“This was a shock to you. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
“You have every right to be angry.”
“Still. I was harsh.”
“I understand what you must think of me. How could you not?” She gave him what she hoped was a light smile.
“I appreciate that you did not involve me until you had to. I wish you luck.” She turned again, needing to leave, to flee the sharpness of his eyes but, again, she was stopped by his voice.
His words were low, soft, and not the least bit kind. “What am I supposed to think of you?”
Jaw set, Alexandra pivoted, anger giving her the will to meet his gaze. It hurt to be around people who knew nothing of her but the lowest moment of her life. Hurt even more to be near a man who seemed so solid and unpretentious and who must hold her in such contempt. What did he want her to say? What did anyone want her to say?
“I did not come here to explain myself to you. You asked for something and I’ve given it to you. That’s the end of it.”
“Will you contact me if he writes you again?”
“Why would he write again?”
“You sent him money.”
Blood rose to her face, giving her away. “Should I tell you I did, so you can truly hate me?”
His eyes flashed something hot, then traveled about the room, measuring each face before he took her arm and guided her toward the door. “People are watching.”
She let him lead her only because it meant she’d be that much closer to leaving. As soon as they stepped out the door, as soon as her foot touched the dirt yard, she edged away, putting distance between them. “Thank you for escorting me out. Have a good journey.” The stable boy nodded at her gesture and led Brinn toward the mounting steps, but before Alexandra could follow him, Blackburn’s soft words touched her ear.
“You are not what I thought you would be, Lady Alexandra.”
She glanced back at him, taking in the angled planes of his face and the flint of his gray eyes. He was a hard man, she thought, but fair. He’d apologized. Still, he did not like her or, at the very least, did not want to. He was just like the rest of them in that way.
She gave him her back and spoke into the soft breeze. “You do not know the first thing about me, Mr. Blackburn.”
She ignored the painful pounding of her heart and stepped to her horse. The mare’s ears pricked for a bare moment as Alexandra mounted, whispering of speed before she’d even secured her seat. Brinn wheeled about, forcing the boy back a step, snorting wildly over the sound of Blackburn’s curse.
Alexandra did not look back; she simply rode, flying toward home. The journey seemed to take an hour this time, the ride no longer a haven from thought. The moment Brinn’s hooves clattered against the stone drive of Somerhart, Alexandra tossed the reins to a groom and slid from the saddle, then ran inside and up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.
“Bastard,” she huffed and threw her riding crop across the room in a high arc. She would not cry, she told herself again, sniffing against tears and dragging a sleeve across her eyes.
The man was a stranger. It did not matter what he thought of her. He was not the first person to look at her as if she were a pile of rubbish, and he would not be the last.
It was all so ridiculous. Her brother ran around as if he were Bacchus incarnate and all anyone could think was what a fine, strong, eligible man he was. But she gets caught in one tiny indiscretion and what results? Death, destruction, mayhem.
The heels of her hands caught her tears. She could live with it. She would. A man had died, and she would have that sorrow on her heart for the rest of her life, but she was only nineteen and it could not be the end of her. She’d done nothing more than men did every hour of every day.
Fingers trembling, Alexandra jerked the bellpull, then tugged at her jacket, wincing when a button broke loose under her clumsy fingers and bounced across the floor.
A bath was in order. A hot bath and a glass of wine before dinner. Her brother was in London and she would dine alone, but she would take pleasure in dressing. She might be a fallen woman, a harlot who lured men to their deaths, but she was alive and able and that was something.
And tomorrow she would work until she was too sore to think, and, please God, too tired to feel.
Collin Blackburn decided to leave the woman be for a fortnight. His men in France had flushed St. Claire out of his hole three weeks ago, and the man had left all his possessions behind, including the letters from one Lady Alexandra.
St. Claire had nothing now. He would write soon, begging for money. Collin could simply swoop in to retrieve the whereabouts of that bastard and he’d never have to see the girl again.
His head still spun from their meeting the night before. From glancing up to find her standing there, pale and lovely and somehow younger in her respectable gray. No breeches to distract him from her smallness, no bright red coat to add color to her cheeks. She’d looked vulnerable, and that vulnerability had angered him.
The note had been a surprise, or the honesty of it at least. St. Claire had used all three French locations, including the one he’d fled most recently.
Why such forthrightness? Guilt. It dulled her eyes, those damned eyes that pricked his conscience with their glimpses of hurt and defiance. Well, this mess wasn’t his fault. She’d made her own bed.
Collin packed his bag and stowed his breakfast of bread and cheese for the journey. He could make it to his cousin’s home before dark if he didn’t tarry. Lucy would be happy to have him for a week or two, had, in fact, threatened to box his ears if he ever ventured near her home and didn’t visit.
So he rode out at dawn, chewing his breakfast, making a very good effort not to think of the young Alexandra Huntington. He could measure his trip now in days-till-home. As long as he made it back to Scotland within the month, he’d get to the first horse fair. Past time to choose which of his stock would go up for sale, but things were running smoothly in his absence—no mares sick, no foals lost. Of course, if the girl did provide new information on St. Claire, Collin would be away longer. A detour to France would take weeks.
Coming around a slow bend in the road, Collin glanced up to a rise in the west. Workmen labored next to a low wall, large stones strewn at their feet. There in their midst stood a slender figure, red coat ablaze in the rising sun. Alexandra Huntington. It had to be her. She gestured widely with the spade she held, appearing to shout, though the distance stole the words. Collin stopped his horse to watch.
He’d known she acted as her brother’s manager, a rare position for a nobleman much less a gently bred woman, but he’d assumed it was merely an amusement for her. A novelty, an excuse to be scandalous and wear men’s clothes. He should have known better after glimpsing that simmering will in her eyes. She looked to be more involved than most managers would be.
How vulnerable she appeared, standing among the hulking laborers, weighing half of even the smallest of them. But, to a man, they stood still as she spoke, some of them nodding at her words.
One of the group inclined his head and she turned to stare down the hill. She went still, probably shocked at finding herself watched, then took a step in his direction. Just one. Collin wondered at her expression as he raised a hand in farewell, and felt a moment’s regret that she didn’t return the gesture. She stood like a statue, stiff and proud in the pink light, her face unreadable. Then she turned back to the men with a sharp word that set them all in motion.
She’d dismissed him. Just as well. She’d be unhappy with him regardless when he returned to demand further information. No point calling a truce now.
As he urged Thor to a brisk pace, Collin felt a small curl of anticipation in his stomach at the