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"I got to him first."

The words landed between them. She watched the muscles in his jaw work beneath the beard.

"Do you mean you killed a man?"

"Yes." Flat.

"That's how you met my aunt? She watched you kill a man to save her, then invited you in for tea?"

The ghost of a smile. "Near enough."

"But they discovered the truth eventually. Why else would they look for you here?"

"Reeve didn't know what happened. Assumed we stole the cargo and ran." He picked up the plane again and drew it along the wood. "His men were following the cargo trail, listening for gossip about someone selling it. When they heard nothing, they came looking."

Audrey folded her arms, one hand tucked under her chin. "So Marian sent you to the Lintons to keep you safe." She watched his back, the shirt clinging to it with sweat.

She hesitated. This next part felt like trespassing.

"I read your letters."

His shoulders tightened. He didn't turn.

"Victoria Linton," she said. "You wrote about her a great deal."

A silence. He tested the hinge, his thumb running along the iron.

"That was a long time ago."

"I take it you were in love with her."

He straightened and turned to face her. His eyes were unguarded in a way she had not seen before.

"I was fond of her. Like a sister." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, leaving a smear of sawdust. "I admit I entertained the idea of marrying her. But I believe I’d wanted to be part of her family. I still love each one of the Linton women as a brother would."

Something loosened in her chest. She did not examine it. She certainly did not allow it to show on her face, though her fingers had stopped fidgeting with her cane, which was, she supposed, a kind of telling in itself.

"Sisters," she repeated, as though confirming a detail of mild academic interest. "How very heartfelt."

He studied her. She looked past him at the doorframe and found it suddenly fascinating.

“Do I sense jealousy, my lady?”

“Of course not,” she said a bit too quickly. "I am merely glad to know the nature of the attachment. For practical reasons. One does not wish to share a house with a man nursing an old heartbreak. It is tiresome for everyone."

He quirked a brow. “Practical reasons," he said.

"Entirely."

His mouth did something she chose to turn away from. On reflection, her reasoning was full of holes.

He turned back to the door. Plane. Chisel. Hinge. The rhythm was comforting when neither of them knew what to say.

"When did you come back?" she asked, quickly.

"Seven months ago. Marian wrote to me. Sentimental. Out of character. I knew something was wrong."

"And the Lintons?"