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Chapter Seven
Of all thethings he expected to be in Ullinn House, he had not imagined it would contain a breathtaking woman.
Holding a cooking vessel like it was a sword and she was ready to strike him down.
“Thank you,” he said, once she lowered it. “May we come in?”
“It is your house,” she said. Her eyes went from him, to Nigel, then back again. “Apparently. I don’t think you need my permission.”
Her fear was masked with droll petulance. But he knew fright when he saw it.
Then Nigel asked what they were both thinking. “How long have you been here, Miss Doyle, if you do not mind me asking?”
As she considered her answer, Charles shut the door to the kitchen. She blinked when it clicked shut but kept her mettle and replied without so much as a tremor in her voice.
“A fortnight, I believe.”
He tried to hide his surprise. She was bewitching. But there was no denying even in the bad light that her dress was dirty, her hair disheveled, and her face smudged with dust, soot, and dirt. He could not tell what color her hair or eyes were, and the dress itself seemed dove gray or light fawn. The cut was nothing ostentatious, which led him to suspect she was likely common.
Nigel might postulate that she was a lady on the run and in hiding, therefore her dress was borrowed subterfuge.
Charles was less interested in dramatics. He also wanted them to stop standing about gawking at one another. Glancing at the chairs around a vast, wooden table, he said, “If you are amenable to sit with strangers, Miss Doyle, might we make use of this table?”
There was a visible layer of dust on the chairs and the tabletop.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are not angry?”
“Should I be?”
“Most men would not be pleased I was here.”
Miss Doyle stood, her hands clasped before her. Were it not for the way her arms and legs trembled, she would have been the picture of resolute. Charles would not sit until she did.
“I am concerned, but not angry.”
Nigel said, “Clearly, this has not been a pleasant stay.” He offered Miss Doyle a smile that she did not return.
“It has not.”
With a short inhalation, Charles realized she must be hungry. He had never been without food for more than a few days. She must have been eating something, for two weeks was too long to survive without anything at all.
Reflexively, he began patting his pockets.
“What on earthareyou doing, Mr. Mason?” Miss Doyle regarded his actions.
He smiled, feeling caught out. “I thought I might have had some biscuits. We have been traveling until yesterday. I secreted them away.”
“His mood turns foul if he does not get to eat,” said Nigel. “As such you’re very likely to find an apple or some other small victual on his person.”
Her expression softened but did not blossom into a smile. She said, “I cannot fault you for that. And there seems to be rather a lot for you to feed. The meals would need to go much farther for you than they do me.” As though shocked at her own forthrightness, she brought fingers to her lips. “Pardon me. I have not spoken to another soul for days.”
Despite himself, Charles laughed. She was both beautiful and quick-witted.
The sound appeared to unnerve her.
“It is quite all right. Look, if the thought of sitting indoors does not appeal, we could venture into the garden. I saw space for a fire.”
He was sure that an area near the garden had once been devoted to a bonfire for some purpose or other. It was so cold that the temperature was nearly the same inside and out. Wherever they ended up having their conversation, a fire would be necessary.
