At length she lowered her eyes and spoke again, her voice low and barely audible above the wind whistling through the stable’s rafters. “Henry’s all I have. He’s truly the only thing that matters—not Hollythorne House, not the Priors...”
Her voice faded, and he smoothed his thumb over her shoulder in a show of comfort. “Then we will protect him. Charlotte, trust me.”
A tear slipped over her lower lashes and slid down her pale cheek. “After all that has transpired, it is difficult for me to trust anyone.”
“Then let me prove to you that you can trust me again. Where is Henry now?”
“With Rebecca.” She sniffed. “She and Mrs.Hargrave are both with him in the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Did you tell anyone what was in this letter?”
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.” She rubbed her arm and sniffed again. A flash of vulnerability darkened her face. Even with all the hard realities she’d faced since her arrival at Hollythorne House, he had not seen that expression. And it broke him. He wanted to fix everything—to erase that pain and return her—return them both—to that place of peace.
“You’re not alone here, Charlotte. Timmons and I are both here to keep you and Henry safe. We will let nothing happen to either one of you.”
At the mention of Timmons, she wiped moisture from her cheek and looked to him again. “You said earlier that you trusted Mr. Timmons with your life. What did you mean?”
He’d not expected to talk about the war, here, under these circumstances. Yet if he wanted her to trust him, really trust him, transparency was needed.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Timmons and I were both injured at the Battle of New Orleans—one of the last battles of the war. We first met each other while recovering in the field hospital and were transported home on the same hospital ship. On the voyage home I fell ill. Very ill. Most of the ship did. There were not nearly enough nurses or physicians aboard, and many of those who were there fell ill from fever as well. Through the voyage Timmons kept me alive when so many others did not live. And then, when we returned, he used his connections to get us both positions, which, considering how many other soldiers were returning from war, was quite a feat. I trust him, not to mention Iowehim, a great deal. He can be trusted.”
The tension in her face eased, and her shoulders lowered. She looked up at his face, but she was not looking at his eyes. Her gaze lingered on his scar. “How were you injured?”
Instinctively, he ran his hand over his face—the side-whiskers. The start of a beard. The scar. “An explosion. I was cut by shrapnel, or so I’ve been told. I’ve no recollection of the incident, but it hit here.” He pointed from his temple and then down across his chest, like a sash. “My arm took the brunt of it.”
“I heard the reports of that battle.” She tucked damp locks behind her ears. “Absolutely horrible.”
“I can assure you that whatever you read, the truth was exponentially worse.”
Silence fell over them. Now she was mere inches from him. They had somehow been pulled together, drawn by some force as they had when they were younger. Her next statement was barely above a whisper. “I did wonder about you, and what happened to you.”
Her vulnerable, subdued words struck like lightning in an open field, their very meaning inciting a fire deep in him. He should seize this moment and declare the words he’d been unable to say when they had parted years ago. But he refrained. He could not forget that she was frightened. Skittish. Instead, he matched the timbre of her words with his own whisper. “And I thought about you. Daily.”
The conversation, simple as it was, answered a host of questions that had been his companions for so long. Shehadthought of him. Shehadmissed him.
In that moment he knew what he wanted—he wanted her, and he wanted to reverse time to a point where his touch would be welcome and her smile would be only for him. When the future spread before them would be bright and optimistic.
Yes, his heart was ready for that, but he was not sure if hers was.
But that did not mean he would stop trying. “Come on. Let’s go inside and get to the bottom of this. I will notify Mr.Walstead, and we’ll—”
But movement at the door silenced him. They both turned to see a man in a hat. Coat.
Timmons.
Anthony immediately stepped back. He knew he was standing too close. His head was bent too low. They had been whispering. Alone. Intimately. In the dark solitude of the shadows.
He felt like a boy caught stealing a kiss.
“Been lookin’ for ye,” announced Timmons, his tone flat, his face not visible in the darkness.
To play off the uncomfortable discovery, Anthony stepped toward Timmons and extended the letter toward him. “Looks like we have a little trouble.”
Timmons took the letter, but he did not look at it. Instead, his dark brow rose and he glanced from Anthony to Charlotte and back to Anthony. “Trouble indeed.”
Growing impatient, Anthony blurted, “Just read it.”
Timmons angled it toward the lantern’s amber light and did as bid. A frown darkened his already-suspicious expression. “Where’s this from?”
