Page 57 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Annabeth nodded. “Yes, he was very well-liked. But most of his friends were quite ordinary and not at all powerful.”

“It’s not always a high-ranking person who is important. And information that seems ordinary can be dangerous.”

Annabeth nodded. She looked at the railing, at the empty space that had killed her father. “Oh, Sloane...” Her eyes filled with tears and she buried her face in his shoulder. “I cannot bear it. To think that Papa was murdered. That someone could hate him so.”

Sloane wrapped his arms around her and held her close as she cried out her pain. It was almost unbearably sweet to shelter her, to have her turn to him in her need. At the same time, he knew that he had no right to do so.

He wanted her. He wanted her in every way he could think of. In this way, to comfort her, and in a fierce way, to protect her and harm anyone who hurt her. And he wanted her in the way he had only a short time ago, his body surging with lust, aching to bury himself inside her, to know that she ached for him, too.

But that could never happen.

Annabeth’s sobs stilled, and for a long moment, she just rested her head against his shoulder. Then she sat up, taking out her handkerchief to wipe the tears from her face. She turned to him. “If you are right, it means that if we find the letter Papa wrote, it will reveal who killed him.”

“I think it will.”

“Then I am going to find that letter.” Annabeth’s gaze turned steely. “I am going to find this man. And he is going to pay for what he did.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THERE WAS NOTHING else that could be found in the workshop, and they left soon afterward, taking a longer route through the woods to the Haverstocks’ house so they would not be exposed on the open road. Annabeth went upstairs, leaving it to Sloane to explain to Priscilla and Timothy what had happened with their horse that afternoon.

Annabeth took her meal on a tray in her room. She had no idea how much of the truth Sloane would tell the Haverstocks, but she simply could not face other people and keep up any sort of pretense.

There was a knock at the door. She hoped it was not Priscilla coming up to see how she was. But it was Sloane who stood outside, and she relaxed. She gestured him inside and closed the door. At the moment, she had no concern about propriety. She sat down again in the chair by the window, and Sloane moved a delicate chair from the vanity closer and perched on it tentatively.

“I won’t ask how you are. I know you’re grieving.”

She nodded. “I thought I had cried all my tears for Papa long ago, but this brought it all back. And worse, knowing that someone killed him. It’s always seemed so unfair that his life was cut short but knowing that it was purposeful...that someone robbed him of many more years. Robbed all of us. He was a wonderful father—the kind of father Nathan would have been. Fair and kind.”

There was a moment of silence, then Sloane said carefully, “That Nathan would have been? What do you mean?”

Annabeth sighed. “Nathan broke our engagement. It appears I have a bit of trouble holding on to a fiancé.”

Sloane stared at her. “But why? I know the man’s in love with you. Always has been. Was it because you came here with me?”

“No, he says it wasn’t that. He just...realized it was a mistake. For both of us. And he’s right. I think I am not suited for marriage. I doubt I’ll ever feel as I should for a husband.”

“Because I ruined it for you. I wounded you so much you won’t let yourself fall in love again?” Sloane asked in a low voice.

“No. Yes.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s been years, and I’ve gone past all that. But I, well, I think perhaps I had only a certain amount of love in me, and I loved you so fiercely, so madly, that I burned it all out. I felt too much, too hard, too long. All of it—the love and anger and pain. I simply have not felt that deeply since.” Annabeth knew she lied—the desire that had surged in her this afternoon when he kissed her had been as strong and fierce as any she had felt when she was young. It seemed only Sloane could bring up that hunger, just as he could get her anger to flash or her laughter to bubble out. But she was not about to admit that to him.

“Anna, I’m so sorry.” He took her hand between his. “If I could change what happened, what I did, I would.”

“I know.” She straightened and pulled her hand back. “It’s not important now. What’s important is finding the man who killed my father.”

Sloane accepted her retreat without protest, and leaned back. “I’ll find him. I promise you.”

“We’ll find him,” she corrected, sensing what he was about to say.

“Anna, I need to take you back to Stonecliffe. You are in obvious danger, and I have failed to protect you. I thought I could get you away without anyone noticing. I was sure I would see if someone followed us. But I didn’t. I thought I could fight off anyone who threatened to kidnap you or hurt you, but I cannot protect you from a sharpshooter firing from a distance.”

“What makes you think I’ll be safe at Stonecliffe?” Annabeth countered. “Someone could shoot me while I’m strolling through the garden there. Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life cowering indoors? I am in danger wherever I go, whatever we do. The only way to make sure I’m safe is to find the person who’s doing this and stop them.”

“I will,” Sloane said grimly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“You’ll have a better chance of finding him with me than you will without me.”

“We have already looked through all the places you know. You told me that there’s nothing in the Todds’ house. Feringham brought us his boxes last night, and there was nothing in them.”