“Madeline is safest when others do not know she exists. I can say no more on the matter. Trust me in this.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I only tell you about her because Madeline is a consideration in my decision to marry, and she should factor intoyourdecision to accept me. But I trust you will keep information regarding her to yourself, regardless of your answer to my proposal.”
Gracious. Such a statement had all the hallmarks of a Gothic novel.
A world-weary war veteran.
An ancient castle miles up a remote Highland glen.
A young ward, secreted within it for her safety.
Would Fox next tell Leah a story of a nefarious uncle with designs on young Madeline’s fortune? Or perhaps disclose that Madeline was the long-lost child of the previous king, and a disreputable duke wished to use her as a pawn for political gain?
Leah nodded as if she understood, but in truth, she did not.
Why must Madeline’s history and very existence be kept secret?
And how should that information influence Leah’s decision to marry Fox?
On the one hand . . . she admired the impressive measures Fox underwent to care for this wee girl.
But on the other hand . . . the entire situation was almost disturbingly bizarre.
This man had twenty years of secrets since Leah had last seen him, and he clearly would not be handing them into her confidence.
And yet, every minute she passed in his company, she learned something new about him.
Fox took his tea with two sugars and a wee spot of cream.
His right leg appeared to pain him, as he kept stretching it and flexing his foot.
He liked sausage rolls. He ate three in rapid succession, mouth twisting in appreciation.
If she married him, she would learn so much more.
But not everything,a part of her whispered.
Could she be content with only wee pieces of him?
Or would such pieces, over time, become broken glass, cutting and slicing no matter how carefully she handled them?
Fox brushed flakes of pastry crust from his fingers and reached for a potato scone and jam. He dispatched it in two bites, again sighing.
“Please.” He took another sausage roll from the tray. “You must marry me, Miss Penn-Leith. ’Tis cruel to ply me with such delicious fare from your kitchen and then not agree to be my wife.”
“Is your cook as bad as all that then?” she asked, enjoying his gentle teasing.
“Worse. I would settle for merely competent, but this—” He held aloft yet another sausage roll. “—this is heavenly.”
Leah’s smile widened. “So ye would marry a woman ye dinnae know simply for . . . sausage rolls?”
“You underestimate the power of a well-made sausage roll.”
“Perhaps, but . . .” His teasing emboldened her tongue. “What about . . . what aboutlove?”
She said the word softly. Many an overheard conversation in the Lion Arms had taught Leah thatloveoften dropped into a discussion with a bracingthwack.
Given the clink of Fox’s teacup as he set it down, her assumption held true.
“Love,” he said,nota question.
