He smiled at the rush and tumble of her thoughts, so young, so impatient, dreaming as he supposed all young girls did, of Prince Charming. And who was this charming Raoul? He flipped a few pages.
. . . all this practicing. I grow so weary of it, as if there is any point to it. Papa said Grand-mère was cracked in the head and perhaps she is . . .
. . . If I were a boy, Papa would love me, too, and I would not be here in a woodcutter’s cottage, treading forgotten measures in secret with no partner, to music I’ve never heard, hearing tales of people killed before I was born. I love Grand-mère but must I dwell with ghosts all my life? I want—
Voices, Nash suddenly realized, outside. Dammit! Foot-steps heading this way. No time to look out of the window. If she had visitors with her, he’d best be invisible.
He shoved her things back in the case, slammed it shut, and slid it across the floor to sit under the shelf he’d found it on. He dived into the bed, hitting his injured ankle on the wooden frame as he did so. It hurt like blazes.
His clothing! He pulled off his coat and started on his boot. It fitted so snugly it was a struggle, and when he heard the rattle of the latch he thrust his booted foot under the bedclothes, tugged the bed curtains closed, and lay back, just as the door opened. If it was that blasted vicar again . . .
But it was just Maddy and the children.
“You were right,” Maddy said as she removed her hat. The children clattered past her and raced upstairs to change out of their good clothes. “The vicar did have a copy of Debrett’s, so I addressed the letter and then, as luck would have it, the mail coach rolled into the village ten minutes after I posted the letter. So it’s on its way to Hampshire. That’s where Alverleigh House is.”
She moved briskly around the cottage, straightening things. She suddenly paused and surveyed the room. “You’ve been up,” she said, looking pleased. “Moving around. How wonderful. You must be feeling a lot better. How is your ank—” She broke off, noticing the small leather case out of place. One of the fastenings was undone. Her smile faded. “You’ve been looking at my things.”
“I’m sorry, I was bored.”
Her brandy eyes flashed. “Being bored is no excuse for snooping.”
“I wasn’tsnooping,” he said uncomfortably. “I was just . . . exploring.”
“Exploring my private things!” She made it sound like he was going through her underwear.
“It wasn’t like that at all. I was just . . .”
Maddy opened the case. There, on the top, was her girlhood journal, the ribbons that fastened it loose and untied. If he’d read her journal, full of her silly, precious, girlhood dreams, she would just die of mortification.
“Did you read my—can you read French?”
His eyes flickered guiltily. He had. He’d read her journal.
He said, as if it were an excuse, “I didn’t mean to. I can read French—it’s much used in dipl—” He caught himself in time. “A few phrases jumped out at me. I promise I read no more than that.”
“Only because I came home.” The look on his face told her she was right. How dare he go poking and prying in her private things. Was this how he repaid her for all her care of him? To violate her privacy? She wanted to cry. She wanted to hit him!
“It was wrong to open the case and I apologize. Unreservedly. I didn’t read much of the journal but I did look through the sketch book. I wondered—”
She flung up a hand. “Not another word!” If he said one more thing she would hit him. How dare he wonder? He who had no history, no past. How could he know how painful some memories were?
She jammed the case into its little alcove. “I knew accepting money from you would complicate things. I suppose you think it gives you the right to—”
“It hasnothingto do with the money. I wouldn’t dream of holding it over your head in such away. That would be despicable.”
“And looking through my belongings while my back is turned isn’t?”
There was a small silence. “You’re right, it is. I’m sorry.”
He looked sorry, too, which mollified her somewhat. But not enough. He’d read her journal . . . She felt stripped bare.
He sat on the edge of the bed watching her as she began preparing the next meal. After about ten minutes she happened to glance at him.
“Forgive me?” he said instantly.
Maddy sniffed. Lying in wait for her, pouncing with a smile guaranteed to dissolve all remnants of anger, a smile too charming to resist. He knew it, the beast. “If those boots have torn my sheets, I’ll have you out of here and up at the vicarage as quick as you can say Jack Robinson, ten pounds or no ten pounds.”
“Boot,” he corrected her. “You mangled the other one to death, remember. And the sheets aren’t torn, so you needn’t send for Rev. Prosy.” His eyes danced; the wretch knew she was bluffing.
