Page 29

Perhaps, just perhaps, she had found a momentary refuge in the storm.

She turned to face Mrs. Beale. “I’m so sorry to inconvenience you, but I had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Miss Danforth, but you look a wreck. I expected you two hours ago for supper.” Hurt filtered into the woman’s voice as she cast Roxina an accusing glance. “But when your dog showed up limping, and without you this afternoon, I confess I became quite concerned for you.”

“I know. Forgive me.” A shudder rippled across Roxina’s shoulders, and she wrapped her arms around herself, barely keeping her teeth from chattering—from cold and fear. “But I was literally running for my life.”

Keeping to the shadows, speaking in hushed whispers, she and Shelby had crept toward the village. Their stealthy trek from Oxleas Wood to Montpelier Row had taken a toll on Roxina’s already frayed nerves.

What should have been a ten or fifteen-minute walk had taken them over an hour. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of wind through the underbrush had sent her heart skipping and her pulse leaping.

“I have reason to believe my house is being watched,” she said without preamble.

That piqued Mrs. Beale’s interest.

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Roxina nodded. “That is why I came here instead of going home.”

Mrs. Beale curved her mouth into a forgiving smile before glancing at her locked door. “Let’s go to the kitchen, shall we? The chicken pasty has cooled, but you look like you could use something to eat.”

Although Roxina hadn’t eaten since morning, and her stomach gnawed at her backbone with hunger, she didn’t think she could choke down a bite. Not with the weight of this desperate situation pressing upon her.

And not while she fretted about Shelby’s safety.

Though Mrs. Beale had drawn the draperies, Roxina still fretted someone outside might see her. The thought unsettled her. She resisted the urge to peek through the window, but a creeping unease slithered up her spine.

Yes, moving to the back of the house made sense.

Besides, Shelby waited near the back kitchen entrance. Roxina gave a shallow nod and, swallowing hard, followed Mrs. Beale as she hobbled into the warm, inviting kitchen.

“Have a seat while I put the kettle on, deary.” Mrs. Beale motioned toward a sturdy oak table, scarred by years of use, standing in the center of the kitchen, its surface littered with bits of fabric and a pair of spectacles. “Just push the fabric aside. I am sewing new cushions for my cats.”

Roxina hesitated before lowering herself onto the wooden chair, every muscle coiled with tension. The faint scent of cinnamon and apples drifted through the kitchen, but the homey aroma did little to soothe her frayed nerves.

Shelby would be much safer in the cottage.

“Mrs. Beale, a family friend, Shelby Tellinger, is outside.” He should have crept into Mrs. Beale’s Garden by now. Roxina clasped her hands together. “It’s not safe.”

Mrs. Beale pursed her lips, then gave a sharp nod. “Well, go fetch him, then.”

Roxina unlatched the back door and peered out.

“Shelby?” Her voice carried a soft yet firm resolve.

A dark shape shifted near the trellis and then approached. The kitchen lamplight illuminated his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the firm set of his jaw. A shadow pooled beneath his gray eyes, weary yet piercing, while a smudge of grime traced the hollow of his cheek.

The unnecessary black leather eyepatch, worn like a battle scar, only sharpened his air of quiet authority. His straight, aristocratic nose bore the faintest ridge, as though once broken and healed with silent endurance, while his firm, unsmiling mouth held no trace of softness, carved instead by years of restraint.

Roxina had seen him countless times before, yet somehow, she had never truly looked at him. His presence had always been a fixture—solid, imposing, unreadable—but the contours of his face, the sharp planes, and the quiet strength etched into every line had gone unnoticed.

Why?

Had her prejudice, her assumptions about who he was, blinded her to the striking features that now held her captivated?

Perhaps those details, along with the sculpted line of his mouth and the quiet intensity in his gray eyes, made her view him differently now. As if, for the first time, she looked past what she had always believed and saw the man beneath—the one she had never allowed herself to notice before.

Had something within her changed?