The Duke's Bed Warmer

The collar prototype was finally ready after three days of hard work by Alina and the women of her sewing circle. Satisfied with the result, she brought it to Austin’s study.

He was at his desk, reading dispatches, when she entered. His gaze immediately dropped to the collar in her hands.

She put it on his desk, without a word. He picked it up and examined it thoroughly, turning it in his hands, testing the stitching and the weight.

"This is better than what we issue," he said.

"I know."

"You’ve solved a problem the quartermaster has been ignoring for years."

Alina crossed her arms.

"The quartermaster has been ignoring it because no one in his office wears the collars. The soldiers do, and no one asks them."

Her words were simple, but they carried weight. Austin put the collar down and looked at her.

"You want to meet the soldiers?"

"I would like to fit them," she replied. "I want actual measurements, not standard sizes that don’t fit half the soldiers. I want my workshop in the field."

He considered her demand for a moment.

"Fine," he said. "I’ll arrange a fitting session with the border company."

"Really?" She asked, suddenly excited.

Austin nodded.

"I’ll tell others," she turned to leave, then stopped.

"I like this version of you better," she said. "The one who treats my work like it matters."

Then she left, leaving him dumbfounded. He looked at the collar again and realized she didn’t want apologies wrapped in gestures or guilt disguised as generosity. She wanted him to stop looking down at her and start seeing her as his equal.

The first fitting session was arranged two days later.

Alina, Marguerite, Lady Brennan, and three other women from the sewing circle rode out to the soldiers’ camp. The rest travelled in a carriage, but Alina insisted on riding.

The camp lay a few miles beyond the castle, spread across open ground with rows of tents and training fields.

The moment they reached there, the work began.

Alina moved between the soldiers, measuring their shoulders and necks, calling out numbers while Marguerite wrote everything.

Austin watched her from the command tent. Officially, he was reviewing troop readiness. In reality, he was watching her run a military workshop with the confidence of someone who had been doing this since forever.

"She is good," Mr. Harrington said.

"She is good at everything," Austin replied.

The steward glanced at him. His tone was softer than usual. But he didn’t say anything.

At midday, Alina came back to the tent. He r cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair slipping loose from its pins, a faint streak of chalk marking her cheek.

"We have measured eighty-four soldiers so far," she reported. "Thirty-one need custom adjustments. The standard collar fails on soldiers with necks over sixteen inches. We need to revise the pattern."

Austin handed her a water bottle. Their fingers brushed briefly, but neither reacted. She drank, then handed it back. Their fingers brushed again, and this time, they looked at each other.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome."

She turned away quickly and returned to work.

By afternoon, the fitting session was almost done. Alina was rolling up measuring tapes, her back to the supply stacks, her mind on the numbers Marguerite had written. The soldiers were dispersing, and the camp was winding down.

Then suddenly a soldier lost his grip and dropped a crate of supply boxes. The top crate fell directly towards Alina’s head. She didn’t see it, but Austin did.

He sprinted and reached her before the crate could fall on her. He grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her against him, turning his body to shield her.

The crate hit his shoulder instead. Then everything seemed to stop.

They were pressed together. His arm was around her waist, and her hands were braced against his chest. Their faces just inches apart.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, worried.

"No," she replied, "But the crate hit your shoulder."

"I’m fine."

He was lying, and she knew that. Instead of stepping away, they simply stood there, caught in the moment.

After a few seconds, Alina noticed Marguerite watching them with a very obvious smile. She stepped back instantly.

"You should see the physician," she said.

"It’s fine."

"You were hit by a crate."

"But I’m okay," he replied. "Let’s finish the work."

He walked back to the command tent, his stride slightly uneven. She watched him go, her hands still tingling from the contact.

"Snap out of it," she murmured.

They rode back side by side. Their horses occasionally brushed as the path narrowed.

"Can you lift your arm?" She asked.

"A little."

"You need to see the physician before the swelling sets in."

"Fine. I’ll go after dinner."

"No. Before dinner. You’ll sit through dinner pretending you’re fine, and by the time you admit you need help, your arm will be twice the size it should be. I know you."

"You know me?"

"I’ve been watching you for more than two months now."

"I had no idea," he replied.

Then, after a pause, he spoke again.

"I’ve been watching you too."

Alina went still and looked at him. He was looking ahead, focused on the path. She didn’t answer. What could she say?

She turned, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

Austin went to the physician as soon as they returned to the castle. His shoulder was bruised. He was ordered to rest his arm for a week. No sword practice, no heavy lifting and no pressure on the injured side.

When Austin came to bed that night, his shoulder was stiff. He needed to sleep on his right side, which taking her side of the bed. But he still walked to his side.

"Move to my side. I’ll take the right," she said.

"Alina..."

"Let’s not argue about this too. Just move."

He moved, and they settled on the opposite sides, facing each other.

The day’s exhaustion caught up with her, and she fell asleep immediately with her hand resting on the space between them. After a moment, he slowly moved his hand and gently touched the back of hers. And sometime later, he fell asleep as well.

For the first time since arriving at Ravenmoor, Alina woke first. She opened her eyes slowly and felt her hand strangely warm. She looked at her hand and froze.

Austin was asleep but was holding her hand. Their fingers were loosely intertwined.

When did he hold my hand?

Instead of pulling her hand away, she lay there, watching him sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, he stirred. He turned his head slightly and saw their hands joined together. His eyes moved to her face, as if asking why she hadn’t pulled away.

She didn’t speak or move.

And that probably was her answer.