Before he can even ask, she rests the bottle to the table. When did she start knowing him so well? His dark eyebrows come together wondering if he's become so predictable.
Appreciating the burn of the rum on his tongue, he leans back in the chair to watch her through the doorway that leads from where he dines into the kitchen. Catching glimpses of her skirts as she moves, he finds himself listening to the quiet way her bare feet meet the floor. He chides himself, he should not be thinking of her bare anything. She's the kitchen maid. She's just a girl.
When she comes to clear, he's finishing the rum from the cup. He's lost track of the number, he poured himself at least two and in her easy efficiency she no doubt refilled his glass as well. Palms on the table, he pushes to stand. Too close. She's reaching for his plate, he finds himself breathing her in. The scent of soap and skin, mixed with the warmth of her hair. Almost, almost he reaches out to brush red tendrils from pale shoulder.
"Sir," she pulls him up short and he manages to balance, standing, straightening his shirt, trying to straighten his senses. "Anything more?"
So much more. He would like so much more in this moment. "No, Demelza, nothing more, tonight."