The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
But seeing her like this, forlorn and curled up tight . . . he was lost. He brought a tentative hand to her back and patted, painfully aware that she’d hardly want comfort from the man who had made her so miserable in the first place.
She didn’t pull away, though, and somehow that left Richard feeling even more awkward. He set the lantern down a safe distance away and rested on his haunches beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said, aware that he had no idea what he was apologizing for—there were far too many transgressions to choose just one.
“I tripped,” she suddenly said. She looked up at him with defiant eyes. Wet defiant eyes. “I tripped. That’s why I’m upset. Because I tripped.”
“Of course.”
“And I’m fine. I’m not hurt at all.”
He nodded slowly, holding out his hand. “May I still help you to your feet?”
For a moment she didn’t move. Richard watched her jaw set defiantly in the flickering light, and then she put her hand in his.
He stood, nudging her along with him. “Are you certain you can walk?”
“I said I wasn’t injured,” she said, but there was a rough, forced quality to her voice.
He did not respond, just tucked her hand in the crook of his arm after reaching down to retrieve the lantern. “Would you like to return to the drawing room or head outside?” he inquired.
“Outside,” she said, her chin quivering through her regal tone. “Please.”
He nodded and led her forward. She did not seem to be limping, but it was hard to tell for sure; she was holding herself so stiffly. They had walked together so many times during that brief period he had come to think of as their honeymoon; never had she felt like this, all glassy and brittle.
“Is it far?” she asked.
“No.” He’d heard the swallow in her voice. He didn’t like it. “The exit is near the orangery.”
“I know.”
He didn’t bother to ask how. It had to be the servants; he knew she hadn’t spoken to either of his sisters. He’d meant to show her the tunnels, he’d been looking forward to it. But there hadn’t been time. Or maybe he hadn’t made time. Or forced her to take the time.
“I tripped,” she said again. “I would have been there already if I hadn’t tripped.”
“I’m sure,” he murmured.
She stopped hard enough for him to stumble. “I would!”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
She scowled, then looked away so quickly he knew her ire was self-directed.
“The exit is just up ahead,” he said, a few moments after they resumed their pace.
She gave a terse nod. Richard led her along the final stretch of the tunnel, then released her arm so that he could push open the door in the ceiling. He always needed to crouch in this part of the tunnel. Iris, he noted with a wry amusement, could stand straight, the top of her blond head just skimming the ceiling.
“It’s up there?” Iris asked, looking up at the hatch.
“It’s at a bit of a slant,” he replied, working the latching mechanism. “From the outside it looks a bit like a shed.”
She watched for a moment, then said. “It latches from the inside?”
He gritted his teeth. “Could you hold this?” he asked, holding out the light. “I need two hands.”
Wordlessly, she took the lantern. Richard winced as the latch pinched his index finger. “It’s a tricky thing,” he said, finally snapping it free. “You can open it from either side, but you have to know how to do it. It’s not like a regular gate.”
“I would have been trapped,” she said in a hollow voice.
“No you wouldn’t.” He pushed the door open, blinking as the sunlight assaulted them. “You would have turned around and gone back to the drawing room.”
“I closed that door, too.”
“It’s easier to open,” he lied. He supposed he’d have to show her how to do it eventually, for her own safety, but for now, he was going to let her think she’d have been fine.
“I can’t even run away properly,” she muttered.
He held out his hand to steer her up the shallow steps. “Is that what you were doing? Running away?”
“I was making an exit.”
“If that’s the case, then you did a fine job.”
Iris turned to him with an inscrutable expression, then deftly pulled her hand from his. She used it to shade her eyes, but it felt like a rejection.
“You don’t need to be nice to me,” she said bluntly.
His lips parted, and it took him a moment to mask his surprise. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“I don’t want you to be nice to me!”
“You don’t—”
“You are a monster!” She put a fist against her mouth, but he heard the choked sob all the same. And then, in a much smaller voice, she said, “Why can’t you just act like one and let me hate you?”
“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said softly.
“That’s not your choice.”
“No,” he agreed.
She looked away, the dappled morning light playing along the intricate braids she wore like a crown. She was so beautiful to him it hurt. He wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her and whisper nonsense against her hair. He wanted to make her feel better, and then he wanted to make sure no one ever hurt her again.
That, he thought caustically, was his honor.
Would she ever forgive him? Or at least understand? Yes, this was a mad thing he’d asked of her, but he’d done it for his sister. To protect her. Surely Iris, of all people, could understand that.