“When I advised you to take up new gentlemanly pursuits, perhaps I should have been more specific: Riding, archery, fencing. These are all quite appropriate. Notice I did not mention ladies’ fashions.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Holstoke in a letter of reply to said gentleman’s request for a list of periodicals best suited to those of a feminine persuasion.
Twenty days after arriving at Primvale, Phineas received his third report from Drayton. He shoved away from his library desk and tossed the missive aside.
Damn and blast.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he moved to the window, glared out at the sunken garden, and shook his head in disbelief.
Another woman had been found dead. This time, the victim was not an aristocrat or even a servant. She was a prostitute. Her body had been discovered inside a house in Knightsbridge. The house had sat empty for years.
Natural, he supposed. Few people would wish to live where a demon had been righteously slaughtered. The demon was Horatio Syder—once his mother’s partner and Hannah’s captor. Syder had been pure evil, which might explain why Lydia Brand had been drawn to him in the first place. To discover another victim in the very place where Syder had died left no remaining doubt about the poisoner’s intentions: The blackguard had fixated upon Phineas’s mother and, by extension, Phineas.
Scarcely anybody knew of his mother’s connection to Horatio Syder. Dunston, of course. A handful of others. But the fact that Syder had been her solicitor and business partner for years had remained secret, partly because Phineas had paid large sums to key officials and newspaper publishers. He’d also leveraged every connection he’d acquired at Harrow and Cambridge, including the current Home Secretary.
He would have done more to protect Hannah. Anything. Fortunately, his measures had been enough. Until now.
Somehow, the poisoner knew. About Syder. About his death and his association with Lydia Brand.
Phineas, on the other hand, knew precious little of the poisoner. He’d sent Drayton numerous theories, including Eugenia’s insight about the apothecary having an assistant. Drayton had questioned surrounding shopkeepers and discovered a young man named Theodore Neville had worked there for several years before the apothecary’s death. He’d vanished thereafter, rumored to have fled north. Drayton, Dunston, and Hawthorn had soon ruled him out as the poisoner, since the descriptions did not match the man who had infiltrated Randall’s household.
Yet, the poisoner must be tied to Phineas’s mother. He must know how to produce the poisons, and he must be acquiring his ingredients from druggists. The concentrations were too high for it to be otherwise. According to Drayton, Hawthorn had drawn a sketch of the poisoner and carried it to virtually every apothecary shop in London. Nobody had recognized him.
Phineas had spent weeks puzzling it out, his only result frustration.
A light knock sounded at the door. Before he could say a word, the door opened.
“There you are,” said the woman who never left his thoughts. “I intend to persuade Hannah to ride farther than a few paces this morning. We shall be practicing in one of the east pastures, provided she does not attack me with her riding cane. Do not be alarmed.”
He smiled. Turned. Lifted a brow. “Is that an acorn?”
Eugenia tilted her chin and fingered the wide straw brim of her hat. “Why, yes. Yes it is. The theme is ‘Plant a seed and lo, it grows.’ Do you approve?”
Grinning, he stalked toward her. He’d been grinning for weeks. He’d never laughed or smiled or outright guffawed so much in his entire life. It was her. She made him … light. Just seeing her lifted him ten feet off the ground. Perhaps twelve.
“Yes, Briar. I approve.”
“You don’t think it is too much?” Her smile remained teasing, but an odd thread of uncertainty ran underneath. He’d sensed similar doubts when she’d shown him her new workshop—a sitting room near her bedchamber that she’d transformed with tables, shelves, hat blocks, and enough feathers to construct a castle-sized ostrich sculpture. As she’d chattered away, describing all the reasons why he should not be alarmed by the bills soon to arrive at his door, he’d watched her hands. The nervous fluttering had surprised him. He’d asked about her plans, whether she still intended to open a shop one day.
She’d been startled, that uncertainty clouding her eyes. “No,” she’d said quietly. “Countesses do not open shops any more than Huxleys do.”
He’d begun to argue that countesses—particularly his countess—could do as they pleased, but she’d distracted him with kisses and tugged him away to luncheon with her and Hannah beside the lake.
That very day, he’d begun his research. She did not yet know, and perhaps he should wait to tell her until he had completed his inquiries. But her doubts ate at him. His Briar should be fearless, growing in whatever direction her heart directed. That was her nature, though something had obviously shaken her confidence. Mrs. Pritchard’s dismissal, perhaps.
Now, eyeing her broad-brimmed hat with its leaves and acorns and ribbons, he felt the compulsion to replace the uncertainty in her eyes with her customary spark of boldness.
