Excerpt

CHAPTER THREE

Glenmeade Manor
County Kildare, Ireland
1855

"Coming here was a horrendous mistake." Like so much else in my life. "How could I have been so foolish?"

Apprehension streaked through Bethany Doyle Delaney, chased by more disappointment than she'd ever wanted to face in her life again. How could she have thought that Ireland, that Glenmeade, would provide her with anything beyond disaster?

She clutched her woolen shawl closer around her shoulders as her gaze sought the small figure of her son sleeping under a soft quilt at the opposite end of the spacious nursery.

In a bed that once belonged to his father. Her breath caught in her throat, knotting with the false hope she was busy swallowing back.

Despite the hellish nightmare of her marriage, she could never count Ross among her mistakes. He was the only blessing from those bleak years. A wash of light from the lamp on the table beside him made him seem even smaller than his seven years, especially with the shadows cast around him.

She shivered, not from the night air's bite, but recalling the look on Connal Delaney's face when he learned of his young cousin's existence. He had seemed so like Finn at that moment she'd struggled with herself not to rush to the nursery, snatch her son up and run straight out the door.

"What was I thinking, Aunt Bridget? Coming all this way without thinking through all the possible consequences?"

"Hush now, isean." Using the Gaelic endearment she;d given her niece as a babe, Bridget reached across from the rocker by the hearth and rested her fingers over Bethany's. Her father's youngest sister, Bridget had been the one constant in Bethany's life, always there to love and support her. "Ye fretted yer way across the whole Atlantic and up the Irish Sea, my little bird. We've reached our new nesting grounds safely. Things will work out, ye'll see. We've come home."

Home.

Bethany sat back against the side of the window seat and sighed, wishing she could believe her aunt's reassurances. She drew her feet up onto the cushioned seat and tucked her toes under the hem of her gauzy cotton nightgown. The right weight for warm South Carolina nights, but not enough to keep away the Irish chill. The Irish countryside seemed so cold and forbidding. Not at all what she'd hoped for.

Leaning her head against the thick glass for a moment she could feel the rhythmic spattering of rain on the other side of the pane. Her visions of a fresh start far from the infamy of her husband's death and the loss of the business he'd beaten into the ground vanished with her first sight of the master of Glenmeade Stables striding into his study this afternoon.

Connal Delaney was as nearly a twin to her late husband as their fathers had been. Finn never told her. But then, Finn had lied about so much, even his cousin's tragic death more than a decade ago. She shivered. Like a ghostly harbinger Connal Delaney had appeared, ramrod straight and silent, stealing her breath with his stomach-wrenching scowl. Every bit alive as Finn was dead. If she had any sense at all she'd pile their bags on the nearest cart and leave Glenmeade Manor as soon as the sun kissed the horizon in the morning.

"I know you are happy to come home to County Kildare, Aunt. But all I have seen so far are gray skies and a future full of dark promises. I should have known better than to be swayed by father's reminiscences or Finn's regret over leaving his father to age and die alone." She sighed again. "We should have headed west to California. Or north. Anywhere away from Charleston. Anywhere save here."

"Ye know full well ye never truly wished to risk our lad's future crossing the plains with wild Indians and even wilder frontiersmen." Bridget's imaginings of the dire consequences such an adventure would surely offer always sent an exaggerated chill across her shoulders. "Yer husband's misadventures in the north put paid to that direction as well. The report ye found amongst his papers saying his father still headed Glenmeade was scarce a year old. How could ye have known one was ta follow the other ta the grave so close despite the miles between them?"

The glow from the peat fire in the hearth grate wavered in Bridget's hair. Soft copper curls released from her usual chignon tumbled down her back as she shook her head. She looked much younger lit by the fire's embers. As though just being here had brought back to life something she had been missing for too long. That fact, at least, warmed Bethany.

"I am sure you are right. But Finn's cousin acts as though we came all this way to steal the very bread from his mouth."

Her marriage, her son, her very existence all came as bitter news to her husband's only remaining family. Bethany traced a finger against the cool windowpane, remembering the hot blaze of condemnation from Connal Delaney's gaze scorching her with each new revelation she and Bridget delivered this afternoon.

