tell her he was staying and she'd have to spend Christmas Eve alone.

Whatever melancholy that had slowly drifted onto her in her time here at the Priory had melted away with Rupert's arrival. Yes, he was exhausting at times, and the man clearly had weak carpentry skills, but the warmth of his presence killed the growing doubt in her mind that she'd made a massive mistake. She'd been half ready to pack up and run back to Fulham, but now she felt as if she had something to stay for. Which was absurd, because Rupert would leave eventually, and then she'd be alone again, wouldn't she?

No more teasing jokes, no more of that bergamot cologne, no more waking up in his arms and falling back asleep, hoping he might not notice. Looking down at her hand, the burn from last week already nearly completely healed over. Would it disappear with him when he finally returned to Penscombe? She hadn't felt how keenly the emptiness affected her until he left and now she feared his eventual departure.

"The kitchen looks nearly done at this point," Rupert says as he digs into his pie and gives another groan of approval which makes Taggie's skin tingle.

"There's just some decorating that needs done now," she nods. "I think I might go into town when I can to see if I can find some antiques."

"You know, I've got plenty of those at Penscombe too," he remarks, nodding out the window toward his home. "You could come and take a look."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," she shakes her head, horrified that he might think she wants to take advantage of him like that. "I'd never assume—"

"You don't have to," he waves his hand. "I'm offering. The house is cluttered and it's just me there. Some of those rooms go years without anyone stepping into them. Might as well put the hunks of wood to good use." Then, when he senses her hesitation, he nods, "I'm serious. We can look over it when the snow melts. I'm sure you can put all that stuff to good use."

"Well, thank you," she says, unable to contain her smile. Not only at the prospect of new furniture that would likely be much better than anything she'd find in Cotchester, but the idea that after all of this was over, she'd still get to see him. "Would you like to see some of the other rooms in the house? I just realized you probably haven't seen much beyond this kitchen and our bedroom— or my bedroom." She corrects herself quickly and feels her ears go hot when Rupert's face splits into a smile.

She waits for him to tease her for the slip of the tongue but he simply nods. "Sure, angel."

After feasting on the sticky toffee pudding Taggie had spent the morning preparing, Taggie takes Rupert around the house, showing him the half-finished sitting room, the downstairs office that she plans to turn into a library and then up to the bedrooms that are each colder than the next. In those rooms, Rupert stands close to her and Taggie does her best to ignore that burning warmth inside of her, feeling like butter melting on the cast iron, becoming liquid in his presence.

"And then, I think," she says, pointing to their bedroom, "I'll replace this bed with a four poster. Something a big bigger so the guests can be comfortable."

"Did you ever think people might like the double? More of an excuse to be close to the person you're in bed with," he says, and Taggie wonders if he's saying that directly to her.

Looking up at him, she swallows hard, feeling that stomach-flipping sensation that she gets whenever she wakes up in his arms in the morning. "Is that... what people want?"

"Some people," he says with a small smile. "Do you not like sharing a bed with a man?"

"Besides you, I haven't slept in a bed with any other man, really."

"Not even the infamous Ralphie?"

The name is a painful reminder of the half-formed relationship she had with her brother's friend and she flinches a little, wrapping her arms around her middle in anticipation of that same sharp pang of longing but finding that the heartache was no longer as painful as it once was. "We didn't... He's not..."

"Fuck. Sorry about that," he apologizes quickly, rubbing his temples. "Don't know why I said that. You mentioned him and I just assumed."

Taggie shakes her head, reaching out to touch his shoulder, wanting to reassure him he didn't make a mistake. "No, well... We didn't do much sleeping when we were together."

And from the look on Rupert's face, something between annoyance and amusement, Taggie quickly realizes she's misspoken. "No! I mean, not like that. We didn't do much of those couple things. It was c-c-casual."

"Bastard," Rupert curses under his breath, the amusement fading away and fully replaced with irritation.

"Oh no, he was very sweet." She doesn't know why she's defending Ralphie, but she does so on instinct.

Rupert scoffs in response. "'Very sweet' men don't go sleeping with virgins casually without dating them, and then abandon them."

The sting of the reality makes Taggie wince. "How do you know I was a virgin?" she counters, trying to retain some of her dignity.

But Rupert meets her eyes, his own dark and lit only by the glowing firelight. "Weren't you?"

