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That solved one mystery. He’d wondered why he’d caught glimpses of the same face again and again in his travels during the last months. It’d been peculiar, but as the man never approached him, not odd enough to worry on.
“Do you not find it curious that you did that, Torrie?”
“Have you followed?” She jabbed her fork into a chunk of pork. “Certainly not.” She popped the morsel into her mouth, her green eyes intent on her plate as she chewed.
“So they followed me about for the week in London and then to Scotland and back?”
“Yes—wait.” Her look snapped to him, alarmed. “You were a week in London?”
“I was.”
“No. You were only there two days before leaving for Scotland.”
He shook his head, his brow furrowed.
“You were in London for a week? Why? My man did not report that to me.”
“I was, for you were my first stop.”
The tines of her fork slammed down onto her plate. “Your first stop—you followed me? Watched me?”
He nodded, reaching forward to grab his glass, and he took a sip of port. “I did.”
“Where?”
“In Hyde Park. You were there early in the morning, just as dawn broke. You were walking oddly—I should say, you walked normally to the long field, and then you walked oddly. Long strides. Dipping low with each step. You did that strange dance for more than a half hour.”
“You—you saw that?” A blush tinged her cheeks, just enough for him to realize her embarrassment was genuine.
“I did.” He set his glass down. “What were you doing?”
“I—I—” Her shoulders slumped slightly and she attempted to clear her throat. Unsuccessful, she took a sip of her port, then looked at him. “I have to—walk like that often, I mean. But I need space to do it properly and no one is in the park to witness me doing so that early in the morning where I go. Walking like that, it stretches the skin on my legs—the scars. If I miss even a day, my skin starts to tighten and it makes it hard to walk. My limp becomes more pronounced.”
“But you don’t limp.”
“Not if I can help it.” She shrugged. “But my skin has already tightened from the days on the ship.”
“I saw the scars when I removed your boots and stockings.”
A slight wince and her chin jutted out, defiant. “I presumed it was you that removed my stockings.”
“I only mention it because I could see how stretching the skin would be a necessity.”
“I’m sure you found my legs distasteful.”
“Not particularly. I’ve seen much worse in my day.” He said the words simply, as they were true.
Her head turned and she looked at the wall for a long moment, her jaw shifting back and forth.
For how much he knew she wanted to hate him, she was waning. He’d noticed it during the past day. Doubt in her ironclad belief that he was the devil.
Her look swung to him. “Why did you follow me in London? And why did you go to Vinehill? To Wolfbridge?”
“It’s complicated.”
“So explain it.”
He sighed, pausing to pour more port from a carafe into his glass, then took a long sip. He set the glass atop the table, his index and middle finger drumming on the battered wood. “My sins may not be what you think they are, Torrie. But they’re still sins. I still hold onto the cowardice that I showed that day of the fire. If I hadn’t turned from you—you were in bloody flames, for devil’s sake—if I hadn’t done that—hadn’t walked away—who knows what would have happened.”
