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Why another man’s liking for her should bother him, Will didn’t understand. But it did. Quite deliberately, he placed himself between them, blocking MacCallum’s view. Unfortunately, this meant that he himself had a perfect view of her posterior.
The gentle sway of her hips as she walked was an enticement he didn’t need. Forcing his gaze elsewhere, Will trained his thoughts on the conversation that had just taken place. MacCallum had been telling the truth—or at least he believed so. Someone else had come in and defaced that board. He added Feeny to the list of facts pertaining to the case.
“Monsieur Woodson?”
He came just short of running into the headmistress, who’d stopped in front of him halfway across the now-empty courtyard. “Yes?”
“Think you that I require a keeper?”
Frowning, he gazed at her in confusion, marking the smoldering fury in her beautiful eyes. “I beg your—”
“Do you believe me incapable of addressing any situation pertaining to this school?”
So much for thinking it water beneath the bridge. Time to eat a little crow. “I apologize for speaking out of turn and humbly crave your pardon, madame. It won’t happen again.”
“Indeed, it will not,” she said, arching a delicate brow. “I appreciate that this is a man’s world—more than you can possibly know—but you need to comprehend that I’ve been making my own way in it for quite some time. I need no chaperone or guardian to speak for me or serve as an intermediary. Monsieur MacCallum is accustomed to answering to me.”
His neck grew hot beneath his collar. “I meant only to help.”
“And that is the only reason I am not dismissing you,” she snapped. “I cannot allow my authority here to be undermined, even by someone who means well. If you attempt to interfere again, I’ll have no choice but to make an example of you.”
Biting back a curse, he took a deep breath and tried to speak in a calm, reasonable manner. “I was not trying to undermine you.” He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder toward the worksite. “That writing was a threat, and it cannot be ignored. Whoever left it there has all but shouted their intent to harm you.”
Hazel eyes narrowed, and she regarded him with a sudden chilly intensity that made him squirm. “I find it interesting that you assume the message was directed at me.”
Bollocks.
“There are more than a dozen women working here,” she continued. “Any one of them—or perhaps none at all—might have been the intended recipient. It could also be a simple matter of uncivilized men making a crude jest, as some are wont to do, though I prefer to believe Monsieur MacCallum spoke the truth. My main concern is that my students are never again exposed to such vulgarity.” Crossing her arms, she raised her chin, silently challenging him to answer.
“I did not mean to imply anything untoward. I was merely concerned for your safety, and reacted without forethought.” He prayed he hadn’t ruined everything. “Please accept my apology.”
The light of battle faded from her eyes. “I appreciate your concern, but my safety is not your responsibility.” She ducked her head, but not before he saw a blush begin to tint her cheeks. “Consider your apology accepted and the matter resolved. Now, let us go to our classrooms before the students begin to worry over our absence.”
Heart pounding as if he’d been running a footrace, Will followed in confused silence. In anger, she’d been bold and confident, but now she seemed flustered and unsure of herself. My safety is not your responsibility. The way she’d said it grabbed and held him. Was it his imagination, or had he heard regret in her voice?
Yes, she was holding her own in this man’s world, admirably so, but was that what she truly wanted? Did she long for another sort of life? A husband and family, perhaps?
Again, his eyes were drawn to her lace-covered wrists. Were they the reason she hid here, cloistered among her own sex? Had someone mocked or reviled her because of them, causing her to sequester herself from the world?
It struck him then that he wanted her to know her scars weren’t repulsive to him. He had plenty of them, himself. Nearly every part of him was crisscrossed with marks. They weren’t a defect; they were a sign that the person who bore them had survived a battle. Would she believe him if he told her so?
Why would it matter to her what I think? And why should I want her to know? The obvious answer alarmed him. Bloody hell. Not only am I attracted to the woman, I’m beginning to care for her.
That could not be allowed to happen. She was a suspect. He was sworn to uphold the law. Even if he found her innocent, once he told her the truth, the best he could expect was immediate, hostile ejection from the premises. No. There was no hope of a relationship between himself and the lovely, mysterious Madame Trouvère.
The sheer idiocy of even considering it almost made him laugh aloud. He hardly knew the woman!
That never stopped you considering a union with Miss Witherspoon…
It was true. He’d seen Miss Witherspoon fewer than a dozen times, and already he’d contemplated asking for the girl’s hand. But, unlike Madame Trouvère, Miss Witherspoon didn’t make his pulse leap when she was near. The sight of her didn’t elicit a smile or make him feel lightheaded. She certainly didn’t intrude on his thoughts every few minutes throughout the day.
Stepping ahead, he opened the door for the lady, determined to ignore the way the autumn sunlight lit her face, setting her fine features aglow for a moment as she passed. Determined to block out the clean, lemony scent that washed over him in her wake. Determined to stifle the ache of e
mptiness that seemed to settle in his chest as he watched her receding back.
What insanity is this?
Sympathy, answered Logic. That’s it. Nothing more than sympathy. Seeing her scars, knowing she’d suffered in their making, had naturally evoked a strong response. It was one thing for a man to have such marks. Men were expected to bear scars, as if they were badges of honor.
