Bang!
The door leading into the south wing shut with a resounding thud.
Leah jumped a solid foot in the air, barely stifling a shriek.
“Leah?” Fox’s voice called down the hallway.
She instantly slammed the lid of the chest shut, hands shaking.
Scraping her palms down her skirts, Leah replied. “In here.”
She then busied herself, peering with interest into the crates of carpets and porcelain between herself and the door, praying she could keep the guilt off her face.
Her heart pounded in her ribcage, the letters in the trunk at her back nearly throbbing with portent.
“Ah, there you are.” Fox appeared in the doorway looking . . . well.
Leah blinked, standing fully upright.
He looked remarkably well, in fact.
His eyes were clear, his jaw clean-shaven, his cravat neatly tied.
Not much remained of the alcohol-soaked, bedraggled, frustrated man of yesterday.
Once again, she was reminded of Mrs. Donaldson, of how the older woman could morph from brilliant, warm conversationalist to morose, bitter crone within the span of a few hours and a bottle of whisky.
And how was Leah to know which version of her husband she would receive, day in and day out?
The kind, charming gentleman?
Or the morose, irritable drunk?
“Why on earth are you in this room?” He looked around, bewildered.
Leah flailed, grasping for an excuse.
“I hope ye dinnae mind, but I was examining these items.” She ran a finger down the nap of a particularly luxurious rug, hoping he didn’t notice the slight tremor in her hand. “Could I persuade ye to uncrate them and let me spread them throughout the castle? They’re ever so fine.”
Fox surveyed the room again, as if finally seeing the objects. He lifted a small, intricately carved stool from inside a crate.
“I had forgotten all about this,” he said, voice soft. “Madeline loved this stool as a toddler. She would spend hours climbing on and off it.”
“Everything is so beautiful,” Leah agreed.
“You have excellent instincts, wife.” He lifted his head, smiling at her, earnest and nearly bashful. “I will speak with William about sorting through it all.”
“Thank ye.” Leah was torn between flustered delight at his kind words and blatant astonishment that he had said them at all. “I am happy to assist William with the—”
“Nonsense.” Fox held up a staying hand while setting the stool down. “Please. Allow me to see to it. I don’t necessarily want everything in this room to be displayed.”
Was it Leah’s imagination or did his eyes dart to the chest at her back? Could he, too, feel the weight of the memories it harbored?
“Also . . .” Fox rubbed the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth twisting. “I came looking for you to offer an apology.”
“Pardon?”
“I was perhaps a bit—or, rather, very . . .” He paused, as if searching the right word. “. . . unkind to you yesterday. I do not think of you as a servant. Truly, I do not.” His eyes met hers then, earnest and sincere.
