“I think I’ve got some North Wiltshire.”
“Really? But it’s so…”
“Expensive? That’s why I live in this hovel. Must save money to afford cheese.” That earned me a giggle and the sound warmed my chest in a far more pleasant manner than the whiskey could have.
“You don’t mind sharing?”
I gave a disinterested shrug as I returned with a cheese plate as requested and perched on the arm of her chair. “I’ll overcharge Rosehill this month. He’ll never notice.”
She took a healthy bite of bread and cheese, her eyelids fluttering closed with an appreciative groan. It sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with our fight.
We ate without words, and her trembling slowly subsided, and her coloring was restored. The brightness returned to her eyes as she peered into the fire. She was still a mess, her hair tangled and mostly undone, the ill-fitting dress wrinkled and caked with mud and Lord knew what else. But she was an unbearably beautiful mess.
“How are you feeling? Bit better now?” I asked.
She turned to face me and answered with a prim, “Yes, thank you.”
“Good. So… you followed me to the cemetery?”
She ducked before mumbling an affirmation.
“Why?”
“I don’t wish to say.” Her answer was directed to her lap and the empty plate.
“Should have thought about that before you followed me and nearly got yourself killed.”
“I was defending myself admirably!” Her tone was indignant and utterly charming.
“You were. I’ll be asking about that next. But I’ve been more than patient with this nonsense. I think I’ve earned the truth.”
At last, she looked up, her eyes catching mine. They were a mossy green in the flickering firelight and the steady gleam from the streetlamps outside. She was searching for something, an answer to a question I couldn’t begin to guess.
She released a great breath, her chest dipping with the effort. “Did you kill Gabriel?”
“No!” I shot up from my seat to face her. Immediately following the instinctive, incredulous denial, the implications of the question filtered through slowly. Each more horrifying than the last. “You think I…”
“I do—Idid. But I think perhaps I was wrong.”
“You believe I murdered your husband, stabbed him in the back on your front steps, and you decided to follow me?”
She rose, prim, ladylike, and a touch wary. “Yes, I—yes.”
My hand fisted in my hair. “You thought I was a murderer, and you followed me? Are you daft? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“No!”
“Truly? Because it seems you deemed it sensible to follow a murderer around for the best part of a week. You brought nothing but a knife to defend yourself with. One you couldn’t even reach, I might add. Do you realize how dangerous that was? You could have been killed! And that is not even considering tonight’s scrape, which could have left you bleeding or dead in an alley. You thought you were chasing a murderer!”
“I am perfectly well.”
“That is hardly the point! What if you had been hurt tonight? How do you think Rosehill would have felt? And me! Do you suppose I could live with myself if you were hurt recklessly chasing after me?”
“You can barely tolerate me. I think you would have managed just fine.”
“Of course I can barely tolerate you! You’re infuriating, breathtaking, and charming. You can do things with an umbrella that would make an intelligent man wince but are certainly not having that effect on me. And you have a bleeding death wish! Lord, this must be what Kit feels all the time. No wonder he refuses to do anything about it. Is that what ladies do? They just gallivant wherever they please with no regard for their personal safety and expect the people who care about them to clean up whatever mess they make?”
“You care about me?” She took a step toward me, one hand reaching out. She froze just before she reached my chest.