She gulps. "Y-yes. I was," Taggie admits, feeling her mouth go dry. "How do you know he abandoned me?"

"Because he's clearly an idiot and you're alone with me right now."

No, Ralphie was far from an idiot. He went to school with Patrick. He was going to become a professor. There was nothing stupid about Ralphie. But, Taggie, who was dyslexic and had none of the glittering charm of other girls, was distinctly aware of how lacking she was at times. "Maybe I just wasn't his type," she mumbles, picking at one of her cuticles and realizing how much of a mess she looks. "I'm not easy to love, I suppose. And sometimes, I wonder if it's better that I stay on my own."

"Don't be fucking absurd," Rupert growls, catching Taggie's attention.

Confused by his anger, she just shrugs, "I tried to move on. I did. There hasn't been anyone in almost a year. And sometimes I think it might just be easier. I like working on my own, and when I was with him, I felt so pressured to be something I'm not. It was... disappointing."

"That doesn't mean you need to be alone," he says quietly, reaching out to touch her hand, his fingers running against her skin and making her body respond instantly with a burning desire that she reserves only for the dark of night when he's next to her and asleep. "You could find someone here. Someone who can appreciate you, and love you, and look after you. Someone like—"

"You?" The word is out before she has a chance to think and the minute it slips from her lips, she gasps in utter humiliation. "No, I'm sorry. That's ridiculous. I don't know why I said that," she reneges quickly. "Utterly stupid."

"Don't call yourself stupid," he chides sharply, reaching up to cup her face and sending frissons of electric heat down her spine. "Yes, someone like me," he says slowly, before she watches him swallow thickly and look everywhere but her face. "Or just me."

"Oh." The words sink into her, branded now on her heart and her mind. Someone like me. Or just me. They'd been this close before, that night he'd been so warm to her for the first time, but then he'd pulled away. Taggie finds herself hesitant to bridge the gap again, lest he push her away a second time. She doesn't think her heart can stand it, not now that she's admitted that this crush she has on him has been slowly growing in size with each passing hour. "I d-didn't mean to be presumptuous."

The silence swallows them whole, his eyes darting over her face and his thumb stroking her cheek. And then, there's something that sparks there within him and he leans in slightly, as if waiting for her to be the one to pull away. But when she doesn't, the corners of his lips curling up in a devastating smile. "I'm glad you were," he says, fingers sinking into her hair and before she can even think of what else to say, he's pulled her in and their lips are crashing together. Taggie sinks into him, her arms quickly wrapping around him like they so often did in bed, and lifts herself up onto her tip toes before parting her lips for him.

She lets out a soft moan when his tongue, commanding and assured, strokes hers. She shivers in his arms, the passion and intensity of his embrace leaving her utterly besotted. Ralphie certainly never kissed like this, and with one touch, he's seemingly erased every memory of the man and replaced it with him.

"Fucking hell, you taste good," he breathes when they part. "Sweet and sugary, just like how I imagined."

"You imagined?" she says, dazed by his affections and hungry for more.

"It's difficult not to imagine when you're wrapped around me every night, Taggie." His hands stroke up her spine, the large expanse of his reach warming her to the bone and making her pant with need. "Trust me, that's not the only thing I imagined."

"Tell me," she begs, pressing her lips to the corner of his, coaxing him to kiss her again.

"I'd rather show you, darling," he murmurs, before covering his mouth with hers and letting his hand glide down to grab a handful of her bum, squeezing it and making her legs turn to jelly when his sweet kiss turns savagely dominant. She feels completely at his mercy and, as terrifying as that thought might have been a week ago, it's intoxicating now.

"Yes, please," she whimpers between kisses, clinging to him and feeling liquid heat pooling at the pit of her stomach when his other hand palms her breasts, squeezing her there and playing with her nipple.

Reaching down to the hem of her sweater, she quickly lifts it up along with the undershirt beneath, and Rupert releases her so she can throw it to the ground. The two of them undress in a hurried manner, Rupert's eyes never leaving her body and by the time his trousers and pants are gone, she's keenly aware of just how much he wants her. Her eyes widen at the solid erection eager to greet her.

"Fucking hell, you're perfect," he whispers, eyes running up and down her body. No one's called her perfect before, and before today, anyone who did, she might suspect them of lying. But there's a truth in Rupert's words that excites her but also fills her with fear that she might disappoint him.

