Montgomery stared down at the burner, now arrayed in pieces on his worktable. Twice, he’d tried to start it, and twice, the flame sputtered and died.
She’d stood there instead of rushing to his side. She hadn’t asked if he was all right. She hadn’t expressed any fear. She’d hadn’t said a damn word. Not one.
Nor had she denied his accusation.
It could have been an accident. She could have done something and not realized it. She could have been too fearful to admit it.
No,fearfulwas not a word he’d use to describe Veronica MacLeod Fairfax.
With the help of most of the men at Doncaster Hall, he’d managed to get the gondola out of the trees. The envelope would take a little longer, since the silk had been shredded and hung in tatters from the branches.
He’d stared up through the broken oaks, realizing how fortunate he’d been that his ancestors had planted that particular grove. Without the trees to break his fall, he probably would have died.
Would Veronica have cared?
Again, he examined every part of the burner. There had to be a reason it had failed. He didn’t believe in accidents, especially since he’d checked everything at least a dozen times himself.
He stood, flattening his hands on the wood surface of the worktable and frowning down at the reassembled pieces of the burner.
Only one thing left to be tested.
He opened his book of notes, selected a blank page toward the back, and tore it free. Grabbing the paper, he strode to the corner of the distillery where the blue-and-white barrel of paraffin oil was stored. After taking off the lid, he dipped the paper into the oil, holding it over the barrel for a moment. Once it stopped dripping, he took the paper back to his worktable.
After allowing the oil to evaporate completely, he walked to the doorway, holding the page up to the sunlight. He brushed his fingers across the paper, dislodging the tiny flecks of green and what looked to be dirt.
Someone had contaminated the paraffin oil.
Not an accident, then, since the barrel was kept securely fastened at all times.
Someone wanted him dead.
Was it Veronica?
From the beginning, she’d eased him with passion, seduced him with her surrender. He slept, deep, besotted sleep next to her, his arms wrapped around her, his cheek cradled against her hair.
Did he really believe she wanted him dead?
He’d said the words rashly, in anger. That morning, her calm acceptance of his fate had disturbed him. Worse, he’d felt betrayed. No, something deeper than that, an emotion he didn’t want to face at the moment.
She hadn’t seemed concerned. Yet she’d been as stoic when viewing the ruin of her home.
He walked back to his worktable, balling up the paper.
The women of his acquaintance had been strong and resolute, but saw nothing wrong with a man witnessing their tears. He’d suspected, more than once, they’d used tears the way a man might use a sword.
Veronica didn’t.
Nor did she share herself easily. Yet she wanted all his secrets.
If he’d divulged his past to her, would she have done the same with him? Were they destined to forever misunderstand one another except in their bed?
He could recall the exact moment he’d seen her, standing on the edge of the crowd, her face pale, Elspeth standing beside her. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t rushed to him. She hadn’t expressed any joy he’d survived.
Hell, yes, he’d tried to hurt her, a just payment for what she’d done to him.
Ralston stepped into the distillery, looking apologetic. The man had been at his side most of the day, called away when three wagons had arrived earlier.
“The newly loomed carpet is here, sir. Mrs. Brody needs to know if they should remove the furniture from the Long Sitting Room today?”