"He's had a bit of a shock, is all." Bridget must have been mulling over his reactions as well. "Doubtless it's related ta the bad blood between him and that one ye wed. Jenna O'Toole hinted at some dark secret whilst we were clearing the dust covers from this nursery. I'll get the full story from her on the morrow."

Mrs. O'Toole did not stand a chance against Bridget's determination. Look at how Bethany'd fared in deciding whether to come to Ireland or not. "I am quite certain you will. But, bad blood or not, he made it clear he had no care for the news that we intend to stay here. As if we have much choice at this point until the questions surrounding Ross's inheritance are settled."

"He'll come around, ye'll see." Bridget patted Bethany's hand. "Even as a lad, Connal Delaney always set about doing the right thing. I'm sure he's grown into a man of honor, totally different from his cousin."

A man of honor? Bethany could only hope. Her time with Finn left her skeptical regarding any Delaney's concept of honor.

"That Mr. Carey seemed concerned we were to stay here as well." She tried to divert her thoughts from the range of her reactions to Connal Delaney.

Face to face with the ghost whose death haunted Finn's drunken ramblings, waves of recognition and fear had crashed in her chest, robbing her of breath and cogent thought. Only the memory that it was imperative not to show fear or weakness had forced her feet forward to their awkward introduction.

Connal was so like Finn, she remembered thinking dumbly as she crossed the room, and yet there were differences, too. He was leaner and more muscular. Straighter and taller. She'd gotten close enough to even imagine he smelled different, like wind-blown grass and sandalwood, familiar and exotic at one and the same time.

Her introduction speech, rehearsed a hundred times on the voyage to Ireland, had disappeared completely. All she'd been able to babble was something about his eyes, a soulful brown that carried a depth of pain borne with steely-determination. Eyes so very different from the cold, shallow gray of her late husband's she would never again mistake Connal up close for his cousin Finn.

"The Careys of Oak Bend always were a bit high in the in- step." Bridget sniffed and rose from her rocker to poke at the peat embers. "Sticklers fer proprieties, especially if a young woman, even a widow, takes up residence with a bachelor--no matter the fact ye've as much right ta be here as any bearing the name Delaney notwithstanding. And as if I am not fit ta be yer chaperone after all these years."

Bethany shook off her reverie and rose from the window seat to slip her arms around her aunt, giving her a quick hug. "Oh, Aunt Bridget, I am probably just overwrought from the long journey. I just wish I could dislodge the feeling I have traded one set of disasters for another."

Finn's and his cousin's faces, so dyspeptically similar, merged, giving her goose bumps again. Some rift had torn this family apart. Who had been responsible. Finn, whose charm had quickly evaporated once they married? Or Connal, unpleasant from the start?

"There, now." The older woman squeezed Bethany back and glanced over at the small bundle curled on the bed. "Not everything has been a disaster. There's our lad, after all."

"Yes," Bethany agreed. At the moment, snuggled under the quilt with his dark hair tousled her son looked like a babe still in his linens. "Ross is the one good thing Finn gave me."

"The only good that ever came from that one," Bridget snorted. "May the good Lord fergive me fer speaking ill of the dead. But that man--"

Ross stirred just then, his dark eyelashes fluttering open as he blinked and tried to straighten up. Bridget held back whatever else she'd wanted to say, but Bethany felt certain she had not heard the end of the indictment regarding her erstwhile husband's many faults. It was a conversation they had held too many times for her to count, especially in the past months.

"Are we there yet, Mama?" Exhaustion still edged Ross's voice as he blinked in soft sleepiness at her. Dark circles smudged the underside of his blue eyes, so very like her father's. All this travel--the long sea voyage from Charleston to Dublin and then two days jolting by carriage to reach here--had exacted a toll on him.

"Yes, dearest." She moved over to smooth his tangled curls and feel the warmth of his cheek. "We arrived at Glenmeade Stables just before tea. The coachman carried you in and you've slept half the night away, you were that tired."

Already the curiosity in Ross's eyes dulled and he settled back to lean against the pillows and peer at the darkened room. She poured a bit of honeyed milk into a mug for him and he drank it listlessly despite having missed both tea and supper. He finished the drink and sighed. "Papa said where he'd grown up there were lots of horses. You will let me have a horse of my own, won't you, Mama? You promised."