He cleared his throat. Clasped his hands at his back. “I have seen a hat similar to yours.”
She blinked. Shook her head. “Where?”
“A recent edition of La Belle Assemblée.”
Her mouth rounded. She frowned. “Why, may I ask, are you reading a publication valued primarily for its fashion plates?”
Again, he cleared his throat. “The articles are edifying.”
“Phineas.”
“Research.”
“About?”
“Ladies’ fashions. Hats, specifically.”
Silence and a perplexed stare.
“My findings are preliminary. The degree to which one may be certain of one’s conclusions in matters of ephemeral preferences in headdress is subject to—”
“Phineas.” This time, his name emerged throaty and soft.
“Your creations, so far as I can determine, are quite the first stare of fashion. Should you desire to establish your own shop, I’ve little doubt you would find success.”
Although he had simply stated the truth, her breathing quickened. A gloved hand settled above her bosom.
Her response was most encouraging.
“Great success,” he emphasized, once again moving toward her. He thought she was pleased. Perhaps even feeling amorous. This had been an excellent idea. “I like your hat, Briar.”
“Oh, heavens.” Her eyes went soft the way they did when she stroked his cheek or when he caught her gazing at him while he worked in his greenhouse. “How many publications did you—”
“Enough.”
“How many?”
“Five. Several years’ worth of issues.” He cleared his throat. “I noted a marked increase in both size and ornamentation in the past two years. Ladies appear to be favoring such styles more and more.”
Her grin started slowly and grew. It grew until she laughed and beamed. “And you like my hat.”
He nodded. Helplessly, his eyes fell to her breasts, round and full beneath gold silk. “I also like your dress.”
She closed her eyes and laughed again, her hand falling to her belly. “Oh, Phineas.”
God, he loved hearing his name on her lips. He loved her silly, elaborate hats. He loved to strip them off her and unpin her hair and breathe in violets and sweet, dusky cherries.
Her eyes opened.
He closed in upon her, wanting more. More of her laughter and her shine.
She sighed then put her hand on his chest and moaned. “Drat. I cannot spend the day in bed with you, much as I should adore it. Your sister’s lessons have been far too sporadic. At this rate, she will be in her dotage before she learns to canter.”
He bracketed her between his arms, trapping her against the door. Then, he swooped beneath her brim and captured her mouth. Sweet. Beautiful. Luscious mouth.
“Phns. Muz top. Mmm.” She pushed at his chest, and he drew away, gratified to see her eyes heated with longing. “Well, perhaps … if we are quick …” Eugenia pressed a palm to her belly and moaned. “No, I cannot stay. Your sister is waiting for me. It took an hour at breakfast to persuade her to accept another lesson.”
“Why are you so determined she should learn to ride?”
She sighed. “At times, I ask myself the same question.” She shoved away from the door, kissed him all too briefly, and spun to leave.
“Stay within sight of the men,” he warned.
“Of course.” She pulled open the door and gave him a mischievous smile over her shoulder. “I am ever the obedient wife, am I not?” She adjusted her hat and sauntered away.
He had to lean against a bookcase and shake his head like a dog shedding water before rational thought returned. His erection took several minutes longer to subside.
Nothing had ever been like this. His desire for her was a tide with no ebb. Certainly, it might be temporarily quieted after an explosive release. In those moments, when her slender arms clung and her hands stroked and her silken heat engulfed him, the peace was unlike anything he’d ever imagined.
But his hunger surged again at the slightest provocation: a glimpse of her naked hips. A breath of her violet scent. A thread of her sweet, throaty voice telling him it was time for breakfast.
He was three-and-thirty, for God’s sake. Yet, whenever Eugenia was near, he might as well be seventeen again. No, worse than that. He remembered being seventeen. His first mistress—a few years older and worlds more experienced than he—had indulged every fantasy a randy youth could concoct before demonstrating a few he’d missed.
His need for Eugenia was unfathomably stronger.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he crossed to the desk and sank into his chair.
He was confounded by his own obsession. She was not the sort of woman he’d imagined marrying. Rather, Maureen had been his ideal match. They’d had much in common—Maureen’s interest in gardens and landscapes nearly equaled his. He’d found her kindness and maternal nature soothing. She’d spoken lovingly about her family, and once he’d met them, he’d wanted such a family for himself. He’d known she would be an extraordinary mother. And she was.
He hadn’t been wrong. Maureen made far more sense than Eugenia. Had she accepted his proposal rather than Dunston’s, he suspected they would have been quite content together.
