"Foolish!" She struggled to sit up, but he held her pinned to the sofa.
"What is this heat, my adorable minx?" The light of laughter was in his eyes.
His humor fueled her anger. "How dare you! Get off of me, you bull-brained oaf! Let me up! Let me up, I say!" She bucked and beat at him with her hands, a sheen of tears glistening in her eyes.
It was the last that caused him to release her. He sat up next to her. "Are you seriously implying that my watching out for your safety does not meet with your approval?"
"Yes!" she cried. Then, “No, oh, I don’t know.”
She scooted back on the sofa until she could swing her feet from in back of him to the floor. She blushed when she glanced down at the disarray of her clothes. She stood up, turning her back to him, and with shaky fingers set herself to rights. "I have been managed and maneuvered all my life," she said over her shoulder. "I hate it! Do you hear me? I hate it!"
"I hear you, Cecilia, and I would not dream of managing or maneuvering you. Watching out for your safety is not controlling your life. It's protecting it so you can do what you like, be who you like," he said softly.
“But don’t you see,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks, “I don’t know who I am or how I want to be. I’ve never had the chance!”
“Hush, love, hush,” he said, stepping forward to comfort her.
She stepped away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come any closer. I don’t trust you.”
“Is it me you don’t trust—or yourself?” he asked.
She turned her head to the side. “It makes no odds.”
“But it does, my dear,” he said, smiling at her.
Abruptly he nodded, then bowed in her direction. “All right, we shall play this your way, for now.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked suspiciously.
“I shall not press you to admit your feelings for me—”
“Of which I have none!” she shot back, but knew she lied.
“—if you will tell me what you were looking for tonight and last week at Oastley.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“All right,” he said, coming purposefully toward her.”
“No, wait! Stop. I’ll tell you as best I can, though I don’t know everything. I suspect you know more than I. Can’t we sit down?” she asked, edging toward a chair away from the sofa and its memories.
He nodded, then went to the cupboard where brandy and glasses were kept and poured her a small glass. He took it toward her. “Here, drink this; I believe you could use it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. She took a swallow, grimacing at the strong flavor.
Branstoke laughed. “I see you are unused to brandy. Sip it. It will warm and calm you.”
She looked hesitatingly at the remainder of the contents in her glass but did as he suggested. It did seem to warm her and calm—or was that numb—her jangling nerves. She relaxed against the chair, letting her head loll back.
Branstoke watched her, satisfied, and went to stoke the fire again.
“As you know, Mr. Waddley was killed one night near the docks at Waddley Spice and Tea. The official verdict was death by a person or persons unknown with robbery as their motive. It was decided he was an unfortunate man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t believe that. I believe—no, I know,” she amended firmly, “Mr. Waddley was deliberately murdered. He was murdered because he discovered some occurrences at the docks that did not meet with his approval. Illegal occurrences.”
Branstoke stood up, resting an elbow on the mantle, and crossed one foot casually over the other. "How do you know this?"
"From his attitude the day he died, the things he said, and from some of the references in his journal."
"What was it about his attitude?"
