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“I’ll eat on the way.”
“No. You’ll eat now.”
A growl escaped her throat and she stomped across the room, grabbing the first thing she could reach on the plate, a roll.She bit off a large chunk of the bread, glaring down at him.
“You’re impossible.” She said the words with her mouth full of the dry bread, disregarding all manners. The bread truly needed the jam.
He just looked up at her, not responding, the countenance of his face not budging from indifferent placidness.
Every bite she took, her glare hardened at him and she wished it were his galling tongue she was grinding between her molars.
Shoving the too big bite of the last of the bread into her mouth, she turned from him and grabbed her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, fastening it at the front.
“The bacon as well.” His words grated into her ears.
She spun around, stomping to the table, and picked up one thick slice of bacon with her fingers—she didn’t have time for a fork and knife—chewing as quickly as her jaw would allow. A quick drink of the cold tea and she shoved the other slice of bacon into her mouth, swallowing it mostly whole. She picked up the tea cup, tipping it back in one long swallow, then slammed the cup back onto the table.
Her glare turned on him. “Done. Satisfied?”
He nodded and stood, and she could swear she saw a glimmer of amusement twitching his lip.
He motioned toward the door. “After you.”
She stalked out in front of him, pulling on her gloves, refusing to slow her steps as he paused to lock the door behind them.
Three hours later, she was still engulfed in the stony silence she’d slipped into when they’d left the coaching inn. Her cold breath puffing into the air. Her thoughts racing between getting back to Seahorn and this man with his arms locked onto either side of her.
It didn’t help that his damn chest kept bumping into her back when she slipped away from maintaining the straightest of spines that gave her a modicum of distance from him.
Not that Rafe had bothered to say a word against the silence.
And now it was already midafternoon, and they’d made it practically no distance today, between the late start and riding together on one horse.
At least the new blanketing of snow that clung to the ground and trees was pretty. But pretty trees didn’t get her any closer to Seahorn. If anything, the snow had mucked up the road, slowing the horse’s steps.
None of her mounting fury was abated by the fact that she was currently tethered to an indifferent man that lacked the gravitas of the situation. She had to get to her Uncle Lachlan. Who knew what Eva was suffering at this very moment at the hands of those brutes?
Even more grievous than the slow pace, was the distinct sense that somewhere during the course of last night, this insufferable man had suddenly decided that he was in charge of her.
And he wasn’t. Far from it.
He’d left her room last night, acting like he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. His mannerisms that day had told her the very same thing. That he wanted to be done with her. That whatever had happened between them had so disgusted him, he could barely look at her.
Except when she was sleeping.
He apparently had no problem with that.
She still didn’t know what to think of that behavior.
Yet he was continuing to bring her to Seahorn because why? Because he’d promised he would?
So why did he care at all if she ate? Slept?
The quicker to Seahorn, the better for him. He could be done with her.
She’d been so focused—consumed—by her need to get help for Eva at Seahorn, that she hadn’t considered all the ramifications of how deep she had gotten in with Rafe. He offered the fastest and most dependable way for her to travel to Seahorn, and that had been all she’d cared about when he’d come upon her on the road.
Limited options meant limited choices.
