“Er, yes,” he heard himself say.
Her eyes were golden-green and thickly fringed. They studied him from an otherwise plain little face. “You were scared, weren’t you?”
He stiffened. “I most assuredly was not.”
“You were,” she said cheerfully. “I can tell. I’m an excellent judge of people.”
Was the impudent chit accusing him of lying? Of lackingcourage?
Scowling, he said, “Now see here—”
“I’mnot scared of the cave,” she said—or boasted, rather. “I go in there all the time. I’m not afraid of the dark or anything else. Mama says I’m fearless.”
Mannerless, more the like,he thought darkly.
He took further stock of the chit. Her dress was worn but decently made, and her accents had the clear, precise ring of education. Shabby gentility, he concluded. The daughter of a clergyman, perhaps.
Whoever the father was, he’d do well to take the hoyden in hand.
Rhys said in his most ducal voice, “You are trespassing on private property.”
“Papa had the permission of the previous owner to explore the cliffs whenever he wanted. Papa is a famous fossils scholar—or was, rather.” Her gaze lowered to her sandy half-boots. “He died.”
Rhys’s annoyance faded. Now he felt like a perfect boor.
He cast about for the right thing to say. He made it a habit to avoid children and pets; both fell under the category of “Messy and Inconvenient.” For an instant, a memory surfaced of his childhood pet—he shut it out. No use thinking about the past.
At any rate, he was a fastidious man and didn’t care for dirt and disorder. Children, in particular, could be sticky…like a half-eaten sweet clinging to the sole of one’s boot.
He’d never understood the appeal of fatherhood; certainly, he had no desire to be the kind of father his own had been. As he did like the act of procreation, however, he’d learned to take the necessary precautions. The bar maid, Maggie—strange, that he should think of her twice in a short span—had been a notable omission…a fact he chalked up to their mutual impatience.
Donning a sheath had been the last thing on his mind while he’d screwed her up against the door. Luckily, they’d only spent the one night together. Anyway, the experienced women he’d known had had their own prophylactic remedies.
Looking at the downcast head before him, he realized that he should say something.
“My deepest condolences,” he said. “I’m sure the loss must be…difficult.”
The girl’s head swung up. “How do you know? Have you lost a father?”
Confronted by those perceptive eyes, he found himself answering, “Both parents, actually.”
“How old were you when your papa passed?”
“Six-and-twenty.”
“I’m eight-and-a-quarter.” Her head tipped to one side. “Do you miss him very much?”
He hesitated. No one had directly asked him that question before. “Not so very much.”
Her eyes widened. “Why not?”
“He and I…did not always get on.”
An understatement, to be sure. Phillip Cavendish had hated his heir and only child, the possible reasons for this being many and varied. It could have been because Phillip had been forced to marry Yu-Yan, Rhys’s mother, after Yu-Yan’s father had saved his life. Or because, as a child, Rhys had more resembled his Chinese mother, being small and slight—a “weak mongrel” in his father’s eyes.
Or Phillip’s hatred of his own child could have simply been due to the fact that he was a cruel, bitter bastard who’d never cared about anyone but himself.
“Were you a bad boy?” the girl asked gravely.
