“Harm you?” Dear God, he had worshipped her.
Her eyes slitted like a dragon ready to breathe fire. The corners of her mouth tightened, as if she held back a desire to wish him to Hades, and yet, there was something else he sensed in her attitude, something unsettling—disappointment.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You may keep the shepherd’s crook. I pray you carry it in good health.” Her words sounded like a curse. She set off around the barn, the white stripes in her dress catching the moonlight and outlining her body.
And Bran found himself following. Where did she think she was going? “I wouldn’t advise you to go around front. Not until the fighting is over. Your appearance would probably prolong it.”
She gave a small start as if she hadn’t expected him to be so close. “Can’t you leave me alone?”
“I merely make a suggestion.”
She kept walking.
He trailed behind. “So, whereareyou going?” he had to ask when she didn’t turn the corner of the building but kept walking forward.
“To bed, Mr. Balfour. Alone.”
“I imagine that doesn’t happen often.” The words came from a place deep inside him. An ugly place. An angry one.
Her back stiffened. He braced himself, ready for battle.
She walked on.
Bran knew he should let her go. After this night’s business, Winderton would see the wisdom of avoiding actresses. Or, at least, Kate.
Why, he would probably never touch one again... and neither should Bran.
Yet, doggedly he followed, her shepherd’s crook in his hand.
They had to climb a swell of earth to reach the road. She stopped before climbing it. He waited, wondering what was wrong.
Kate bent over and, to his surprise, removed her frivolous green shoes, the ones he and every other man had gawked at when she’d shown them. She started up the hill in her stockings.
She’d rip them.
She didn’t seem to care.
This time, Bran let her be. “Well, good travels on the morrow, Miss Addison,” he said after a moment.
She answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. She didn’t even bother to look at him. Instead, she glanced over at the barn hall. Bran followed her line of sight.
Either Reverend Summerall had been successful in ending the fight or fresh air had led to cooler heads. Everyone was going inside. There was still the sound of tears and a few boisterous voices called out with good humor as if the whole incident had all been in good fun.
“I’m ruined,” she said almost to herself.
Bran felt a momentary pang of empathy.
He quashed it. He’d not orchestrated this evening. She had. “I’m certain you will be a success in the next village you visit.”
Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared, and in that moment she metamorphosed from a disgraced outcast into a goddess of war. “London. I’m going to London as soon as I fix the wagon. And we can’t leave until it is fixed.” She looked down at him, her shoes in one hand, the swell she stood on giving her the height advantage. “See, Mr. Balfour, you didn’t need to scheme against me. I have no desire to stay in a place like Maidenshop with its smug conceit. The world—the real world—is too big for small minds. But as of now, I have no choice. There is no way out.”
In many ways, Bran agreed with her, except her charge raised protective hackles. “First, you wore that dress to tease those small minds. And do you truly believe London is more unbiased than Maidenshop?” He almost laughed. “Societies are all the same. What happened tonight could have happened in London, India, Ceylon or any place a group of people gather.”
“Oh, I am very aware that people enjoy sitting in judgment of what they can’t have. Many have tried to teach me that lesson—and they have failed. I refuse to bow to any of them.”
They weren’t more than three feet from each other and yet the distance could have been from here to the heavens. Her wild, loose curls created shadows around her face. She appeared untamed, strong, determined—
“I hate you for what you did to me that night.”