He takes her to the bed and when he lies atop her, every nerve in her body feels like its firing on overdrive. He's suddenly everywhere and the dull ache between her legs gets almost painful when his cock brushes up against her. One of his hands strokes down her front, his warm palm covering nearly all of her belly as his fingers find the apex between her thighs. He groans loudly when he runs the tip of his fingers against her cunt.

"God, you're soaked," he groans, sounding almost gleeful. "Do you want me, Taggie? Do you like it when I touch you?"

Perhaps if she was in a better state of mind, she'd hear the apprehension and the uncertainty in his questions, like a man who was keenly aware that he had something beloved and one wrong word or touch might let it slip through his fingers. But, drunk on his proximity and attention, all Taggie can do is nod and keen out a desperate, "Yes. Yes. Yes."

And when he slips two of his fingers into her, curling up to stroke some part of her that no man had ever touched, she digs her nails into his back and lets out a sharp moan of pleasure.

"So good," he breathes, kissing down her neck, licking and tracing out the lines of her clavicle. "So tight and wet. You're a good girl, aren't you, Taggie? Always doing the right thing. Always so kind and sweet. Always perfect. Yes, so good. I just can't resist you anymore."

Taggie preens at his approval, bucking her hips up for him and writhing when his thumb worries her clit and drives her wild. This confession from his lips, that he's been resisting her, only makes her wetter. Was she good? In her own eyes, she was a woman made up only of flaws. Too many to count. "I want to be good for you," she moans softly as he kisses down her body. She wants it so badly it hurts.

"You're fucking perfect," he breathes, pulling his soaking wet fingers out of her and running his hands up her thighs before dipping around her waist. With his hands on each side, she marvels at the size of him. At the fact that he covers her so easily in a way that makes her feel small. Not weak or vulnerable, but protected. Lowering his head between her legs, he exhales and a plume of warm air tingles the delicate skin of her inner thigh. "Do you like this? Tell me that you like this, Taggie," he begs. Dragging his tongue against her cunt, he pulls another sharp cry from her lips. "I want to know what you like. I don't want to disappoint you," he says, repeating her words from before.

"Nothing you do could d-d-disappoint me," she says, finding it hard to string words together but wanting him to know just how good this is. How good it has never been until this moment. "I don't know... I don't know what there is to like. But I like what you're doing now."

"Then let me show you more."

Rupert's tongue works tirelessly at her clit, the little bundle of nerves caught in an endless and delicious asssault. Squeezing her thighs together around his face, Taggie runs her fingers through his hair and scrapes her nails against his scalp as a sudden wave of euphoria knocks into her. Thrusting his fingers into her, Rupert's tongue works in tandem and it all just becomes too much.

Looking down between them, it's Rupert's molten gaze that finally kicks her over the edge. Something deep and hot and visceral there in those eyes as he devours her like a starving wolf over his prey. It's a look she's never seen before, not with any man and definitely not Ralphie, and now she can't imagine living without it now that she's seen it. Covering her mouth to silence her own scream, she feels her walls flexing around him and spasming as she lets the orgasm wash over her, a splendorous release that leaves her feeling boneless.

And when he pulls away, for a moment, she's afraid of what he might say. Something callous to show that this didn't mean as much to him as it does to her. But there is only one thing that's seemingly on his mind.

"I need to be inside of you, please, Taggie," he pants, licking and kissing her and looking at her for her approval.

Aphrodite herself would be jealous of the woman in front of him.

Taggie, coated in a sheen of sweat, hair splayed out on the floral pattern of the pillow, her auburn bangs sticking to her forehead, her legs trembling and her cunt shining and slick. He can't remember the last time a woman was this intoxicating to him. In fact, he can't think of another time he's wanted a woman more than right now. Not just to be inside of her, but for her to want him just as much.

He's aware that although she's not a virgin, she's a far cry from the experienced lovers he's had in the past, and even farther from the timid and apprehensive Helen in their first year of marriage. There's nothing timid about Taggie's touch, and it drives him wild to know that he's the cause of it all.

Lowering on top of her, he wipes his face off, still tasting her cunt on her tongue, and presses a kiss to her cheek before locking lips with her. He's cautious at first, worried she'll be turned off by tasting herself there, as it so often disgusted Helen, but when she answers his own barely-leashed want with hers, he pulls her close to him again. Her back arches off of the mattress and he presses her body to his. Every soft curve, every jutting bone, every freckle and mole, all for him to admire and worship.

