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Although empty, her stomach roiled. “What are you saying, Mr. Netherborne?”
“There were two bowls on the table in the cottage.” As if he needed emphasis, he held up two fingers. “Two.”
In a perfect imitation of the man before her, she kept her face passive. “I had a second helping.”
A condemning eyebrow quirked. “And you used a fresh bowl? What did you eat?”
Ah, this she could answer truthfully. “I captured one of Mr. Thatcher’s remaining chickens for a stew.”
“And you prepared this stew?”
She squared her shoulders. How dare he doubt her! “As I said in the cottage, I’m not completely helpless. One can do many things when one is forced to survive.”
“I see. And did you don a man’s boots to venture out into the snow, perhaps to retrieve firewood?”
Oh, dear.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “What are you implying, sir?”
“There were a man’s boot tracks in the snow coming from the cottage. Fresh tracks. How do you explain that?”
“Perhaps a passerby such as yourself.”
Mr. Netherborne, who had always been so reserved, so passionless, glared at her, red streaking up his neck to his ears and face. “Miss Pratt. Do you expect me to believe that? The direction of the footprints came frominsidethe cottage. I would advise you to think before answering my next question. Keep in mind, I can forgive many things, but dishonesty is not one of them.”
Priscilla’s heart pounded from his accusatory glare.
“I will ask you one more time. Was anyone else with you in the cottage?”
Finally swallowing that pesky lump, she straightened, facing her fate head on. “Yes. But nothing happened. A man fell from his horse and injured himself. The snow prevented us both from proceeding, so I assisted him to the cottage where we could warm ourselves. But I promise, nothing happened.”
“And where is this man now?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Perhaps tending to his horse in Mr. Thatcher’s stable.”
His hands still clasped behind his back, Mr. Netherborne began pacing the room, muttering something unintelligible. When he stopped and faced her, his demeanor shifted.
“Thank you for being honest, Miss Pratt. Although I would have hoped you had been more forthright at the beginning. I must pray about this. Such deceit does not bode well for our marriage. And although I understand your reluctance to tell me, it gives me cause to doubt your honesty that nothing in fact happened between you and this mysterious man. As such, consider our betrothal suspended. I shall leave you now to go in search of this man and obtain his side of the story, if possible. I bid you good day.”
Without allowing her a word of reply, he turned and marched from the room.
When the door opened, her mother practically fell inside, her eyes wide and mouth matching. “Priscilla, what in God’s name have you done?!”
CHAPTER 8—BEING PRODUCTIVE
After tidying up and checking the cottage for anything he might have left inside, Timothy saddled and mounted his horse. Unease niggled at him as he recalled the scene that had played out before him with Emma and the two men.
She’d obviously known them. But something about the younger man didn’t add up in Timothy’s mind. Had he been her fiancé? Her brother perhaps? Yet the man’s detached demeanor upon discovering her safe and unharmed seemed too dispassionate for someone betrothed or related.
If Bea had been missing during a blizzard, Timothy knew he would have been frantic with worry. And Laurence, Bea’s husband, had ridden miles in a horrible lightning storm just to apologize to her.
No, something was definitely odd about the man’s behavior. Nevertheless, it wasn’t Timothy’s concern, and he pushed Emma and her alluring blue eyes from his mind, nudging his horse forward.
More than likely, the remnants of his feverish state still muddied his mind, and he had misinterpreted the reunion. Emma wasn’t his, and sharing one kiss—even an especially arousing one—did not give him any claim to her.
Surely his weakened condition had left him vulnerable to feelings of attraction he’d tamped down five years ago. He huddled into his coat and gritted his teeth against the chilly wind as his horse plodded forward—toward home and away from Emma.
He made it to Stilton by nightfall, with another full day’s journey ahead before he reached London. Grateful to find an inn with an available room, he settled into the comfortable but small bed, his stomach full from a hearty meal and his muscles tired from the long ride.
