“Ouch.” He rubbed his heart. “You’re more dangerous than the footmen. Your words both sword points and fists.”
“Remember that.” She didn’t smile. A victory, that.
They walked in silence until the village appeared beyond a thin line of trees.
She stepped onto the nearby road, intending to leave him behind, but he grasped her wrist, stopped her, forced her to turn around.
As his thumb rubbed havoc into the pulse at her wrist, his blue, blue eyes made her forget her name. She didn’t even pull away. He did not move, but nonetheless, she felt as if he bound her, weaving with her undeniable attraction to him a connection she had no use for.
“I apologize.” His brow pulled low, and his hat tipped over his eyes, yet he could not hide his expression, serious for the first time since he’d scared her in the garden. “For flirting. The whisky’s wearing off and the emptiness is setting in. Flirting is the next best distraction.”
Birds chittered around them, the sun made sapphires of his eyes, and oh how she wanted to agree. “Thank you for apologizing. Do not flirt again. And no whisky.” Where had he even come by it? No matter. Men always had their ways.
He squeezed her wrist then released her. “As you wish.” He turned and made his way down the road back toward Hawthorne House, and she watched him until he disappeared.
The thread of yearning he’d tied about her stretched out with his wandering form. It seemed to have wiggled its way around her heart. It tugged loose some drop cloth that had settled there years ago like a shroud. She rubbed at her chest, trying to dislodge the thread, keep the shroud in place.
She did not yearn forhim. But… but for theideaof him. He was the kind of man she might have married had she not settled upon this new scheme. A simple, working man with a jovial spirit who sparked desire in her body. She yearned for what she’d never have. But she snipped the thread and headed to her brother’s house. What mattered her own desires when so many others suffered?
Three
Keats hid behind a rose bush of some sort that made him sneeze and watched his sister. Miss Jones, the doctor, and his wife had left her just moments ago. The doctor had asked Alex questions with a cool calm that inspired trust, looking at a bruise Alex showed him on her forearm and then inspecting her ear and hearing on one side. Where the devil had she come by such wounds? Why had he not known about them? Was he really so drunk so often that he’d not noticed her wearing long sleeves in the middle of the summer?
Apparently so. Alex sat with a book in her hands, but she did not read. She stared off into the garden but stared at nothing, too, a horrid blankness in her gaze. He needed to talk to her. He needed to tell her that she must return home. He needed to tell her he was there to take care of her.
He rustled around the side of the bush but stopped before making himself known. He still smelled a little—well, perhaps a lot—like he’d taken a bath in whisky. And he hardly looked like himself, having borrowed a real stable hand’s clothes. None of that of any consequence. He still did not trust these strangers who absconded with women in the dead of the night. Alex must return home. He must confront his sister.
But then she closed her eyes, and a single tear dropped down her cheek, and he threw himself behind the rose bush again, his heart beating madly in his ears, his soul wailing like it never had before. He’d not even known it could do that. Had never really thought about having a soul, actually. How did he turn it off?
Talking to Alex, banishing her tears—that would do it.
He hated weeping women. That’s why he’d given himself away early this morning. After Sacks had been bribed and threatened into handing over a grubby suit of clothes, sharing his cottage accommodations, and keeping his bloody mouth closed, he’d spied Miss Jones trudging toward the gardens. He’d followed only to discover her secrets and those of this house, not toescorther, protect her, pledge allegiance to her. But then she’d closed her eyes and dropped a tear, and hell if he could keep away.
The crunch of gravel on the path signaled a new arrival, as did a sunny voice saying, “Alex, would you like some company?” Miss Jones. Lucy, the doctor had called her.
He’d almost kissed her, had wanted to with every fiber of his being. But for all he knew, she was the enemy.
But she’d not put that bruise on Alex’s flesh, not put those shadows in his sister’s eyes.
Alex wiped away a tear. “I should like company very much. Apologies. I do not mean to be a watering pot. I never am.” It was true. Good old stalwart Alex never cried, never made a fuss, always did everything she should. Until now.
Who had bruised her arm? What or who had left her concerned about her ear? Palmerson? Her betrothed? Surely a man that old could not muster much force. Alex was safe with a near-corpse like him. Wasn’t she?
“Please join me,” Alex said.
Keats peeked through the branches of the rose bush, pricking his thumb on a thorn. He hissed and sucked at the blood between his teeth.
Beyond the bush, Miss Jones said, “I hope you are not too exhausted after my brother’s examination.”
“No. He’s quite reassuring,” Alex said.
“Do you have the energy for a few more questions?”
Alex nodded, ran her thumb along the edge of her abandoned book. “I believe so.”
“You must not answer anything that discomfits you, but… it is rather necessary for me—for us—to know… will anyone search for you?” Miss Jones seemed to hold her breath.
“I do not think so. I left no evidence of our correspondence. I fed every letter to the fire as soon as I’d done reading it. My fiancé will simply find another young lady to wed. My father and brother… they will eventually realize I’m gone but not, perhaps, for a few days. My father might look for me. For a few days, a fortnight at most. But then he’ll put my dowry to other uses. And my brother… he’ll think it a curiosity, but he’ll forget my absence at the bottom of the next whisky bottle he turns up.”