Another popular topic of conversation Bethany had engaged in far too times lately. "We'll see about a pony once we have settled in, Ross. Would you like some more milk or one of the currant biscuits the housekeeper sent up for you?"

Ross shook his head, his eyes already closing as he drifted off to dream of his horse and pass the remainder the night. "We're home now, Mama. We don't have to be afraid do we? We don't have to run away anymore?" he whispered as he nestled into the downy depths.

"No, darling, no more running." His innocent questions burned tears at the backs of her eyes. He was too young to have such worries. "We are home."

She pulled the covers over his shoulders and kissed his soft cheek, praying she'd made the right choice in bringing her son to Ireland. Praying she was telling him the truth about this new home. Connal Delaney's visage still harrowed her nerves, filling her with uncertainty.

Truth be told it wasn't just Connal Delaney's frowns, nor even his resemblance to her dead husband that frightened Bethany so much as her own traitorous response to the similarity. When Connal strode into the study it was as if the years melted and she was a girl again, catching her first sight of her father's guest from the old country.

Finn Delaney's good looks and brogue seemed to turn whatever he said into lilting poetry. Even having grown up with her father and aunt speaking much the same did not tarnish the appeal. She'd been charmed by the attention he paid her during his initial visit. He was the first adult who actually listened to her conversation, who sought out her company and appeared interested in her opinions.

At the time she'd found his Old World courtesy and flattering attentiveness bewitching. Now she knew Finn's ploys for what they were, a snare for her naivety so he could marry into the prosperous business her father had founded in the New World.

She stroked her sleeping son's cheek. In appearance he looked so like his father. And his new-found cousin. She would have to prepare Ross for the shock of the resemblance between this Connal and the father he'd adored more as an occasional playmate than parent. She lowered the lamp flame and eased herself away from the bed, lingering to look at Ross a moment longer and reassure herself that she was willing to endure anything to secure his future.

Seeing Connal's chiseled cheeks, broad shoulders and firm jaw this afternoon had been like seeing Finn before years of dissipation and indulgence took their toll. Her heart leapt in instant recognition and for a moment it was all she could do to keep her equilibrium. She'd practically clung to James Carey as if they were intimate friends and not acquaintances of only a few minutes.

Surely that sense of shock would fade as she grew used to Connal Delaney's appearance. If not, she would work to avoid his company anymore than absolutely necessary.

Bridget dozed in the rocker, her head dipping to her chest, unwilling to seek her bed until Bethany went as well. Bethany poked at the peat in the hearth, adding a few more pieces as Mr. Carey had showed her earlier. She was not yet ready to be utterly alone in the dark of an unfamiliar bed. Perhaps she would crawl in with Ross and cuddle him. She felt the need for the comfort of holding her child this night. She might no longer be a gullible girl seduced by a smile, but she wasn't nearly as self-sufficient as she pretended for her aunt and son's sake either. This afternoon affirmed that.

Her thoughts kept turning over and over her meeting with Connal Delaney. Emotions buried deep inside her flared to life in his presence. Caution, without a doubt. Dread, certainly. And yet, there was a heightened awareness, an odd sensation of excitement she had not felt in years.

"Foolishness." She put the poker back against the stone hearth.

"What was that, isean?" Bridget sounded so very sleepy, Bethany's conscience panged. It was not fair to make her aunt wait just because she was certain she'd find no rest in Glenmeade, at least not this night.

"Are you ready for bed, Aunt? You do not look at all comfortable sleeping in that rocker."

"I'm not the least tired. There's manya night I spent in this very room." A long yawn belied Bridget's statement as she pushed herself from the rocker. "But ye should get some rest. Our lad will be beside himself when he awakens in the morning and sees all the horses in the paddocks."

"Aye," Bethany whispered. She looked over at the narrow cot set up for her near Ross, doubting she would get much rest in it this night. "I am sure quite sure he will be up at first light demanding to be shown to the stables."

"Thank the Lord, Jenna O'Toole's daughter Mary will be taking up residence in the nursery maid's alcove after this night." Bridget chuckled as they slipped out the door into the darkened hall. "She's young enough ta still fancy early morning forays to the barn."

