Briarwood Cottage by Joann Ross

tension.
    The problem was that, like everything else about Briarwood Cottage, it brought back memories of their Irish honeymoon and the way Duncan had stripped her out of her clothes that had gotten soaked on a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, shed his own, then pulled her into the shower, where their lovemaking had definitely steamed up the bathroom more than the hot water.
    She could have stayed there forever, had it not been for the limits of the cottage’s water heater. Lost in sensual memories, which had morphed into fantasies of Duncan spreading soapsuds all over her body, Cassandra hadn’t noticed the loss of water temperature until she was suddenly shocked back to reality.
    She yelped and leaped out from beneath the now-icy water. Making matters worse, as she stood shivering and dripping on the soft white rug, she realized that she’d forgotten to bring in a change of clothing. After quickly drying off, she wrapped a thick towel around her freezing body and made a dash for the bedroom.
    Just as Duncan appeared in the hallway.

10
    “S orry,” he said as she froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “I assumed you’d still be sleeping.”
    “I woke up a bit ago.” She tugged the towel up a few inches. Duncan supposed that if he were a gentleman, he’d turn away, but hell, drinking in the sight of her creamy shoulders and long, bare legs, he told himself it wasn’t as if she were a stranger.
    Didn’t a husband have some right to enjoy looking at his wife?
    “I was taking a shower,” she said. “I’m afraid I used up all the hot water.”
    “No problem.” He gave her his best smile. The same I’m-harmless-and-want-to-be-your-friend smile he’d pull out when interviewing locals in terrorist territories. “How are you feeling?”
    “Better.” She managed a faint return smile even as she held the towel so tight her knuckles were turning white. “That bed’s like sleeping on a cloud.”
    “It’s the goose down,” he said. “Like what we had in the other cottage. The bed in the other room is the same.”
    Although much lonelier than their honeymoon one.
    “I hope you slept well.”
    “I did. I also took a walk.”
    “In the rain?”
    “I don’t melt. And it was mostly just mist by the time I woke up. I went a little past the cemetery. And the cairn.”
    “I checked that shortly after I arrived. I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts, but there’s definitely something, like lingering spirits, going on there.”
    “Like what they say about the veil being thinner,” she agreed. “I felt it, too. Like ghosts standing guard over the past.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Well…” She went to drag a hand through her wet hair, causing the white towel to slip a bit. Duncan wouldn’t lie—he wouldn’t mind if it dropped to the floor. “I suppose I’d better get dressed.”
    “I’ll put the groceries away,” he said. “I was going to make coffee. Would you like some? Or tea again?”
    “Coffee would be great.”
    “Got it.”
    They stood there, him looking down at Cass, her looking back up at him. Although they were a few feet apart, he could almost feel the cord connecting them and wondered if she felt it as well.
    “I’m dripping on your floor.” Yet she didn’t move.
    “It’s Ireland. I’d bet the floor can handle it.” Because she still hadn’t run away, he indulged in taking her in, from the top of that unfamiliar short hair down to her bare, nude toes, which had always been tipped in bright colors.
    Since their work hadn’t taken them to places where mani/pedis were easily available, she’d colored them herself. Just thinking of watching her, brow furrowed in deep concentration as she painted them a deep, tropical coral while rockets exploded over their hotel, was enough to make him semi-hard. Although she’d complained the next morning about him having smudged the polish, she’d laughed as he’d half carried, half dragged her the few feet to the bed.
    “You’ve