“Noisy and nosy. Too many peepers”
Their horses slid through the snow with ease, although Billy had little control over his mount.
“Why the pony, Billy? Isn’t it rather small?”
“He’s called Clover. Ridges says he’ll only take short people.”
“What? Why?”
“Ridges says that he was neglected, beaten, before he came to the stables. Clover only lets him so near and then tries and bites him. Clover don’t trust no one see. Ridges says it’s gonna take ages for Clover to learn to trust him. For some reason, he don’t mind the younger, shorter lads like me, and Ridg–”
“Say that again.” Lucas’s mind was racing. He’d been so full of self-pity this morning, convinced it was the scars orhispast that had made Rosalind draw back. But maybe…maybe it had nothing to do with him. Maybe it washerpast.
“Clover was treated badly and so don’t trust no one big. Don’t matter how much food yer got, he’s still scared. Even of Ridges and he’s ever so gentle.”
Lucas ducked, narrowly avoiding a snow-laden branch. He already knew Rosalind had secrets but whatever had happened to her must have scarred her deeply. Just as deeply, if not worse, than his own. It was just you couldn’tseeRosalind’s hurt. Her bright vibrancy and outrageous humour deflected any that would look deeper.
She hid it so well.
He had presumed her past was something to do with a man and now he was terribly afraid that he’d underestimated the depths of her terror. He was a selfish lackwit. It wasn’thimthat had put her off marriage. It was her past.
Miss Rosalind Trewent, like Clover, had bitten him this morning. He’d got too close, far too close. Something made her fearful. Afraid to trust. Afraid to love. Afraid to tell him what it bloody was.
Veering on the path as he realised he was about to end up in a large snowdrift, he called back to Billy.
“I’ll buy you some pie in the village. You’re worth your weight in gold.”
“Aye. That’s what Ridges said.”
Lucas prowled around the house, hunting Rosalind. At Helmdon, it was easy to find people – you could call out quietly and the sound would waft down the passageways. Here, the rooms were too cavernous, the ceilings too high, and he felt like an utter uncouth gollumpus shouting out anything above a whisper.
Finally, he found her in the library, a room he hadn’t had much cause to visit. The door was open, and for a while, he just observed her. She was busy scrawling away on a large sheet of paper, muttering occasionally and shaking her head.
Ink blotches adorned her fingers and the desk. Her hair had partially become loose at the back again. It wasn’t surprising, as he remembered how slippery it had felt last night. There wasn’t a single curl to it, smooth and silky, like sliding your hand down marble.
It was now late afternoon, and he pulled at his tight cravat. He’d had a bath as soon as he’d returned, and Billy had nearly strangled him with his experimental cravat tying.
Clearing his throat gently, he watched her auburn head rise. He’d expected dismay, maybe even annoyance, but she looked relieved.
“Rosalind,” he said softly.
“Lucas.” She bit her lip, looked down and then quickly hid her stained hands under the oak desk.
“What are you busy scribbling?”
“Oh. I am sorting out the stores. We have had some illnesses in the village, and Mrs Mitchell lost her husband in September, so I have been appropriating what we can from the Stonebridge stores to help them this winter. I’m seeing the vicar tomorrow about it. The snow is so early this year and if it keeps up like this, a few families will have problems with their livestock and…”
Lucas watched her babbling on about the stores. Maybe he should just kiss the truth out of her? He’d discovered she had an incredibly sensitive nape, and he imagined torturing it with kisses until she gave in – delicate nips and soft presses of the tongue. But no. It was kisses that had led to the disaster this morning. He’d rushed her. Not been patient. Not listened. That wouldn’t happen again.
“Rosalind. May I speak with you?” he interrupted. She looked at him anxiously, but strangely he wasn’t worried. He was learning to discern her moods. She was wary, nervous and skittish – he could have been describing Clover. He would tell Rosalind that one day and watch her mouth form the most outrageous reply…or feel her hand clout him about the chops.
Her eyes flitted around the room, but she stood and skirted the desk, arriving to stand before him.
“You don’t really want to know about the stores, do you?” she said quietly.
“No. I want to know about you.”
“You don’t seem angry any more.”