With Eugenia, he was not content. He was consumed. She stoked the blackness inside him until it spoke for him, thought for him, demanded he possess her again and again.
He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. He needed to regain control. The blackness drove him hard, and though she hadn’t complained, he often wondered whether she knew how mad he was.
Releasing a breath, he picked up his pen and withdrew a sheet of paper. Then, he began to reason. He drew squares. He made lists. He built arguments for why he should not be obsessed with Eugenia. They were sensible arguments based upon evidence. Rationality. When he finished, he sat back in his chair and reread what he’d written.
Words faded. In their place, the blackness showed him a vision of Eugenia—his beautiful Briar—making paper bonnets for their babes. Beaming that mischievous grin as she plucked pins from her hair and explained how very stimulating she found the flavors of lemon and mint. Gazing up at him in open-mouthed wonder as she stood beneath a drift of white blossoms.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to force the visions away. But, in the end, they remained, satisfying the blackness’s cravings. He tossed his list onto the desk. Left the library and asked Ross to retrieve his hat.
First, he went to the stables. Asked his head groom which mount Hannah had selected for her lesson. The groom assured him Lady Holstoke had insisted upon a sedate mare he’d purchased six years ago in anticipation of a wife. He nodded then, as he entered the stable courtyard, he paused. Turned. “Which mount did her ladyship take, George?”
“None, m’lord. She said as she’d be teachin’ Miss Gray, she ’ad no need for one.”
Frowning, he continued on his way toward the east pasture. Eugenia intended to teach Hannah herself? He’d assumed she would employ the help of the stablemaster or one of the grooms, all of whom were excellent riders. Of course, none of them were female, whereas Eugenia certainly was. Every curved, impudent inch of her. And she knew her way around a sidesaddle.
He shook his head as he passed the fountain at the south entrance of the castle and headed toward the orchards. Regardless, he still did not understand why Eugenia would take on such a task. Over the last fortnight, Hannah had recovered her manners, but she’d remained stubbornly opposed to Eugenia’s overtures. The pattern had grown predictable: Eugenia suggested teaching Hannah how to make silk flowers, and Hannah politely declined. So Eugenia demonstrated her technique at the breakfast table. Eugenia offered to go along on Hannah’s daily walks, and Hannah protested she enjoyed the solitude. So Eugenia accompanied her every other day. Eugenia asked if Hannah might teach her to play chess, and Hannah advised her to learn from Phineas, as he was a superior player. So Eugenia declared she would watch them play one another.
All of it was baffling—Eugenia’s dogged pursuit, Hannah’s coldness, and the fact that neither of them would discuss the matter with him. Maddening female nonsense.
He topped the rise where cherry trees rustled in surprisingly gusty winds. Clouds had moved in, turning the day darker. He glanced south, toward the sea. Rain was coming.
He looked back toward the pasture. In the distance, he saw them. They were halfway across the valley, Eugenia in her wide acorn hat and Hannah clinging to a saddle atop a gray mare. Eugenia led the way, stopping every few feet to look up and chatter away at Hannah, who appeared both fearful and displeased.
He stopped beneath a cherry tree. Leaned his shoulder against the trunk. Watched his wife and sister negotiate the pasture—and their battle. He was gratified to see three of Dunston’s men positioned at intervals along the north and west boundaries of the pasture. They, too, kept watch.
For a long while, he observed the ladies, admiring Hannah’s courage and Eugenia’s patience. The wind came up and blew away his Briar’s acorn hat. She did not stop leading the horse. As they approached the southeast corner of the pasture, Hannah glanced up and started speaking frantically. That was when the horse sidled away from Eugenia, who stumbled and lost her grip upon the mare. The animal danced sideways. Even from this distance, Phineas could see Hannah gripping the reins too tightly, yanking hard in an effort to regain control. Eugenia dashed toward the pair, attempting to take the reins from Hannah, who jerked away. The mare moved into his wife, knocking her petite frame flat.
Phineas’s body flushed with ice. He shoved away from the tree the moment she hit the ground. And when the horse danced dangerously close, the air crystallized inside his lungs. He headed toward her at a dead run. But even as he leapt the rail fence, he knew. He was not fast enough.
There was nothing he could do to stop it. The blackness roared. And finally—finally—tore free.
*~*~*
The day had begun in such a lovely way. Genie had awakened to bright, golden sunlight and cloud-tufted blue skies and her husband’s mouth nibbling her throat while his hands cupped her breasts. As they lay in his bed, her back to his front, she had gazed through the window to the sea and savored the wondrous pleasure of his thrusts.
