The Woman's Arrival (3)

Gregory then entered the kitchen, still feeling the lingering tension from his encounter with the strange woman. He had left her wet clothes onto a nearby table with a heavy sigh and sat down on one of the old wooden stools by the counter.

His hands were still trembling slightly, though he did his best to hide it as he glanced over at Martha, who was busy at the stove, stirring a pot of steaming stew.

The kitchen was small but functional, with copper pots and pans hanging from hooks on the walls, and the air was filled with the comforting aroma of simmering meat and vegetables. Martha, in her usual plain apron, was focused on her task, but Gregory could feel her eyes flicking toward him every so often, suspicious.

"What's on the menu tonight?" Gregory asked, trying to sound casual, though his mind kept drifting back to the stranger upstairs, the way she had peeled off her clothes without a second thought.

Martha didn't turn around, keeping her attention on the stew as she added a pinch of salt. "Beef stew," she said curtly. "Same as always. Not like we've got much else to work with, not this time of year."

Gregory nodded, leaning back on the stool, his eyes darting toward Martha's back. He could sense the tension in the air, the unspoken jealousy radiating off of her. He knew her well enough to know what was on her mind.

"You're quiet," he said after a moment, watching as she ladled some stew into a bowl and set it aside. "Something bothering you?"

Martha scoffed, finally turning to face him, her eyes narrowed. "Bothering me? You're the one sittin' there like a man who's just seen a ghost." She wiped her hands on her apron and gave him a sharp look. "Or maybe it wasn't a ghost. Maybe it was somethin' else that's got you all worked up."

Gregory shifted uncomfortably on the stool, knowing exactly what she was hinting at. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, Martha."

"Oh, don't play dumb with me," Martha snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "That woman upstairs. You think I didn't notice the way you came back here lookin' like you'd just been slapped in the face with temptation? She's got you wrapped around her little finger, and she hasn't even said two words to you."

Gregory tried to protest, but Martha wasn't having it.

"Don't deny it, Gregory. I saw the way you looked at her when she walked in here, drippin' wet and actin' like she owns the place. You were practically drooling."

Gregory felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "She's just a guest, Martha. Nothin' more."

Martha snorted, turning back to the stove to stir the stew again, though her movements were more aggressive now. "A guest, is she? Looks more like a tramp to me. No decent woman would dress like that, especially not in weather like this. And the way she carries herself? Struttin' around like she's some kind of queen? Please."

Gregory frowned, trying to keep his tone light even though he could feel the heat rising in his chest. "You don't know anything about her, Martha. She's just passing through, like anyone else. Maybe she's had a rough time of it."

"A rough time?" Martha scoffed, shaking her head. "More like she's used to gettin' whatever she wants, wherever she goes. I can tell just by lookin' at her. She's the kind that expects men to fall all over themselves for her, just 'cause she bats her lashes and shows a little skin."

Gregory couldn't help the flicker of desire that passed through his mind, unbidden. He tried to push it away, but the memory of the stranger's body—her smooth skin, the curve of her hips, the way she had stripped down without hesitation—kept flashing before his eyes.

"Maybe you're bein' a little harsh," Gregory muttered, his voice softer now. He didn't want to admit it, but there was something about the stranger that had stirred something in him, something he hadn't felt in a long time. "She's... she's just confident. That's all."

Martha whipped around, glaring at him. "Confident? Is that what you're callin' it? I call it sluttish. Walkin' around half-dressed like she's lookin' to seduce the whole damn village. And don't tell me you weren't thinkin' the same thing. I know that look on your face, Gregory. You think I don't see the way your eyes light up when you talk about her?"

Gregory swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "I'm just tryin' to be polite, Martha. She's a guest."

"A guest who's got you wrapped around her finger already," Martha muttered bitterly. She grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter and began slicing it with more force than necessary. "I can't stand women like her. Always gettin' attention just for showin' a bit of leg. It's disgusting."

Gregory watched her in silence for a moment, feeling guilty for the thoughts that had crossed his mind. But at the same time, he couldn't help it. There was something about the stranger, something wild and untamed, that had sparked a fire in him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

"Maybe she's not all bad," Gregory said quietly, more to himself than to Martha. "People don't always have control over how they look."

Martha spun around, glaring at him. "Oh, please. Don't defend her like she's some poor, helpless creature. She knows exactly what she's doin'. Women like that always do. They use their looks to get what they want, and they don't care who they step on to get it."

Gregory didn't respond, knowing that Martha's jealousy was clouding her judgment. She had never been one to compete with women like the stranger, and it was clear that her resentment was coming from a place of insecurity.

"I just don't trust her," Martha muttered, turning back to the stew and ladling it into a bowl. "She's up to something, I can feel it. No one just strolls into a village like this without a reason, especially not dressed like that. Mark my words again, Gregory, she's trouble."

Gregory leaned back on the stool, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe you're right," he said after a moment. "But until we know more, let's just give her the benefit of the doubt. She's payin' good money to stay here, after all."

Martha shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she finished slicing the bread and placed it on a plate next to the stew. "We'll see how long that lasts," she said darkly. "Women like her don't stick around unless they're causin' trouble. You'll see."

She wiped her hands on her apron, then picked up the tray with the bowl of stew, bread, and a glass of wine. As she turned to leave the kitchen, she paused by the door, glancing back at Gregory.

"Did you even ask her name?" Martha asked, her voice tinged with irritation.

Gregory blinked, realizing he hadn't. "No... I didn't. Thought it wasn't my place to ask."

Martha rolled her eyes. "Well, it damn well is now. I'm not servin' her food without knowin' what to call her. You want me to ask her, or are you goin' to do it yourself?"

Gregory scratched his head, feeling slightly embarrassed. "You ask her," he muttered. "She'll probably tell you quicker than she'd tell me."

Martha huffed and turned to leave, her steps heavy as she headed up the stairs toward the stranger's room.