Page 39

The kindness in her voice was exquisite. Kit had heard men threaten with less precision.

He stepped into the passage and let his boots land heavy on the flagstones. The talking stopped. He came through the kitchen doorway and found the girl standing at the table with her basket, and Audrey stood with her back to the room. She did not turn. The set of her shoulders told him she had heard every word and would sooner bite through her own tongue than let either of them see it.

Audrey walked past him without sparing a glance. Her jaw told him everything he needed to know.

The girl was still in the kitchen, a basket on the table beside her, pots of plum and damson lined up like an offering. She crossed her arms when she saw him.

"So you've taken in a companion." Her lips puckered.

"Lady Kendal is the mistress of Silverton. Not my companion."

She tilted her head and stepped closer, her fingers finding the skin under his sleeve. “A widow on 'er own in a house this size, with a man what isn't 'er husband nor 'er kin? Me father's already heard talk. Folk notice, Kit. They notice and they remember, and it won't be you what pays for it. It'll be 'er."

"Let them talk."

"I'm just sayin', a woman like that don't know what to do with a man like you. She's all bone and orders and ladyship. You need someone warm, Kit. Someone who knows 'ow to feed a man proper and keep 'im warm at night, not some lame bird who can't walk to the gate without a stick."

"Enough."

She flinched. He removed her hand from his arm.

"You don't speak about her," he said through the gritted teeth. "Not her name. Not her body. Not her walk. Not a single bloody syllable. Do you understand me?"

Her face was rosy under the freckles. Her mouth opened and closed.

"She is Lady Kendal. She is the mistress of this house, and you will respect her. And when you speak to the folk in the village, you will keep a civil tongue."

She stared at him. The humiliation burned across her face, red and blotchy. For a moment he thought she might weep. Then her chin came up.

"You're a fool," she hissed, snatching up her basket. "Throwin' me over for a cripple. She'll bore you inside a week. You can come crawlin' back, but I've no need of you. There's a fine tattooed man at the inn who looks at me proper."

He stilled. The Māori warrior. He’d heard of Reeve’s muscle. An icy chill flooded his veins.

"Where did you see this man?" he managed.

The girl studied his face, took her time responding. “In my father’s shop just this mornin’.”

Blast it. He needed information from her before he could afford to offend her. He leaned against the table and kept his voice easy.

He pulled out a chair. "Sit down, Martha."

She blinked. In six months, he had never said her name. He had never offered her a chair. He saw the exact moment it registered, and he hated himself for knowing how to do this.

"Why should I?"

"Because I owe you an apology and I'd rather give it properly."

She hesitated. He waited. She sat. He moved his chair closer, angled towards hers, their knees inches apart. She looked down at them then back to his face.

"I've been rude to you," he said. "Every time you came here. You brought food and kindness, and I gave you nothing but a closed door. I am sorry."

She said nothing. Her fingers picked at the handle of the basket in her lap.

"That colour suits you, by the way. The blue."

She glanced down at her dress. "This old thing?"

"Brings out your eyes."