Heavens, how could any day have a better beginning?
Then had come Phineas’s reluctant revelation about his “research” into ladies’ fashions, obviously an effort to understand Genie’s preoccupation with millinery arts. Watching his proud-yet-boyish expression, her heart had gone hot and soft. She’d wondered whether, one day, he might care for her as she did for him.
No. Never that. Her love was all-consuming. Surely that was too much to hope. But friendship. Companionship. Caring. These were possible.
Unfortunately, pleasure and possibility had turned to muck and mire in short order.
First had come breakfast. The tea had been over-steeped, and Mrs. Green had informed her they were running low on ham, offering eel instead. Eel. She would sooner eat the platter it was served upon.
Then, Hannah had argued for an hour against another riding lesson. Genie had been forced to use threats of joining her walks every day rather than every other day. Grudgingly, Hannah had conceded.
Their lesson, too, had started inauspiciously. Through much coaxing, Genie managed to get the girl to mount the horse. She’d also helped her achieve a proper seat, and they’d circled much of the pasture without incident. But resentment had made Hannah tense, which made the placid mare nervous.
Genie attempted to reason with her, but the girl was clearly running out of patience with her new sister-in-law, turning waspish in a bid to defeat Genie’s efforts.
“This hat does not suit me.”
Glancing up beyond her own hat’s wide brim, Genie eyed the dashing little confection, a simple riding hat covered in the darkest green felted wool. It featured a lighter green silk ribbon and small, twin white feathers neatly stitched to the poke.
“Oh, pooh. You look lovely. Now, do stop pretending dislike. It is partly your design, after all.”
A fortnight earlier, Genie and Hannah had ventured to the market town of Bridport, which lay a few miles east of Primvale. Relieved to discover civilization was much closer than she’d thought, she’d spent an entire day persuading Phineas that she would perish if she did not soon acquire sufficient millinery supplies. Likewise, she’d been forced to promise Hannah a full-day reprieve from her company before the girl agreed to go with her.
Surrounded by six of Dunston’s sharp-eyed men, they had both felt a bit conspicuous, but as soon as they’d entered the haberdashery, Genie’s excitement had dwarfed her discomfort. Hannah, usually opaque and quiet, had warmed considerably as Genie demonstrated how they might use this ribbon or that box of spangles. By the time they’d left the shop for the nearby draper’s, Hannah was chattering away, telling Genie her ideas for a new reticule to match her leaf-green gown. Those pale eyes had lit, and the girl had forgotten to be rude for the entire outing. Genie’s heart had soared at the change, seeing that her efforts were, at long last, gaining ground.
She’d been further heartened when, at luncheon a week later, Hannah had conceded that she felt better for having a midday meal.
“It has improved my walks, I believe,” the girl had confessed. “And my sleep.”
Genie had disciplined her smile and nodded. “I have noticed you are a bit like me, in that you tend not to eat very much at a sitting. Dining more frequently steadies the constitution.”
Hannah had agreed, then asked the footman beside her to fetch another slice of bread. Oddly, she’d called him by the wrong name.
Genie had leaned in and whispered, “Ned.”
“Pardon?”
“His name. Ned, not David.”
A little frown had puckered her brow. “Oh. I do sometimes confuse one for the other. Phineas insisted on rearranging so many.”
This time, it was Genie who frowned. “What sort of rearranging did he do?”
“He sent two dozen servants to other properties and brought a similar number here as replacements. I am still uncertain as to his reasons.”
Genie, too, had been puzzled. But, then, Phineas was a peculiar man. She and Hannah had finished their afternoon together with a pleasant stroll along the beach. They’d conversed for two hours without a single disagreeable moment.
Now, however, as they trudged together through the pasture, Hannah clung to her resentment as tightly as she clung to the gray mare’s reins. “I do not like this hat, and I do not like you.”
Genie sighed and stroked the mare’s neck as she led them forward through ankle-high grass and a patch of purple wildflowers. “You realize you are two-and-twenty, not twelve.”
“What has my age to do with anything?”
“Your behavior is childish, Hannah. Others may be afraid to say so, but I am not.”
A long silence. Then, resentment sharpened to bitter point. “Marrying my brother granted you a title, Lady Holstoke, not guardianship over me. Two-and-twenty entitles me to manage my own affairs. I have no need and less desire for your guidance. Or your frivolous company, for that matter.”
