"I have no interest in your silver," Beatrice said. Her voice shook just a fraction, but she locked her jaw to stop it. "I only wanted shelter from the rain."
Arthur took a slow drag from the bottle. He watched her. His gaze was heavy, indifferent, scraping over her muddy dress, her soaked hair, the desperate tension in her shoulders.
"The local inn is three miles down the road," he said.
"I have no money for the inn."
"Then you have a problem." He turned as if to walk away, completely unbothered by the fact that a soaked woman was standing in his kitchen.
"Wait." Beatrice took a step forward, the mud on her boots squelching against the flagstones. "You have no servants. The house is empty."
Arthur paused. He looked back over his shoulder. "Astute observation. I sacked them. They were noisy. See, they wanted to be paid. It was a tedious arrangement."
"You have to eat. You have to live."
"I manage." He lifted the brandy bottle.
"You're starving," Beatrice said flatly. It wasn't an insult; it was a fact. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass. His clothes hung off his frame. "And you're freezing. This house is dying."
Arthur turned fully now, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The indifference in his eyes sharpened into something cold and dangerous. "And you, a stray dog dragged in from the mud, are going to point this out to me? Get out of my house."
"Let me stay." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. They were pathetic, begging words, but she stripped the pleading tone from them. She stood tall. She looked him dead in the eye. "Let me stay," she repeated, her voice steady. "Give me a bed and a fire. In return, I will work. I will clean. I will cook. You are living like a rat in a cellar. Let me stay, and I will make this a home."
For a long moment, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rain lashing against the glass.
Then Arthur Pendleton laughed.