The answer came to him. He had.
She’d been a virgin. That was why she was so emotional this morning. It should have been her bridal morning. Guilt poked at Nash’s conscience with long, spiny fingers as he stamped on his way.
Sheknewthere was no question of marriage. And, dammit, hewasn’tabandoning her. How could he? She was . . . She was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.
Did she think he could just walk away?
He was, in fact, walking away at this very minute. Brooding over what couldn’t be helped. Over the look in a woman’s eyes. Maddy’s eyes.
Damn and blast! He kicked a pebble viciously, and nearly lost his tied-on boot.
What a bloody mess. He should never have stayed the night, never have accepted her invitation to come to her bed. But the deed was done. And done well. So . . . glorious he couldn’t regret it.
But did she?
He stopped, encountering a herd of sheep, and waited as they flowed around him in the narrow lane. The shepherd gave him a laconic nod and touched his cap. Nash returned the greeting absently.
Did she imagine he would abandon her and the children? Dammit, he was fond of those brats. Very fond. The very first thing he would do when he got to his house would be to summon his man of business—not Harris—Marcus’s man of business, and set up a trust for Maddy and the children, so that they need never live on honey and eggs and weed blasted soup again.
How much farther to this damned vicarage? His feet hurt. His boots were made for riding, not for walking miles over frozen ground.
She’d be safe on one of Marcus’s estates. She couldn’t stay here, facing down the gossip she didn’t deserve, but she’d be all right.
So why did the thought make him feel so empty?
The vicarage stood still and silent. At this ungodly hour, nobody was awake. Nash found his horse, saddled it, and left a note thanking the vicar, saying he’d call at a more civil hour to give his thanks in person. He left a bright, new-minted sovereign for the groom.
Then he headed for Whitethorn at a fast gallop. Cold air lanced through him, scouring his lungs as he bent over the horse’s neck, urging him faster and faster, enjoying the speed, seeking some kind of release—from what, he didn’t know. He’d had more releases last night than any man had a right to. He ought to be relaxed and on top of the world. Instead he was a bunch of angry knots.
There were more people out and about now, farm workers who lifted a hand in greeting, as if they knew him. His tenants perhaps. Thank God they were too far away to engage him in conversation.
They galloped until horse and master were breathless, blood singing, cold air stinging, Nash’s brain going over that last little scene in the cottage over and over.
Damn it all, he wasn’t ready to end it yet. Whatever “it” was.
Whitethorn Manor came into view in the valley between the trees, floating in wisps of fog in the bowl of a valley. He pulled his horse to a halt and stared blankly in front of him.
How did he want it to end?
He could have—heshouldhave—made it all neat and tidy. He hadn’t even told her of his plan to secure her future. And if she was too stubborn and prideful to accept his help, he’d find her a position where she could earn a good living. He’d pay for the boys’ education, of course, and the girls would have a generous dowry—he’d find some way that little Miss Stuffrump would accept.
He clenched his jaw, frustrated. The trouble was, such plans were all well and good for some other woman, but she was Maddy. She wasn’t like other women.
The more he thought about it, the more that elusive expression of hers, that last time they’d made love, worried him. A kind of quiet, resigned acceptance.
Of what, dammit? He’d made it as clear as a man could that he wasn’t abandoning her!
If abandonment worried her, God knew she hadn’t clung. He knew about clingy women. Maddy had all but thrust him out the door. And bolted it after him.
As he stared down through the trees, a memory tugged at him. He’d seen that expression before. But when?
And then it hit him. It was with just that resigned tenderness that she’d rewrapped her grandmother’s portrait, that sketchbook, and her girlhood journal.
Dammit, she was mentally wrapping him in faded silk brocade, getting ready to put him away with all her other treasured memories. He stared blindly down at the mellow gold stone of his inheritance, then wrenched his horse around and galloped back the way he came.
Fifteen
“It’s all over the village, miss,” Lizzie panted. She’d run all the way from the farm and knocked on the cottage door just after the children had left for the vicarage.