Notching his cock at her entrance, he strokes the weeping tip against her clit and drags more needy cries from her lips. When he finally sinks into her, he feels her entire body squeezing around him, sucking him in and making him nearly go blind with lust.

"God, you're tight," he gasps, pushing slowly into her until he's completely sheathed inside, buried to the hilt.

"Slow, slow," she begs when he pulls out and thrusts his cock back into her. The request is appeased but it only makes him randier imagining how sensitive he is. Imagining how many more soft sounds he can draw from her lips thanks to all of his years of experience. He could show her so much more than just this and he'd cling to every surprised look of delight like they were more precious than diamonds.

"You feel like heaven, angel," he whispers into her ear, slowly fucking her at an almost torturous pace. "But, if you want to be a good girl, you'll stop squeezing me like this, or I'll lose control."

"Lose control," she responds, turning her face so she can meet his eyes. "Please? I want you to."

God, I think I love you.

He'd be insane to utter those words out right now. And by all rights, after the few weeks they've known each other, he has no way of knowing if that's true. But he can't imagine it being a lie either. Wrapping her legs around his waist, he sinks into her again, this time thrusting in an even but quickening pace. Wrapping his arms around her and lifting half of her off the bed, he takes full control of their rhythm and listens to her quiet whines and moans, with little oh yeses peppered between each thrust.

He feels her spasming and her body writhing, once again wrapped in the clutches of her orgasm and lets himself completely lose control feeling how wet she was, snapping his hips hard and fast before feeling that tightly coiled restraint inside of him completely break. He muffles his own cry with their kiss and pours all of himself into her as he comes inside.

Taggie's body is the first to completely give out, her legs slumping off of him and her body heaving to try and catch her breath. Rupert, conscious that he might collapse on top of her and crush her completely, falls to the side, reluctant to pull out of her.

Turning her head to him, she smiles shyly, her body pink and sweaty from exertion. Now that she's naked, he knows that every one of her blushes spreads far beyond just her cheeks and just that thought is enough to fuel a decade of fantasies.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, worried that he might have been too rough with her.

Her delicate winged brows lift in surprise and she smiles sweetly, turning and scooching closer to him. "Of course not. That was..."

"Perfect," he replies, finishing her sentence.

She giggles and tucks herself against him, kissing his skin softly. "Was I good for you?"

That voice inside of him purrs with delight. So good, she's so good. Keep her. Don't let her go. She's ours. "Amazing. Do you like being a good girl for me?"

Her blush turns an even brighter red as she curls a leg over his thigh and presses herself to him. "Yes."

He leans down and kisses her, letting her rest her head on his arm and pulling her closer so he can envelop her in his warmth.

"I suppose you were right about the bed," she says after a moment of comfortable silence.

"What?"

"I think this is a nice size for two people," she comments.

He hums under his breath before smirking at the thought that pops into his head. "I suppose we could test out the other mattresses to see if they'll fit for two people as well."

Taggie laughs, swatting him lightly. "Of course they will!"

"There's no way to be sure," he says doubtfully.

"We'll freeze to death!"

"Oh, I can think of a few ways to keep each other warm," he murmurs, pulling her back into his embrace and kissing her.

"Again?" she says, surprised.

"Unless you're tired?" He quietly hopes not, but begins to will his cock to obey his wishes.

But thankfully, she shakes her head quickly. "It's just... Well normally, with Ralphie, it was just once and then he'd leave."

"Fucking hell, you were wasted on that bloody fool," he grumbles, irritated again at the simpering boy who'd gotten to Taggie before him.

"He isn't a fool," Taggie says quietly, stopping his ministrations but still stroking his chest with her fingers, her nails dragging against the dark springy hairs there. "He is actually very clever. I'm the one who wasn't..." She grows silent and he has half a mind just to erase the man from her mind with more sex, but he knows her well enough to know that this is another one of her secrets. Another thought that she might only share with him, and he wouldn't give that up for a thousand orgasms.

"Who wasn't..." he repeats, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

"I'm sure you can tell I'm not the best with my words," she nearly whispers, curling up against him even tighter for comfort.

"What?" He frowns, squinting his eyes and trying to understand what she means. What do her words have to do with it? What is she talking about? "What does that mean?"

