The sweep of changes in Rhys’s face frightened Kenna. She blinked, her expressive eyes shaded for a moment by the sweep of her long lashes. Her features paled as she awaited his retribution and the mutinous line of her mouth vanished as her lower lip trembled. What was he thinking? she wondered. She nervously touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue and heard Rhys’s sharp intake of breath and felt his body stiffen against her.
“You are still such a child, Kenna,” he said quietly, looking away from her mouth to her eyes. “You don’t deserve the retaliation I had in mind.”
She would have asked him what he meant but there was no time. Without pause Rhys twisted her around in the saddle so that she was lying belly down in front of him, her wrists caught neatly behind her in one of his hands and the back of her legs trapped beneath one riding boot. Higgins moved restlessly, jolting Kenna uncomfortably until Rhys also brought him under control. Kenna was uncertain if her face flamed because of the ignominy of her position or because of the blood rushing to her head. She stared at her rakish little hat lying on the ground below her and continued to eye it through a wash of angry tears as the flat of Rhys’s gloved hand came down hard on her bottom.
Though he did not spare her his strength, his slaps did not hurt overmuch. Her heavy wool riding skirt saw her well protected against the sharpness of his punishment, but there was no protection for the humiliation. Kenna had no idea how many times Rhys lifted his hand against her and to her mind it was of no consequence. That he raised his hand once was one time too many. She was unsatisfied by the tortures she designed for him in her mind. There was no method of suffering she knew that was not too quick for him. She wanted his agony to last for years. If it were in her power she would consign him to hell. Tonight, she vowed, she would pray for it.
Kenna’s whimper stayed Rhys’s hand, penetrating the frustration that had blinded his reason. “Damn you, Kenna Dunne,” he swore deeply. “And damn me as well.” Rhys released his hold over Kenna, slid his hands beneath her arms and aided her descent from his horse. He steadied her, leaning over Higgins as her knees buckled slightly when her feet touched the ground.
Light-headed, but retaining a measure of pride, Kenna pushed away from his loathsome touch and stood on her own. “How dare you damn me!” she said, swiping at the tears sparkling in her eyes. “You are without conscience! But we knew that already, you and I. If ever a finer feeling crossed your mind you would not have come to Dunnelly! You are not welcome here, Rhys Canning! Why not go back to the place that spawned you?”
“Boston?”
“Hell!”
Rhys’s eyes swept Kenna. Without seeming to settle anywhere his eyes took in all of her. He saw the mottled color of her face, the uneven blush that revealed her rage before she spoke one word. Her mouth no longer trembled but her chin quivered slightly, betraying her emotions. Her heavy braid fell over one shoulder, the red-gold tip curving gently beneath her heaving breasts. The hem of her dark skirt was dusted with snow and caught between her slender legs, revealing their coltish lines and the narrow turn of her ankles.
Sighing heavily, Rhys turned away, a grimace tightening his mouth, and kicked Higgins into a walk.
Behind him Kenna’s mouth fell open but no sound came out. She could not believe he was leaving her, ignoring her as if she were of no import. She stamped her foot, angered further because it made no sound on the powdery snow and called after him. “I hate you, Rhys Canning! Do you hear? I hate you!”
Rhys heard. Indeed, how could he not? Kenna’s voice was raised like the veriest fishwife. So she hated him, did she? It was no more than he expected, no more than he thought he deserved for being unable to give her the truth. His handsome features were twisted by a bitter smile. The truth? How he wished he knew it! The tenth anniversary of Robert Dunne’s death would be upon them this year and he knew little more about the identity of the murderer now than he did then. The suspicions he had carefully guarded over the years were without foundation. The proof lay somewhere in Kenna’s mind, in her dreams, of that he was certain, but for too many painful years those dreams had done nothing but damn him. His broad shoulders slumped as he approached the stables. Lord, but he was tired of it all.
* * *
Kenna dallied overlong in her bath, hoping that Rhys would have left the breakfast room by the time she came downstairs. She arranged her unfashionably long hair on her head and dressed in a simple day dress of soft gray wool suitable for Dunnelly’s drafty corridors and chilly rooms. As added protection she threw a deep maroon shawl over her shoulders. Her personal maid clucked her tongue chidingly at Kenna’s chosen attire.
“It clashes with your hair, Lady Kenna,” Janet said as Kenna glanced in the mirror and arranged the shawl’s end into a neat knot.
“That hardly matters. It will keep me warm.”
Janet Gourley lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. She wished Kenna would not dress like a dowd for she felt it cast a reflection on her own fashion sense and worth as a lady’s maid. It horrified her to think what Rhys Canning’s thoughts would be when he saw Kenna. He was a guest after all and to her mind Kenna owed him a proper presentation.
At the entrance to the breakfast room Kenna halted, hearing voices within. Her hand hovered over the door’s handle as she considered speaking to Henderson and taking her breakfast in her room. Although she doubted she would enjoy any of her food if she had to eat it in Rhys’s presence, the alternative seemed cowardly. He would hardly lift a hand against her in Nick’s presence. Using that thought to bolster her flagging courage, Kenna entered the room.
Nick was laughing at some jest Rhys had made, his head thrown back and his blue eyes alight with mirth. Normally Kenna would have found his merriment infectious but now she barely smiled.
Nick lowered his head, pushing back his chair from the table as he caught sight of his sister. “Kenna! Good, you’ve come. I thought you might hide in your room in which case I would have no choice but to listen to Rhys’s tales all morning. Now I can attend a business matter with my man and you can keep this poor excuse for a libertine company.”
“I would hardly hide in my room,” she said quietly, the lie nearly sticking in her throat. She ignored the skeptical lift of Rhys’s brows and began to serve herself from the sideboard. “Please, take yourself off. Perhaps Rhys would prefer to join you.”
Nick’s fingers threaded through his dark hair, classically styled to affect a careless, wind-blown look. Unlike his sister, Nick was up to every vagary of the current mode. He even looked comfortable in his tailored dove gray coat though it was so tight it required the full assistance of his valet to put it on and take it off. “Rhys? Would you rather join me? I must warn you, it’s dull stuff. Accounts and such.”
Thank you for nothing, Kenna thought, piling her plate higher than was her wont simply to keep her back to Rhys as long as she was able.
“I’ve a mind to have another plate of eggs.”
“Pig,” Kenna muttered.
“Did you say something, Kenna?” Rhys asked blandly.
“I was thinking I’d like some bacon. There doesn’t appear to be any.” She turned away from the sideboard and blushed as both men eyed the mound of food on her plate.
Nick rose from his seat and held out a chair for Kenna, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she sat down. “Don’t know where you’d put it, sprite,” he whispered, laughter lurking on his lips. He straightened, touching her shoulder lightly. “I’m off. Don’t let her badger you, Rhys.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Rhys replied easily.
Following Nick’s exit, a strained silence filled the room. Kenna concentrated on eating, a function she realized she had taken entirely for granted until she had to do it under Rhys’s speculative gaze. The eggs seemed exceptionally slippery so that keeping them on her fork was difficult in its own right. Inside her mouth they tasted rubbery and she chewed the flavor out of them, wondering all the while if she could manage to swallow without choking. Even buttering her scone took an inordinate amount of skill.
