“Your attempt to sacrifice yourself to an unpleasant situation, for the sake of your mother and her victim, was very virtuous. I am sorry it did not work.”
She supposed she should find offense in his blatancy. Indeed, although she had danced with him more than once over several seasons, he was still as much a stranger to her as Colonel Middleton was to Mamma.
But the condescension, though spoken without compassion, was accompanied by such a strong look of attention that…well, she could not be angry.
Despite herself, a smile leaked forth. “Everyone so gracefully skirts about the obvious, sir, that I find your candidness rather refreshing.”
“I always say what is upon my mind.”
“A dangerous custom.”
“Only if handled without skill.” He walked to one of the white-painted pillars, leaned back against it with his arms over his chest. Rain misted his face. He was not handsome exactly, for his eyes were small and his pale cheeks thin, but the intensity of his self-assuredness was undeniably charming.
She shook herself free of such thoughts. She was no more attracted to Alexander Oswald than she was any of the other gentlemen who had purred over her since coming out. No one had ever garnered true interest. No one had come close to affecting her heart.
Except one.
And he had disappeared.
“You are not the only one whispered of, I dare to say, Miss Whitmore.” With moisture glistening his face, he pushed off the pillar and stepped closer. His head cocked. “Pray, exactly how old are you?”
“You can hardly expect me to own to it.” No older than him, for certain.
“You are seven and twenty, yet unpersuaded into matrimony, and beautiful enough to make it a puzzlement.” The corner of his lips lifted. “Care to enlighten me on why?”
She wished she knew why herself.
Or perhaps she did.
Of course she did.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but I fear I must return to my cousin. I believe she slipped away to the retiring room, but is likely quite finished and looking for me everywhere—”
“Miss Whitmore.” He caught her elbow before she made it to the door.
Her brows rose at the brazenness of his touch. “Sir?”
He reached around her, opened the door, and quirked a small grin. “I fear it only safe to warn you that I feel both challenged and intrigued. I am inclined to discover your secrets.”
Secrets.Her heart pulsed at the word. He spoke it with arrogance and flirtatious jest, but he was wrong in every point.
For she had only one secret.
And no one would ever find out.
The corner was empty.
Weakness drained through him, as he wiped water from his eyes and entered the suffocating cabin. He stepped over the body.
Then he turned toward the quilted curtain. The one Ruth had sewn together with her own hands and he had hung before their bed in a rustic attempt at privacy.
He ripped it open now.
He found her just where he’d known—draped across the bed, bed linens pulled over her torn dress, eyes closed but lips moving, as if in prayer.
“Ruth.” The name gutted out of him. He leaned over her, hands easing about her face, crawling up her cheeks, brushing across her hairline. “Ruth.”
“The ch…children?”