"Well, it's just that..." Hesitating, she finally tilts her head up. "Ralphie and my brother are both so smart. My whole family is. And I'm... I'm dyslexic. Which isn't to say I'm dumb—"

"I would never call you that," he interrupts, almost insulted that she might think he would.

Shaking her head and offering him an apologetic smile, she says, "No, I never thought you would. But Ralphie's not the fool. That's what I mean. I am. I just wasn't enough for him. Not clever enough. Not pretty enough. We didn't fit together."

Rupert cups her face, thumb stroking her cheek before he combs his fingers through her hair. "Yes, I'm sure you did not fit together. But not because of you. I'm more sure now than ever that he's an idiot if he made you feel like you somehow couldn't measure up. He wasn't enough for you. Fucking hell, I'm not even sure I'm enough for you. "

But uncertainty lingers there in her eyes as she shakes her head, pushing away from him slightly. "You don't have to say that, you don't have to be nice—"

Irritated, he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her flush to him so she can't escape. "I'm not being nice. I'm not nice. Since I've walked into this house, all I've been thinking about is how to ruin you. When I realized I didn't have the heart to scare you away, I wanted to fuck you and take you for myself. I can be cruel when I want to be, Taggie. With any other woman, it might have been easy to love you and leave you," he confesses, kissing her cheek gently as if to reassure her that that wasn't what he was trying to do here. "But, then I saw how kind you are. How selfless, how determined, how beautiful, and, yes, how clever you are. And now I'm terrified that I'll never measure up or be worthy of you. I'm not saying what I'm saying to be nice, I'm telling you the truth."

"Rupert..." she looks at him, startled by his sudden word vomit that he is becoming increasingly self conscious of. "I'm not like that. You're confusing me with the other women you've been with..." she laments. "You don't even know me."

He laughs breathlessly at how logical that sounds. Perhaps if he'd spent the last weeks with anyone but Taggie O'Hara, who wore every feeling on her sleeve and kept every thought at the surface, that would be true. But he knows her. He knows her well enough to know he doesn't want to lie to her or deceive her, and he can't stand the idea of her thinking she's lesser than some cretin who couldn't recognize an angel when he had her.

"Yes, there have been other women," he admits, he'd be a liar not to admit it. "But I don't know any of them as well as I know you. You came here all on your own, you forged this new life for yourself. You nurture others, even pestering landlords who make you burn yourself and drive you mad," he smiles, pleased that part of her face has softened. "I wish you could see you the way I see you now. There's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all."

"But, I'm dyslex—"

"Who cares? That doesn't take anything away from you."

Her lip trembles and she looks at him, blinking a few times as if it's the first time someone's said that to her. "Really?"

"Yes. It doesn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to anyone else. Not in any real way." And, unable to resist anymore, he lowers his face and kisses her again. This time slower, dedicating time to touching her and adoring her in way that might scare any notion of being mediocre from her mind. And as he kisses her, he's overjoyed to feel her slowly respond, to taste her tongue against his, to feel her fingers digging into his flesh, to hear her breathing heavy once again.

"Rupert?" she says lazily when she comes up for breath.

"Yes, angel?"

"Can we... do it again now?" she asks timorously, eyes half-lidded and hips already grinding against him.

He laughs darkly and slides her legs apart so he can position himself at her entrance. "Oh yes, Taggie. Let me show you just how many times we can make love in one night."

He's so desperate to be inside of her that he barely notices his word choice of make love until he's half asleep with her curled up in his arms and the dim glow of dawn is lighting up the sky. It feels right.

By the time they wake, the sun is streaming into the bedroom and the fire has died completely. The sky is clear and the snow has stopped falling. But the two of them remain in bed. Rupert is currently spelling out the letters of Merry Christmas on Taggie's skin with his tongue, and she has her eyes squeezed shut, wriggling under his hold and trying to keep herself from looking completely absurd with how ticklish and aroused she is.

She replays Rupert's words to her in her mind from the night before. Words that he's repeated now in the light of the day, telling her everything that she's ever wanted to hear from someone. Wants that had been suppressed and stifled in order to survive in a world that constantly treated her like she was lesser than.

Who cares? That doesn't take anything away from you.

