“Rosalind. I think you should call me Rosalind. After all, we are having a stultiloquence.”
He didn’t laugh, and she felt her nerves coil uncomfortably in her stomach. His grey eyes surveyed her, dark with determination.
“Rosalind, do you know what Stone is hiding?”
She was able to answer with complete honesty. “No.”
“Do you think it’s connected with the murders?”
“Benedict is not a murderer.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
She gave him a mutinous look and clasped her hands together. “I don’t know,” she answered carefully.
“You said last night that you trusted me. Have you seen anything suspicious?”
Closing her eyes to his hawk-like gaze, Rosalind listened to the silence of the afternoon. The rain was pattering on the window, the coal was spitting a bit, and–
“Rosalind, have you?”
She opened her eyes at the forceful voice but kept all expression from her face. Benedict’s actions were suspicious but she would trust him with her life, and he had asked her to promise. She’d hold to it, no matter what Lucas asked, no matter how much it hurt to keep silent.
“Benedict has nothing to do with the murders.”
“Answer the goddamn question,” he said louder. “Two women have been murdered and another is missing. Do you want to help? Or are you all involved? What are you hiding? How am I supposed to find a murderer when no one will speak the truth? Lies and silence, it seems to cover you all. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t a goddamn village conspiracy.”
Rosalind knew his outburst resulted from frustration, so didn’t let his words anger her. “Benedict has nothing to do with the murders,” she repeated.
He ran fingers through his hair. “All I want is some honesty.” His voice was low and surprisingly vulnerable.
Rosalind pulled her shawl tightly around her, shivering. He wanted honesty and yet she had lied by omission on all counts. She was Rosie from the nursery; she’d dreamed of a woman running for her life; she’d seen Benedict in a blood-stained shirt…
“Please, Lucas, understand what I have to say.” She looked straight into those cloudy eyes; in this, she would be forthright. “I owe Benedict. He gave me a home and a family. He…accepts me. My loyalty and love is to Benedict. And please believe me when I say that he is not a murderer. If he knew anything that would help, he would tell you. He is a good man.”
“If he is such a paragon of virtue, why haven’t you married him?”
She gave him a scornful look. “He’s my brother, in every way. Why would you ask such a question? It is as if…”
It was as if he was jealous, and the same thought seemed to have occurred to Lucas, as he looked both chagrined and angry.
Leaning forward, he asked the question she dreaded. “Rosalind, what happened before you came here? How does Stone accept you?”
“I can’t–”
“Won’t,” he interrupted. “You are just like Stone, with his secrets. You said you trusted me last night. Was that also a lie?”
“No. I do trust you…just not with my past. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
One tear snaked down her cheek; it wasn’t out of sadness but anger and frustration; it was also from the disappointed look on Lucas’s face.
She thought he would storm out, but instead he stood and walked around the desk, stooping to kneel before her on his haunches. Lucas brought forth a handkerchief and gently blotted the escaped tear.
Christ, he’d made her cry, and he felt like a beast – inside and out. He couldn’t brutalise Rosalind with questions. It was easy with a man like Sir Hector but with Rosalind, it just hurt.
Her shoulders were slumped and he realised that it upset her, just as much as him, not to bare her secrets.
Lifting her chin with his hand, he looked into dark-green eyes. “Why do I feel as though I’ve done this before?” he murmured, almost to himself, continuing to dab at her cheek even though it was dry.
