“No matter what she did, she was your mama,” Polly said gently.
They passed beneath a leafy canopy, a lattice of shadows crossing his face. “I don’t remember her much, but what I do remember is mostly good,” he admitted in gruff tones. “She laughed a lot. Sang to me.Bye, Baby Bunting…I can still recall her voice soothing me to sleep.”
“My mama sang that lullaby to us as well. She died when I was six, and I still miss her.”
“Tell me more about your family.”
His genuine interest made it easy to talk about herself. She recounted what life had been like back in Chudleigh Crest while carefully omitting any mention of her peculiarity. She described the cozy cottage, the creek where she and her siblings had liked to swim, and the schoolhouse where her papa had imparted wisdom to generations of children. She shared some of her family’s good times as well as some of the difficult ones.
She avoided mention of Rosie; their continuing estrangement was too painful to address. He seemed to understand and didn’t press her on the topic. There were plenty of other things to converse about, and he seemed vastly entertained, even laughing aloud as she related some of the Kents’ adventures.
When he asked about the large age difference between her and Ambrose, she explained, “Ambrose is actually my half-brother, as his mama was Papa’s first wife, but he’s as kin to me as my other siblings. In fact, he’s more like a father to me in some ways. He’s provided for the family since I was a little girl, when our father first fell ill.”
“That’s why he’s so protective of you.”
She nodded. “Ambrose is the best of brothers—and of men. He won’t stop until he sees justice done. I know he’ll settle your case before long.”
“I hope that’s true as I have important matters I’d like to get on with.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Such as?”
“You and me, kitten. More precisely—us.”
At his lazy, sensual smile, her heart took on a giddy cadence. A carriage came from the opposite direction, interrupting their banter. Sinjin exchanged greetings with the occupants of the other vehicle, whose gazes followed them even as they drove on.
“I vowed to myself that I’d come to you with a clean slate—at least one unsullied by blackmail and murder,” Sinjin amended. “The rest of my past isn’t subject to change, unfortunately.”
“I wouldn’t want you to change your past,” she protested. “It’s made you who you are.”
“And you like me the way I am? You believe in me?”
Although his tone was playful, flirtatious even, she again sensed an underlying vulnerability. It amazed her that this dazzling, god-like man truly cared what she thought of him. Although, given what he’d disclosed about his family, it ought to come as no surprise that he should want her positive opinion. Either way, the boyish longing in his aura made her heart squeeze.
“Of course I believe in you,” she said firmly.
“Then will you fetch something from my left pocket? My hands are full at the moment.”
She blinked at the non sequitur but did as he asked. When she pulled out a velvet-covered box, she stilled. The box might contain a ring, something she wasn’t certain she was ready for. Or—she flashed to the locket—it might contain a meaningless trinket. And she didn’t want that either.
“Open it,” he said.
Halfheartedly, she did… and her next breath whooshed from her lungs.
It wasn’t a ring inside but a necklace. One that had clearly been chosen with care. Nestled in white satin, the piece was exquisite in its simplicity: a flawless aquamarine cabochon set in a delicate frame of gold. When she lifted the necklace by its fine gold chain, the stone’s pristine, watery depths glimmered in the sunlight, its beauty unique and utterly breathtaking.
“It reminded me of your eyes, though nothing matches their splendor, of course,” he said huskily. “Happy belated birthday.”
“You already gave me a present,” she blurted—and immediately wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to ruin the moment by bringing up that unpleasant incident.
“That gift was an unworthy one. And I think you and I both know it didn’t belong to my mama.” Cheekbones reddening, he said, “The locket was sent to me as an, ahem, memento. By whom, I don’t know. I happened to have it on me at the time.”
Relieved by his honesty and candor, she said curiously, “Why did you give it to me?”
“It was an impulse.” His brows drew together. “I’d intruded upon your private celebration, and I suppose I wanted to… join in. Contribute in some way. An ill-conceived notion, obviously.”
The sincerity of his explanation warmed her. She was also aware that she’d misjudged his motivation with the locket, believing his gesture to be the scheming of a seasoned Lothario when the truth was far simpler. He’d just wanted to feel included. To be part of a family celebration—something, she understood now, that he’d had little experience with.
With aching remorse, she said, “The gesture was thoughtful. And I’m sorry I responded with such poor grace.”
