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The day had drained her completely, and arriving at Robyn’s well past midnight only deepened her exhaustion. With any luck, she would rest well into the morning.
What time did she usually rise?
Shelby did not know.
But he knew this—she looked healthier than he could recall. The hollows in her cheeks had filled out, a healthy glow replacing the weary pallor of her skin, and her gown no longer hung loosely from her frame.
Not that he had been looking too closely.
Or so he told himself.
The past hours had stripped away Roxina’s usual defenses, revealing more than the sharp-tongued, defiant woman he had sparred with for most of their acquaintance. She was still fiery, fiercely independent, and clever, but tonight had exposed something more.
A quiet vulnerability. A fleeting hesitation in her dark chestnut eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching. And that sliver of uncertainty undid him more than all her sharp wit and defiant words ever could.
And Shelby had seen it.
Hell’s teeth, he had felt it.
He tightened his clasp on the reins until his knuckles turned white.
Would she ever fully trust him?
What would it take?
Jaw tightening, Shelby forced his fingers to relax.
Trust did not come easily; it was built in careful increments, tested with every choice, and once broken, it was seldom restored to its former strength.
Though Roxina no longer bristled at his every word, a sliver of doubt remained in her eyes, a wariness she could not entirely conceal.
He wished….
No.
That was a thought best left buried.
For now, the only thing that mattered was getting Roxina to safety.
And after that?
He would deal with Desmond.
Waiting a week, even a fortnight before going after the blackguard, might throw Desmond off their trail. But that also meant he and Roxina would need to remain hidden in Robyn’s house, avoiding all visitors.
That should not be too difficult—but she must stay.
Once Robyn and Matilda learned the severity of the situation, Shelby did not doubt they would take every necessary step to keep him and Roxina safe.
Based on past experience, Robyn would concoct some elaborate scheme to deter visitors—perhaps feigning an outbreak of a most distressing ailment. The last time he had wanted privacy, the household had claimed a particularly virulent case of “imported French malady.”
That had sent even the most inquisitive callers fleeing.
Later, explaining that no one in the household had actually acquired the disease had proved hysterical—at least from Shelby’s perspective. Robyn would not agree, but that was what he deserved for contriving such an outlandish taradiddle.
Shelby glanced at Roxina again.
Though he hated subjecting her to this ordeal, he could not regret the time spent by her side. Each moment only reinforced how much he cherished her—how fiercely he valued her happiness and safety.
