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“We’re here,” Cam announced. His first words in at least ten miles.
Her horse jostled to a halt, sliding on the cobbles, breaking Morgan’s doze. She looked around at the gray, shadowed shapes of tall, elegant town houses. Candle shine spilled from a few windows, but for the most, they were shuttered and dark. Knockers removed.
“Where’s here? I thought we were taking rooms.”
“It’s my house,” he answered, dismounting. “At least it is now. We’ll stay here while we’re in town.”
“But servants,” she argued. “And neighbors. Talk will spread. Doran will find out.” She slithered to the ground, thankful her legs didn’t give out under her. Surprised at Cam’s steady hand at her elbow, though it was withdrawn almost immediately.
“It’s just Amos and Susan.” As if she should know who they were. “I haven’t lived here since…” Since his wife’s death, but he didn’t say it. “And few neighbors. It’s going on October. Most have already left for the country. Doran won’t find out because Doran isn’t trying to. He thinks we’re dead.”
“And if he does realize the truth?”
“Even better. He’ll seek us out. And once he’s flushed into the open, we deal with him.” Few words holding an infinite amount of vicious finality.
In a strange way, reassuring.
They entered through a back door into the kitchen, her boots ringing hollow on the stone floor. In the center of the room stood a scrubbed worktable. Cupboards and racks lined the walls, stacked neatly in preparation for no one. A hearth yawned, cold and black.
Cam fumbled through a drawer, coming up with tapers and a flint. Even in the friendly glow of candlelight, the space seemed forbidding. The other rooms hardly better.
Furniture in Holland covers. Chandeliers draped in dust sheets. The place held the damp must of abandonment as if someone had simply given up. Walked out and locked the doors behind them.
A flutter of white caught the corner of Morgan’s eye. The creak of a floorboard. “Cam,” she whispered.
He looked up as the apparition materialized into a middle-aged woman in a nightgown and wrapper, her graying hair tucked neatly under a nightcap.
“It’s Susan. She keeps house. Or did when there was a house to keep. We must have woken her up.”
Holding her candle high, the woman surveyed them with a critical eye. “Colonel? That you? You never sent word you were coming. The house isn’t ready. I’ve barely food enough in the larder for Amos and me. And the rooms aren’t aired. You’ll catch your death between damp sheets.”
Her squint took in Morgan’s less-than-respectable attire, making her wish she’d donned a gown or run a comb through her hair or at least washed her hands and face before arriving.
Cam put a possessive arm upon her shoulder, drawing her in close. No softness to his touch. His body remained as unyielding as his manner. “Susan, I want you to meet the new Mrs. Sinclair. We married a few weeks ago.”
Whatever the woman expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Her shock was clear. “And the last Mrs. Sinclair not in her grave more than a few months? The gabble-mongers will be jawing about this one, Colonel. No mistake. If you ask me—”
“Which I didn’t,” Cam replied, cutting off any more discussion.
Susan closed her mouth with a snap. “No, sir.” She offered him an overly done curtsey before adding under her breath, “Nor did you the first time and look where that landed you.”
If Cam heard her, he gave no sign. He released Morgan, almost shoving her away from him before standing rigid, a white-knuckled hand upon the staircase newel post, the weight off his injured leg.
Susan started back up the stairs. “I’ll have your rooms readied quick enough. And the mistress’s chamber—”
“No.” Cam’s vehemence echoed like a shout in the quiet room. “No. That room stays shut. Put her in the back bedchamber for now.”
“It’s awful small,” Susan argued, “and there’s no view. It’s not comfortable like the front rooms.”
“We won’t be here long enough to notice.”
Not exactly the manner of a besotted bridegroom. And so the old retainer must have thought as well. She eyed Morgan again, lifting her candle and motioning her to follow. “As you wish, Colonel. This way, mistress.”
Morgan cast a swift glance at Cam’s tight-jawed face, his grave expression. A desperate, lonesome need clouded his gaze before vanishing, replaced once more by the familiar brutal arrogance.
She’d wished him to the devil since Devonshire, but now that she’d the chance to leave him, reluctance seized her.
The housekeeper seemed to understand. Her manner softened.
