“You know, my heritage is not my fault. My parents had me, not the other way around.”
That made him smirk.
“I guess that’s true,” he said. “Tell me, are you more like your mother or father?”
“Neither, I’m afraid,” Faith said softly.
“Why? Were they both gentle, well-spoken people who never argued with anyone?”
Faith glared at him, but sensed that he was teasing and threw a biscuit at him. He caught it deftly and took a bite.
“They were, actually. All of those things, and they wanted their daughters to be like that as well. You might not believe it, but once I tried my very best to be the perfect daughter.”
Logan’s brow dipped slightly and genuine curiosity came over his handsome face.
“Is that so?”
Faith nodded.
“But when they died, I…I guess I became rather angry.”
“Angry?”
“Yes. At them for leaving me and my sisters, at the world for taking them, at everyone, really, even though it wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she said, her tone dipping. “I suppose that’s not a very good thing to admit, is it? But it’s true.”
A long silence followed, and Faith was sure she had crossed some unknown line admitting such things to him, but then he spoke.
“Aye. I can understand that.”
She glanced at him.
“You can?”
“Children often don’t have the capacity to understand tragedy. Anger is one of the more basic feelings humans and sometimes…” he said, his own eyes shifting down. “Sometimes it’s easy to believe that anger is the only thing that can protect us from being hurt again.”
Faith’s eyes widened. Yes. That was exactly how she’d felt and to hear it said so perfectly, well, she felt suddenly lighter.Leaning forward, she nearly spoke when he leaned back and continued.
“I suppose I can forgive you for being English, as it isn’t really your fault.”
Faith smiled at his jesting tone and she nodded, tucking away her previous response.
“Well then,” she said. “Perhaps we should put our prideful ways behind us and start anew.”
Logan’s hazel eyes locked onto hers, and she felt a warmth crawl over her.
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“Faith Rebecca Sharpe!” Grace’s voice echoed into the room. Faith and Logan turned to see Grace and Arabella standing in the doorway. “What on earth are you doing out of bed?”
“Ah, just taking in the scenery,” she said meekly, pushing the plate of biscuits away. Logan pulled them toward himself. “Isn’t this the most modern kitchen you’ve ever seen, Grace?”
Her sister was not amused.
“Come, you must return to bed,” she said, coming forward to take Faith’s arm as she stood from the bench. “You are not fully recovered yet.”
Faith was escorted back down the tiny hallway to the main foyer without so much as a goodbye. As they headed up the grand staircase, Grace finally spoke.
“You likely think I’m being irrational, but I insist that you rest. I know being held up in this room for days is difficult and that you’re not terribly fond of Mr. Harris, but you must consider your health.”
