Page 7

“A word, Cristane, if you please,” he said.

He’d thought she might seem relieved at his bidding. It would allow her to escape a situation that had clearly made her uncomfortable. Instead, her cheeks grew even redder, if such a thing were possible.

Turning away from the doorway, expecting her to follow, Rory was relieved to hear the soft footfalls behind him. When they reached an alcove, he stopped and turned.

“I only wished to save you from whatever was making you so uncomfortable back there.”

Only Cristane looked the opposite of grateful. He had never seen her this way before. What could have happened? She’d been fine earlier in the day. And then he noticed a movement—her hand clenching tighter.

That was it. Her pick. The bucket in the middle of the circle had been filled with items from single men, and each of the lasses was to pick something at random. The game had little significance normally. Except for her, it did. Whatever she clutched in her hand, it was from someone Cristane admired.

A flash of something tore through him at the thought. Protectiveness? In all the years he’d known Cristane, her name had not once been linked with another’s. He wanted to know whose property she held in her hand. What man at Bradon Moor did she fancy? He discarded one prospect after another.

“Who is it?” he asked. He’d intended to jest with her, but the words came out harsher than intended.

He’d been right. She did care for the man whose token she held. But that didn’t explain the raw panic in her eyes, as if . . .

Nay, it could not be.

“Cristane, open your hand.”

She shook her head.

Rory needed to know. As impossible as it seemed, the evidence seemed to indicate it was true. Irrationally, he wanted it to be true.

“Cristane?”

Again, she shook her head. “Please do not make me.”

He knew what a gentleman would do. Walk away. Comply with her request. He wouldn’t force a woman to do anything, even such a small thing as opening her hand against her will.

Hellfire, though, Rory wanted to know what was inside her clenched fist.

“I would never do so,” he said, and her slight nod said she knew it.

And then he remembered something. Guessing wildly, he said, “’Tis the buckle from my mantle.”

Her widened eyes was the only answer he needed.

“It went missing yesterday—”

“I did not take it!”

Rory had not put the missing buckle together with the lover’s pick, but it made sense now. Unwed men were apt to find something missing in the days leading up to the Feast of St. Valentine. Somehow, he had forgotten this year.

“I know you did not.”

Rarely did the recipient of the item take it for themselves.

Turn and walk away.

She knew he’d guessed. Poor Cristane would not make a very good card player.

And yet . . .

Ever so slowly, he reached down for her hand, giving her a chance to stop him. But she did not.

Taking her balled fist in his hand, the touch more intimate, more meaningful, than it would have been just that morn, Rory turned it over.

Gently, he pulled open her fingers to reveal his missing buckle.

But rather than let go of her hand, he stood there, frozen. Replaying all of the times they had spent together over the years. He’d teased her as he would his sister. Cared for her as a cherished member of their clan.

And she’d cared for him all this time? It could be a new development, but somehow, he knew it was not.

“Cristane . . .”

Pulling her hand away, she turned and ran.

He dearly wanted to stop her. But then what? She was a servant. His sister’s maid. And she could never be anything more.