Genie gritted her teeth, squelching her irritation and trying to remember her aims. “Marrying Phineas made me your sister. Sisters help one another—”
“Maureen is far more of a sister to me than you,” Hannah hissed. “Would that Phineas had married her instead. Everything would be better.”
The dig caught Genie like a kick to the chest. Hannah had meant to wound her, and she had finally found her weapon. For long minutes, Genie could not speak. A gust of wind came and tried to take her hat. Absently, she held it in place and blinked away the blur in her vision. She would not cry. She would not.
After a time, she swallowed the pain in her throat and instructed, “Loosen your hands a bit. Remember to use your legs to grip the pommels.”
“Maureen understands why I do not wish to ride. She would not have demanded I do so.”
Genie did not answer, keeping her eyes upon the nearing rise.
“Unlike you, she is kind. Good.”
“Relax your grip upon your cane. Your mount reacts to the pressure.”
“I detest this bloody cane, Eugenia,” the girl snarled. “I hate it.”
Once again, Hannah’s words hurt, though in a different way. Genie’s heart longed to give in. Pull her down from the horse and hold her tightly until her past went away.
“I know,” she murmured instead.
The wind came up again. This time, it succeeded in ripping Genie’s hat free. Genie let it do what it would and continued forward.
“We—we should stop and retrieve your hat,” Hannah said.
Loosened hair streaked across Genie’s cheek. “It is not important.”
“It is. You spent hours on it.”
“I shall make another.”
Once again, silence fell, broken only by the mare’s snuffling, the saddle’s creaking, and the wind’s increasing howl.
“I stole his horse once, you know.” Hannah’s voice was a thread, scarcely audible above the gale. “I waited until he came inside the house. I could always hear when he arrived. His walking stick. It t-tapped.”
Genie did not have to ask who “he” was. Horatio Syder had managed to plague the girl long after his death. She drew a breath, pushing past the sudden pressure in her chest. “A horse would do you little good, as you did not know how to ride.”
“True. I fell as I was trying to mount. Then, the horse bolted. I chased it for a mile or so.”
The mare sidled nervously. Genie gave the animal’s warm neck gentling pats, wishing she could soothe Hannah with similar ease.
“He found me not long after. He was very cross.”
Genie nodded, keeping her eyes forward as they started up the rise. “It was brave to try, Hannah.”
“It was stupid to try. I should not have done it.”
“Brave,” Genie insisted. “By now, you know I would not lie to spare your feelings.”
Hannah snorted. “No. You do not often spare my feelings.”
Genie hid a smile. She liked the snort. She liked the sentiment, wry and familiar. The victory was small, but it was progress.
As they neared the rail fence at the corner of the pasture, Hannah said, “We should retrieve your hat. You will wish to wear it when next we visit Bridport.”
Genie’s smile grew. She nodded and led the mare up the rise. As they reached the top, she glanced up and noticed Hannah’s frown. It was deep and alarmed.
“Dear God,” Hannah whispered. “They are dead. They are all dead.”
Genie followed her gaze. And saw a horror. Cows—two-dozen, at least—lay motionless amidst the grass and wildflowers of the neighboring pasture.
“We must return, Eugenia. We must tell Phineas.”
Hannah’s agitation caused the mare to sidle into Genie. She stumbled backward, her boots sliding on the hillside. Just as she regained her footing, she saw Hannah struggling to bring the horse under control. In her fright, Hannah yanked too hard at the reins, and Genie reached for her hands, trying to help.
She scarcely knew what happened next. Hannah pulled away from the contact. Her cane must have whapped against the horse’s opposite flank, because moments later, the half-ton animal had knocked Genie flat on her backside, wheezing to catch her breath.
The horse whinnied. Danced. Hooves pawed and dug at the soil near Genie’s head. One hoof caught a piece of her hair beneath it, and she felt a horrid, tearing pain as she rolled away. She tried to stand, but she only managed to get up on her knees and crawl toward the fence. Her skirts hampered her. Her hands dug and clawed at the pasture’s grass and mud.
A warm trickle traced from her temple to her jaw. She grabbed hold of the lower rail. Dragged herself to her feet. Turned. Saw the mare rearing. Saw Hannah drop the cane and cling to the horse’s mane. Saw the girl turn a frightened horse just enough to prevent Genie’s head from being crushed.
“Eugenia!” Hannah cried. “Get away!”
The girl did not beg for help. She wanted Genie to avoid harm. Genie’s heart was both full and pounding when she found her chance. She watched the mare’s hooves come down once more, then rushed forward to grasp the bridle. Fractious and nickering, the mare’s sides quivered. But she stayed on the ground. She did not bolt or struggle.
