Nash thanked the boys. His horse would be ridden soon enough.
Jane plonked the heavy quart jug on the table. “I carried it all the way.”
Maddy raised one eyebrow at the boys. “I did offer,” John said in an aggrieved tone, “but she said we were too clumsy and would spill it.”
“You did last time,” Jane retorted.
“Enough!” Maddy clapped her hands. “Off, all of you, and wash your hands for supper. We have some news for you.”
The children raced off, squabbling lightheartedly.
“So the murder is out,” he said quietly.
She gave him a quizzical look.
“My fight with Harris.
“Oh, that.” She placed the griddle pan over the fire and began to set the table. “I don’t mind. Mr. Harris is a bully, and what he said about your uncle and me was horrid. I was only upset because of—” She broke off. “Well, you know.”
“I know.” He still couldn’t quite believe she was booting him out. “I’m glad it wasn’t the fighting that upset you. Most ladies abhor such scenes.”
“Far from it, I have a deplorable bloodthirsty streak,” she admitted as she dropped a small knob of butter onto the pan. It sizzled as she angled the pan to allow the butter to cover the base. A delicious smell filled the room.
She poured batter into the foaming butter. “I’ve never had a white knight come to my rescue before.”
From what he could work out, she’d never had anyone look out for her at all. Bubbles rose to the surface of the batter.
She flipped the pancakes and called toward the scullery, where the sounds of splashing and childish laughter was getting louder, “Hurry along, children. Pancakes in two minutes.”
She slid the first batch onto a tin plate and set them near the fire to keep warm. She dropped in another small knob of butter. He watched it sizzle and foam. His stomach rumbled.
“You’re welcome to stay for supper, Mr. Renfrew,” she said as if he were a stranger, a chance visitor, not someone who’d lived here for the past however many days. Drawing the line in the sand. Putting him at a distance, where he belonged.
“A last supper?” he said with irony.
She met his gaze somberly. “Exactly.”
A heavy weight settled in his chest. He wished it hadn’t ended like this, but though he regretted the final result, and upsetting her, he couldn’t regret his actions.
Leave her to face that night-creeping bastard alone? Never. And no self-respecting man could stand by, hiding behind bed curtains, while Harris threatened and bullied her.
He glanced at the bed. If he had any regrets, they were ones he couldn’t admit to, not to her . . .
Nash had never dined with children before. They arrived at the table in an exuberant tumble, yet once seated, were quite composed and relatively well behaved.
“I hope your face is not too sore, Mr. Rider?” Jane enquired once she’d helped Lucy into the chair beside Nash. “John says you were in a fight with Mr. Harris.”
“Did you win?” Henry asked.
“Of course he won,” John declared stoutly.
Maddy placed a pot of honey, some cut lemons, a large jug of milk, and a bowl of cream on the table. “Don’t pester Mr. Rider at supper, boys.”
“I wish I’d seen it,” Henry said.
“Me, too,” John said. “I’ve never seen a proper fight.”
“It was hardly a proper fight,” Nash said with an apologetic glance at Maddy. “Three punches only—and no, I didn’t knock him out.”