Had anyone ever seen her dyslexia as simply something for her to live with, something that was a part of her that didn't make her lesser than or inferior? Had anyone ever said who cares when she mentioned the reason why her words were spelled incorrectly or her maths didn't turn out correct? For a moment, between kisses and love making (as Rupert had called it the night before), she wonders if this is simply something for this moment. A kindness he's sharing with her until he has to leave.

She pleads to any god that's listening that that isn't the case. Part of her is still so afraid that he might push her away. That once Penscombe is ready to live in, he'll pack up and go. She dreads the day she'll look back at Rupert like she now sees Ralphie. The thought is enough to curdle any happiness she might feel, tainting the moments she spends with him.

When they finally make it downstairs, Rupert insists on pushing her schedule back just another day and offers to take her on his horse, Rocky, to show her Penscombe.

"I haven't ridden a horse before," she frets, seating and reseating herself on the saddle. She feels gangly and awkward, as if she might slip off from the tall beast.

"Don't worry, I'll keep you safe," he says as he swings his legs up and seats himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her and taking the reins. She shivers at his closeness, which he only mistakes for cold and rubs her shoulders, asking if she wants to go inside and get another jumper.

"No, I'm fine," she shakes her head, unable to hide a small little smile.

Rupert grins and nods, "Ah, I see I'll have a hard time keeping my hands off of you this morning." And as they start trotting toward Penscombe, he pushes back her mane of hair to kiss her on the nape of her neck. The gesture is so gently and contrasted from each desperate and passionate touch he'd treated her to the night before that she melts against him, sighing with delight at the fact that his affection wasn't just reserved for the bedroom.

She expects him to stop by the time they reach Penscombe though. There are already more than a few people working around the grounds. His grooms are tending the stables, while men are driving up with the new supplies for the house.

That gnawing anxiety returns to her as she sees them carrying pipes around the front. "Do you know how long it will be before the house is liveable again?" she asks, sliding down from Rocky. Better to steel herself now for his eventual departure, she thinks.

Rupert pulls her to his side, wrapping an arm around her waist while he looks on at his home. "Technically, it's liveable now."

"What?" She looks at him startled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, some of the guest rooms are functioning. They just need to redirect the water there while they fix the rest of the pipes."

"Then you could have spent the night here?"

He shrugs, "Well, I suppose." Then, smirking down at her, he pats her hip with his hand. "But then how would I have gotten to unwrap my Christmas present?" Leaning down, he kisses her again like he can't bear not to. She softens against him without a second thought before she quickly pulls away.

"Wait, Rupert! We're in public."

"This isn't the public. It's Penscombe. And even if it was public, who cares?"

There it is again. Who cares? She wonders if she'll ever get to the point where she doesn't care what people think or say. It might have seemed arrogant to her before, but she recognizes it now as part of Rupert's confidence. The same confidence that she feels now in herself just a little bit.

"You don't think it's a bit unprofessional for me to be kissing my neighbor?" She looks at the few grooms who have noticed their presence. Confidence isn't earned in a day, to be fair.

"No, I think it's a bit unprofessional of me to be kissing my tenant. But, I've never been interested in being professional," he grins, his hand sliding down to take a firm grip of her bum before stealing another kiss. Taggie lets out a giggle and wriggles in his arms, reassured once again by his words.

"You could stay here tonight, if the house is ready," she offers, giving him one last chance to get away and one last chance to protect her heart from him.

He chortle, "And lay you on one of my massive beds? No, I think I prefer the doubles at the Priory." Then, realizing what she said, he adds, "Or did you think I'd even consider staying here without you in my bed?"

"I have work to do!" she protests. "I can go back to the Priory."

"Not without me, angel," he whispers in her ear. "Now, let's go home. I'm freezing and I think we need to utilize some skin-to-skin body heat, don't you?"

And that's what he calls the Priory from then on. Home. It isn't until their third round of lovemaking that Taggie realizes it and mentions it to him, and he shrugs as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Home had once been four walls in Fulham, complete with greedy parents, less than altruistic siblings, and a piling list of tasks to complete. Now, it's something else. Now it's the Priory. It's the double bed in the largest room in the house. And then it'll be Rupert's bed at Penscombe. In his arms, in his embrace. Since coming to Rutshire, nothing seemed to fit in its place. Taggie realizes it, whether it's a day later or a month later, that it all finally just feels right. As natural as a snowstorm in winter.