“Come, Hannah,” Genie said gently, turning the horse’s side to the fence. She gestured to the stark-white girl still clutching fistfuls of mane. “I will help you dismount.”
Hannah shook her head. Her dashing little hat had slumped to one side.
Genie grinned up at her. “You did it, dearest. You did it. You stayed mounted. You kept this big girl from landing upon me.” She patted the mare’s neck. “Well done for a novice, I daresay.”
Tears glossed pale eyes. “Y-you were nearly—”
Genie reached for Hannah and motioned her forward. “Come. Turn her mane loose. It is time to get down.”
Finally, after a wrenchingly long process of loosening her fists, Hannah let go of the reins and mane. Between Genie and the rails, she was able to climb down from her perch. She trembled so badly, her legs nearly crumpled. Genie automatically wrapped an arm around her waist to brace her. Hannah flinched away. Then, without warning, the girl’s arms enfolded her. A dashing little hat plopped onto the ground. Her cheek settled against Genie’s, cool and shivering.
“I thought,” Hannah whispered, “I thought I had killed you.”
Genie squeezed her tightly and smiled. “No. You only kill those who deserve it.”
Another flinch. Hannah drew back, searching Genie’s face. A tremulous hand brushed at the red, wet trail along Genie’s jaw. “Lady Holstoke was deserving.” A hard glint entered her eyes, reminding Genie of Phineas in his darker moods. “She killed my mother. And Papa.”
Genie nodded. “That’s right. And when you saw your shot, you took it.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And when that monster held you against your will, you took your shots then, too.”
A lovely brow crumpled. Lovely, pale eyes closed. “But I could not escape.”
Genie held her tighter. “You endured. Do you know how much strength that requires?” She sniffed. “Far more than climbing on a horse or defying the gossipy matrons on Rotten Row. Everyone treats you like wet paper. Hmmph. You are stronger than anybody I know.”
“You have torn your hair, Eugenia.”
“It will grow back.”
A long silence amidst the gusts. Then, a tiny whisper. “I won’t.”
“Yes. You will. If you let yourself.” Genie gave her a squeeze. “Bit by bit, dearest. Bit by bit.”
Distantly, she heard men shouting. Hannah’s eyes flared. “Oh! We should tell—”
“Phineas,” Genie said, though there was little sound. Her air had gone.
Hannah spun and saw what Genie had seen—Phineas striding up the hill, dark as the devil himself. Genie patted Hannah’s waist. “Take the mare to that pleasant fellow with the pistol, won’t you?” She nodded toward the closest of Dunston’s men, who had evidently sprinted across the pasture when the horse had reared. “I shall speak with Phineas.”
Why Phineas should be out here in the east pasture, too, she could not say. He must have been watching. Ever the protective brother, she supposed. Shakily, Hannah bent to retrieve her riding hat then did as Genie asked.
Phineas stalked toward her with black fury in his eyes. She braced herself for a lecture about putting Hannah at risk. By the time he reached her, his chest was heaving. Perhaps from exertion. More likely from anger.
She held up a hand. “Before you start—”
“Not another word, Eugenia.” His voice was a rough, growling bite. He cinched her upper arm inside an unforgiving grip and promptly dragged her toward the castle.
“Wait! For pity’s sake, Phineas.” She stumbled after him. “Let go! You must see—”
“I see more than enough.”
“What does that mean?”
He dragged her halfway down the hill before stopping. He pulled her close. “Reckless woman,” he gritted. “Do you realize what almost happened?”
“Almosts do not matter. Let go of my arm.”
“You are a bloody disaster.”
“Reckless and a disaster. Your flattery quite turns my head, Lord Holstoke.”
“You never listen.”
“No, you are the one not listening!” She turned her arm in a wide circle until his grip loosened. “Let. Me. Go.”
His shoulders rippled as though he were a horse restrained from bolting. But he released her.
Immediately, she started back up the rise, pausing briefly to shout, “Well, come along. I am not climbing this hill again because I wish to relive the glory.”
At last, he followed, glowering all the way. When she reached the fence, she pointed out to the adjacent pasture, where one of his herds had obviously been poisoned.
He slowed as he came up beside her. Looked out across the next valley. His face blanched. Hardened to ice-encrusted stone.
“He is here, Phineas. I do not know how or why, but he is here.”
For several breaths, she thought he might not say anything.
Then, he did. And his words, murmured as though to himself, sliced her heart wide open.
“I should never have married you.”
*~*~*