CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
About midafternoon they made it across the border into Launceston, the county seat of Cornwall and their last stop before arriving at Eversleigh Hall.
Roarke waited in the private dining area of the local inn and waited for Mara and Mr. Edwards to join him. With a pint of ale before him, he grimaced at the bitter taste that hit his tongue. He couldn’t wait to get to his estate and the fine French cognac that awaited him. He couldn’t help but convince himself that it was the poorly brewed, public house alcohol that had caused him such discomfort the morning after his supposed wedding had taken place.
Roarke grimaced at that whole affair, tapping a finger on the crude table in front of him. He fully intended to marry Mara, but he had to be careful how he went about it. It was obvious she was still uncertain of her place in his life. For some unknown reason, he could sense her reluctance, even after she’d told him about her sister and he’d convinced her to start anew. But if a skeleton in one’s closet might keep anyone in England from saying their vows, then he felt most of the population would be single.
However, as much as he hated to think that Mara still wasn’t being forthright with him, he had a sinking feeling that she’d only told him a partial truth—that there was something else he was missing, a vital key to unraveling this entire mystery.
Ever since she’d made that comment about using her pseudonym, he’d been on edge. Granted, he might be overreacting, but it was the sudden manner in which she’d brought up the subject that made him suspicious. He could understand if she was afraid of being recognized as a former servant, but he knew Mara well enough to know that appearances didn’t bother her. If she wanted him to think her reputation truly concerned her, then she wouldn’t have gone off on her own with Bentley all those years ago.
Something just didn’t add up.
“You’re looking rather serious.”
Roarke glanced up as Mara walked in and sat down across from him.
Gesturing to his mug, she asked, “Are you anxious about going back there too?”
He decided it was best to let her think that was the reason for his melancholy, although to be perfectly honest, it was weighing on his mind. “I’m…not sure yet,” he admitted. “Seven years is a long time. I have a feeling that while I’ve changed, nothing there has.”
Mara nodded. “I understand,” she said quietly. “It’s going to be hard, but together we can ward off any ghosts.” Reaching out, she squeezed his hand and offered a warm smile.
He wanted to offer her the same reassurance, but the nagging in his brain refused to let go. He wanted to give Mara the benefit of the doubt, but he supposed there were some spirits of the past—and present—that would always linger.
He decided that the best thing to do was switch the subject, so he asked, “Have you and Mr. Edwards come up with a convincing story yet?”
He caught Mara eyeing him strangely as he took another drink, but she smiled as if nothing in his manner was untoward. “Actually, after a bit of brainstorming, we decided to explain that I was on my way to Trevena for a brief seaside holiday when the mail coach lost a wheel on the road. That’s where you step in to rescue me.” Her green eyes sparkled mischievously. “What a valiant gentleman you are to help a damsel in distress.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her teasing, and Mara’s face brightened considerably as she went on, “Unfortunately, I also managed to twist my ankle during the mishap, so instead of taking me to the local inn to convalesce, you decided to bring me on to Eversleigh Hall.”
“And should I send for a physician?” he asked dryly.
“Oh, I think I shall manage to recover quickly enough.”
“Indeed?” he murmured, “And what about later, when your sister shows up?”
“She was supposed to meet me at our rented cottage, but when I don’t arrive, she hears that I’ve been brought to Eversleigh Hall.” She shrugged. “It was the best I could come up with that would explain any distress she might exhibit.”
“It sounds plausible enough,” he agreed. He should have stopped there. In fact, hetoldhimself to do so, but for some inane reason, his brain didn’t stop his mouth fast enough from murmuring, “Then again, I suppose storytelling is an art you’ve mastered over the years.”
At the sudden, distraught look on her face, Roarke set his mug down and cursed himself for every kind of fool. They had just started to connect again, and he’d had to go and make that verbal gaffe and likely set any progress back to where they started. “Mara, I…”
“I’m starving. Is there any food left for an old man?”
Roarke clenched his jaw. As much as he appreciated Mr. Edwards, his entrances couldn’t be more ill-timed. But instead of snapping at him for no apparent reason, he gestured to the seat beside him. “I was waiting for you to order.” He glanced at Mara, who refused to meet his gaze. “We shouldn’t linger, however, if we wish to get to Eversleigh Hall before the middle of the night.”
“Of course, my lord.” The stable hand nodded.
In turn, Mara said nothing.
* * *
“We’re almost there.”
It was the first thing Roarke had said to her since they’d departed the inn. Both of them had seemed to come to an unspoken accord that it was best if they didn’t speak. Thus, he’d opened his book and proceeded to read, while Mara dug into her bag and pulled out her knitting needles and yarn that Annie Grace had so generously given her. She eventually set them aside and closed her eyes, hoping she might get a reprieve from her rampant thoughts by going to sleep instead.
Unfortunately, she was wide awake.
