Page 32 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“It shouldn’t,” Desmond said flatly. “Before we arrived, the highwaymen attempted to commandeer her home for themselves, and Mrs. Ballantine admirably defended herself against them. Chased them off with a hunting musket.”

Clara did her best not to stare. What Desmond suggested was, after all, preposterous. No one, least of all her in-laws, would ever believe that she could be capable of such daring.

A fact which was exceptionally plain by the skeptical expressions on the Ballantines’ faces. Yet when they turned their patent disbelief toward her, she only tipped up her chin in response. Perhaps she hadn’t chased off a gang of highwaymen, but she had been holding her own against them, even facing down their rather terrifying leader and taking charge of an injured thief’s health. The way she’d directed Desmond, without hesitation, and remained in some degree of control over her own fear…she could take a measure of pride in that.

Several moments passed, and then Mrs. Ballantine nodded, albeit warily. “Very well. I suppose we ought to feel safer during our stay here, knowing that these, ah, gentlemen are staying under the same roof. Though they will have to mind their conduct. Shoving is absolutely forbidden.”

“You cannot stay here,” Clara said at once.

“Whyever not?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. “We came a long way, gel.”

Mortification burned Clara. Having her in-laws speak to her so disrespectfully was never an easy burden to bear, but now Desmond, Gideon, and even Liam and Cyrus witnessed her humiliation.

It shouldn’t matter what a gang of highwaymen thought of her, or if they believed her a milquetoast who could be effortlessly trod upon. Yet…

Since last night, she’d faced down five highwaymen. Met them head on. And that Clara, and the one she’d been with her in-laws…weren’t the same person.

She saw herself through the highwaymen’s eyes. Saw who she was, who she had become. She’d once tended patients with her father fearlessly, never turning squeamish, keeping a steady head during some of the grisliest treatments, including setting compound fractures and assisting in surgeries. Even now she provided the same medical care for the villagers.

She ran this house entirely on her own, and answered to no one but herself.

Clara had mutely accepted the humiliation that her late husband’s parents inflicted upon her. Damn it if that didn’t send acidic fury pouring through her body and cast a film of fire over her vision.

“I am a widow, sir, and no gel.” The words jumped from Clara before she could stop them.

Mr. Ballantine scowled. “That hardly signifies. What matters is that we have journeyed a goodly distance, and it is our right to stay beneath our son’s roof.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Clara said, more firmly, “but Arthur left the house to me. The roof, and everything beneath it, belongs to myself alone.”

Her in-laws gaped at her.

Desmond gave her a small nod.

“All the bedchambers in the house are accounted for,” she went on.

“Every one of them?” demanded Mrs. Ballantine.

“Every last one,” Clara said. “There is nowhere for you to sleep.”

“I count four men here,” Mr. Ballantine noted. “There are seven bedchambers.”

“One of the rooms is occupied by an injured man,” Clara said.

“That leaves two bedchambers,” Mrs. Ballantine clipped.

“One is mine,” Clara continued. “And I need not account for every room in this house. If I say you cannot sleep here, you shall not do so.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine stared at her.

“Of course,” Clara went on, “if you are determined to remain in the area, you are welcome to take rooms at the Pear Tree.”

“That tumbledown inn in the village?” Mrs. Ballantine looked horrified.

“It is a pity if it doesn’t meet your standards, but it’s the best I can do.” Clara walked to the door of the parlor. “There’s always Cheltenham for finer accommodations. The spas are quite exceptional there.”

“That’s twenty miles away!” Mr. Ballantine exclaimed.

“Your carriage is still outside, along with your luggage. I believe that if you leave now, you could reach Cheltenham in time for the evening musicales. The highwaymen usually only strike at night, so you ought to make haste to depart.”