Polly placed her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her directly, to meet her earnest gaze. “He will not. We have heard the last of Cecil. His investments have gone poorly. I fear he will feel compelled to look for a way out that has little to do with honest work. Facing the consequences of his actions has never been an area in which he excelled.”
“I do not care. I do not care what becomes of him so long as he remains far, far from you,” Oliver replied coldly. “Perhaps I should have killed him.”
Polly shook her head and stepped back. “It will not matter. Cecil will see to that himself… before too long, I think. Now, it’s impossibly cold and I would really like to be indoors with a fire. And dry clothes. Being hauled about in the snow in my nightrail and a cloak is hardly conducive to staying warm.”
Rather than have her continue to trudge through the snow, Oliver simply scooped her up into his arms and made for the house. By the time they reached the kitchen door, they were both breathless and it had little to do with exertion. Being so close to her had sparked his desire, but coming so very close to losing her—that had sparked his need, his desperation.
Kicking the door closed behind them, he was ready to cart her up the stairs and take her to bed in that very second. But the sharp nick of a blade at his throat halted any forward motion.
“Who the devil are you and why are you manhandling my sister?”
He wasn’t looking at the man who held the blade to him. He was looking at Polly and he saw her face light up, saw the joy and relief she felt. Captain Claymore Winters had indeed made it home in time for Christmas.
TWELVE
December 19th—noon
They were all gathered in the parlor. Captain Winters was seated in one of the chairs before the windows. His arm was in a sling, courtesy of the accident during which the Demeter had foundered. And he had looked very familiar to Oliver because they had indeed been on the train from London together, at least so far as York. From there, Captain Winters had left the train to purchase his sister a Christmas gift, to see to the families of some of the crew members from the Demeter who had not survived and would have continued on the next day. But like everyone else in the North of England, the deluge of snow had altered his plans.
Over the past few days, based on what he’d told them. Captain Winters had walked, ridden, taken a train and even a sleigh when he’d had to, in order to get home in time for the holiday. And Oliver, for the first time since coming to Mansford Hall, felt like an outsider. He was no longer certain of his place with Polly and was very worried that, with her brother home, she might wish to simply return to her life as it had been before he’d arrived on her doorstep.
“I have to prepare something for dinner, but I hate to leave you,” Polly said to her brother. “I’ve missed you so terribly, Claymore. It seems ages since we’ve had a chance to simply sit and talk.”
He glanced at his bandaged arm, “You’ll have more than enough time to sit and talk with me, Pol. I daresay you shall be sick of me before I return to duty… And I have missed your cooking. Your apple tarts have occupied my thoughts greatly of late.”
Polly rose immediately. “Then I shall make up a batch for you straightaway, along with some sweet cream.”
She might not have seen through it, but Oliver had. Claymore Winters had wanted his sister out of earshot because he meant to broach a very uncomfortable subject—likely that they wanted Oliver out of his house and far, far from his sister. Not that he could blame him for it. If he’d found some strange man carting his sister around without the benefit of a chaperone and both of them barely dressed, he’d have been quite livid too.
No sooner had Polly cleared the room than the air init changed entirely. There was no more practiced civility. There was open suspicion and a great deal of mistrust.
“What exactly has passed between you and my sister, Mr. Hawthorne?” Captain Winters demanded in a deceptively low and cordial tone.
Oliver replied in a similar fashion. “I arrived here to discover that Mr. Winters-Beaton had been less than honest about the situation when he obtained the services of the firm for which I work. The snowstorm left me stranded and your sister was kind enough to provide hospitality.”
“How much hospitality? I should state that picture of the two of you this morning appeared to be quite intimate… so much so that I question whether or not I should have simply slit your throat on the spot.” Again, the tone was utterly civil even when the words carried a chilling threat.
“Whatever has passed between Polly and myself, my intentions are entirely honorable. But I will not see her forced into anything she does not want… not by me and not by you, either,” Oliver answered flatly. Threats be damned.
“And my sister’s gift? It does not send you running away, shrinking in fear while you accuse her of bewitching you?”
“I am quite bewitched,” Oliver admitted freely. “But I find it to be a shockingly pleasant state and would not alter it for the world. I would certainly never run from it. I prefer to speak plainly, Captain Claymore. I wish to marry Polly. It is simply a matter of securing her agreement and knowing that it is given willingly and not as the result of coercion.”
There was no immediate response from the man. He simply sat there in silence, contemplating the matter. At last, the captain nodded. “Very well, Mr. Hawthorne. Perhaps it is a bit late for it, but I will consent to your courtship of my sister. Do not give me cause to regret it.”
* * *
By the timethe apple tarts were prepared, the ham and leek stew was finished—served with bread she had baked fresh the day before—the dinner hour was upon them. Serving the meal in the small dining room, Polly was acutely aware of the tension that existed between all of them. Everyone seemed to be on pins and needles, waiting for someone to say or do the wrong thing.
When the meal was finally finished, Polly sighed with relief, happily clearing away the dishes and retreating to the relative peace and quiet of her kitchen. It was while she was washing up, that her brother entered the room. He stood silently in the doorway, watching her with a speculative air.
“You love him,” Claymore finally said.
“If I do, that is my business,” she answered with a firm snap to her voice.
“I suppose that’s true enough. But he’s a Londoner, Polly. Through and through. You are not. How can that lead to anything but heartbreak for you?”
Perhaps it was that the question picked at wounds her own doubts had already created. Or perhaps it was that she resented his intrusion into her life when she was never allowed to intrude into his—whatever her reasons—Polly whirled on him then. “How dare you! I am alone here, Claymore. Alone. All the time.Alone.”
