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A soft, melodic chuckle was her only response. William listened as her footsteps pattered out of the room, the urge to call her back almost overpowering. Almost.

Caroline chuckled as she made her way back to the kitchen. The blacksmith might be grim and full of bluster, but he had just revealed his soft side. He had injured himself doing secret repairs for the old woman next door. Mr. Jacks—William was kind beneath all that cantankerous posturing.

She had to admit to her relief that the man was currently confined to the settee. William was far less imposing now that he was not towering over her like a great wall of muscle and sinew, forged from years of beating iron and steel into shape. He looked almost approachable lying there, his large frame stretched out with an air of reluctant surrender.

William.

It suited him. A strong English name for a strong English man.

She could not deny the flicker of awareness, but given that the man was relegated to lying on his back, she was confident she could maintain her composure. All she had to do was get through the night without incident, and she would know that she had found her footing—and her moral backbone—around handsome men.

Granted, William was not polished or charming like Lord Saunton, the man who had proven her character to be flawed. But he was just as compelling, if not more so. Caroline supposed this evening would be a test of her mettle. Fortunately, the man was laid up and in no position to cause her nerves any distress.

Humming a Christmas carol, she set water to boil. Scrounging around the kitchen, she located his tea things and decided to make the blacksmith a sandwich. She would prepare something more substantial in the morning, but for tonight, it would be best to feed him as quickly as possible.

She sliced the fresh bread she found, adding generous layers of cheese and smoked ham before laying it out neatly on a plate. Then she cut a much smaller sandwich for herself. Digging through her basket, she pulled out the York biscuits and rolled wafers she had bought from Mr. Andrews earlier that day. She doubted that a man like William would prefer milk in his tea, so she poured two cups, leaving his plain while adding a little milk to her own.

Picking up the laden tray, still humming, Caroline walked back to the sitting room.

William lay stretched out on the settee, his eyes shut. Now that there was more light in the room, Caroline noted a pallor to his bronzed skin. The man clearly needed to eat.

Walking over, she placed the tray down on the table between the settees before taking a seat across from him. William slowly opened his eyes, his blue gaze falling to the tray, and an expression of raw hunger flashed across his face. He pushed himself up to lean against the padded arm, his stomach growling loudly at the mere sight of food.

“Thank you … Caroline.”

The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. His voice was low and gentle, completely at odds with his usual gruffness. William had sculpted, smooth lips—something she had not been able to help noticing on the day they met—and she found herself imagining that they would be warm when he spoke her name again.

There will be no foolishness, Caroline!

Her eyelids fluttered as she chased the thoughts from her mind. Lifting the plate with his thick-cut sandwich, she handed it over with a nod of acknowledgment, then moved his teacup so he could reach it easily.

She picked up her own tea to sip, lifting her sandwich to take a delicate bite before setting it back down. Peeking from beneath her lashes, she observed him devouring his sandwich. He took up his tea and drank deeply, the scalding liquid clearly no deterrent. She supposed that as a blacksmith, he was well accustomed to heat. With satisfaction, she watched the color return to his cheeks as he ate, the tightness around his eyes easing somewhat.

Now that she was finally off her feet, Caroline glanced around the room. Above the fireplace hung a seascape of a calm day on the water, tiny boats bobbing under a bright sun while waves crashed onto the rocks at the foot of a cliff. Between the comfortable, overstuffed settees lay a rug woven in blues and greens, and several plump pillows in similar hues decorated them. Across the room, tucked into the corner near the staircase, was a small wooden table and four chairs with matching seat cushions.

“Your cottage is not what I expected,” she remarked, her gaze drifting back to him.

William looked up from his meal, shrugging his broad shoulders, the movement causing the firelight to flicker across his frame. Caroline suppressed the flutter of awareness that rippled through her. “I have not redecorated it since I took it over. Aunt Gertrude is from Cornwall.” He gestured to the painting.

“I like it,” she assured him, offering a gentle smile before continuing her meal.

After taking several bites of her own sandwich, she finally stood. Taking his teacup to refill it, she made her way back to the kitchen. Returning to William, she found him chewing on a York biscuit with an expression of pure bliss. He nodded his thanks when she placed the cup down. The biscuit looked tiny in his large hand, and the sight of it brought up thoughts of⁠—

No, Caroline!

Chastising herself, she retreated to the kitchen. With determination, she took up the supplies she had brought and returned to the front room. Setting her bundle down, she grabbed one of the chairs in the corner and dragged it to the window, ignoring the curious look William sent her way.

“What are you doing?”

“I am making your home festive.”

“You brought Christmas boughs to attend to me?” The man appeared genuinely perplexed as Caroline sat down with the boughs in her lap and began to tie one to the windowsill.

“Why not? We are stuck together for Christmas, and there is no one at my shop to appreciate these. They are wonderful, are they not? Mrs. Greer made them for me.” Caroline breathed deeply of the rosemary scent as she worked, the fresh, wintry fragrance filling the room with a bit of cheer. She did not miss the quizzical look William threw in her direction. He clearly thought she was a madwoman, dressing his home with Christmas greenery. But if work kept her hands busy and prevented her imagination from wandering to unwelcome places, then William was about to have the most festive home in all of Chatternwell.

Good heavens, he is a handsome man!

Not in the polished manner of Lord Saunton, who was undoubtedly one of the most elegant men she had ever laid eyes on. No, William Jackson possessed a different sort of handsomeness—a rugged, earthy kind that spoke of strength and honest labor. He was not crafted for ballrooms but for the anvil and the forge, and there was something admirable in that. His broad shoulders and powerful frame were honed by years of hard work, his hands marked by calluses earned through dedication.