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Mindful of his probing stare, she lifted a shoulder nonchalantly and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead.
“I suppose that’s the top and bottom of it—the truth dwindled to a nutshell. I was in the lieutenant’s chamber,” she glibly agreed. Almost tauntingly and disdainfully. “Many, many times, in truth.”
“So you admit to the indiscretion?” Shock pitched his lordship’s voice louder and crinkled the corners of his eyes, gone stormy as a tempest at sea.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat, and an indelicate sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort passed her lips. He’d listened to gossip and wrongly accused her of being immoral, and now he was confounded by her admission?
The rotter couldn't have it both ways.
“I was in Lieutenant Masterson’s bedchamber any number of times, my lord. So many, in point of fact, that I long ago lost count.”
Make of that what you will.
He cleared his throat, appearing completely nonplussed.
Allowing an imitation of his contemptuous smile to sweep the edges of her mouth upward, Mercy leaned forward and nodded. If she was to be sacked, she might as well have her say and put the odious oaf in his place.
“Always, always, my lord, after finding the girls’ cat asleep atop the lieutenant’s bed, and never, never when he was at home.”
“Jesus,” Brockman swore beneath his breath while rubbing two fingers across his forehead. “I…”
She gave vent to her scorn and laughed.
“I bet your reliable sources forgot to mention those little insignificant details, didn’t they?” She raked her gaze over him in scathing contempt. “Gossip is a peculiar thing, your lordship. It makes those who believe it appear as much the fool as those bandying unfounded rumors about.”
Lord knew she ought to care that she’d just called him a fool but by Hades…
How dare he?
Mercy blinked rapidly against the rush of tears pooling in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she pinched her eyes shut for another breath. She must reign her temper in.
His countenance a combination of chagrin and remorse, Ronan stood to his full, impressive height. He must be at least two inches over six feet, making Mercy feel even shorter than her five feet four inches.
“Miss Feathers, I…”
Mercy threw a hand up, palm extended, and beyond caring about decorum and propriety and all that other politesse claptrap.
“Save your pretty speech, my lord. I have two little girls whose lives have been thrown into further tumult who need me. Somehow, I have to prepare them to leave the only home they’ve ever known to go live with a stranger.”
Heeding a modicum of wisdom, she decided against pointing out that that stranger had taken his sweet time coming to see them as well.
“What’s more,” she said, “I must somehow tell them I shan’t be with them to ease that godawful transition. If you cannot try to put yourself in their place, my lord, I can! I know only too well how incomprehensibly unbearable this will be for them.”
An errant tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she angrily swept it away.
“Mercy,” Ronan said, drawing nearer and cupping her shoulders, his gaze probing hers. “I am heartily sorry. I believe I have misjudged you, and I beg your forgiveness.”
And then, to her utter and complete horror, Mercy couldn’t hold back the tears she’d stifled all these months. The dam broke, and choking sobs escaped her as huge, scalding droplets poured from her eyes.
She slapped a palm over her mouth and had turned to race from the room when Lord Ronan drew her into his arms, pressing her into that marble-like wall of a chest that smelled splendidly of sandalwood, starch, and mint. Mayhap even a whiff of evergreen or eucalyptus.
What did Mercy do?
Did she fight his embrace?
Berate him for taking liberties?
Kick his shins or scratch his face?