Bethany clutched her shawl tight around her shoulders. The upper hall of Glenmeade Manor seemed so exposed after the intimacy of the nursery. "I want to take Ross's empty cup and the pitcher to the kitchen. Can I bring you anything back?"

"Nay, lass. All I want is a soft place ta rest my head." Bridget's pat on Bethany's shoulder reassured her even as she winced at the echo of her aunt's voice in the dark hallway. "The keeping room is off the kitchen. Can ye find yer way or would ye like me to light ye a candle?"

"Down the front stairs and straight back. There should be a light in the kitchen. Mrs. O'Toole said she would keep a lamp burning low on the mantle."

"We'll say our good nights then," Bridget yawned and opened the door to the bedchamber opposite the one Bethany would occupy during the remainder of their stay at Glenmeade. "Stick yer head in and tell me when ye get back upstairs, but ye needn't whisper so. I'm sure I heard Master Connal climbing the stairs and heading ta the other wing hours ago. Meanwhile I'll keep an ear out fer our lad should he wake again."

Bethany checked on Ross then scooped up the crockery and made her way cautiously to the main staircase. Master Connal. Her aunt slipped so easily into referring to Connal Delaney with a deference she had never shown Finn. But then, Finn had done little to endear himself to his new family once he had seduced his way into marriage. After two years working for her father in the warehouses, he'd used his charm to seduce her at a time and place where, she realized only in retrospect, they'd be sure to be discovered.

The fact that she came to her husband untried on their hastily-arranged wedding night was a matter of happenstance only. She'd been foolish, flattered, and naively eager to allow him the liberties that led to her downfall. Succumbing to the thrill of the moment and the tantalizing risk of the forbidden had cost her dear. Bridget had blistered her ears for the entire two weeks between her being compromised and her marriage. And she had berated her own folly for most of the intervening years. Ross remained her saving grace through all the nightmares.

She gripped the banister, her fingers curling around the cool wood as she cradled the small pitcher and mug in her other hand. Her steps were muffled as she walked down the plushly carpeted steps. Turning at the bottom, she edged her way toward the kitchen passage, her fingers spread in front of her to warn of any furniture hidden by the night. If only she could do the same with the pitfalls lurking in their future here.

Twenty or so cautious steps and she felt a door in front of her. If Bridget's directions were correct, this led to the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled with sudden hunger as if realizing relief was close at hand. Pushing the door open, she stepped forward and blinked at the light flooding the room in front of her. Instead of being illuminated by a small flame from a lowered lantern as she expected, the kitchen was ablaze with light from two matching lamps on the mantle and a larger one on the long planked table in the center of the room. Scattered across the table were a number of papers, a dirty plate and mug. A loaf of bread, an open crock of jam and a small wheel of cheese with a knife stuck in the top stood on a cutting block by the sink.

"Hello?" No answer. Had the kitchen been left this way until morning? No cook or scullery maid her father employed would have left such a feast out for late night vermin. Nor left the lamps blazing, for that matter.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" She tried again, louder this time. Still no answer.

The room was warm from a fire in the overlarge stone hearth, no doubt used for cooking in the days before the modern stove that gleamed by the sink was installed. Herbs hanging from the rafters gave a pungent, homey scent to the air, the first hint of anything familiar she'd found in this cold, forbidding land.

Although the amount of clutter left out here was nothing compared to Finn's, Connal must have formed the same bad habits. Finn's late night forays into the larder had led to many mutterings between her aunt and her father's housekeeper before she'd begun slipping down to the kitchen to clean up after him before anyone else arose. Whatever the customary practices in this house, it did not feel right to just deposit the crockery she carried and leave the room this way.

"I am certainly no stranger to clearing up messes thanks to you, Finn Delaney." She'd found setting the kitchen at home to rights oddly soothing. Perhaps performing would work in this strange place as well.

A rag rug covering the slate in front of the sink felt warm on her feet as she deposited her contribution to the other items waiting to be washed. Flecked with dill, the cheese had a inviting aroma. Her stomach rumbled again. She'd tidy up the Glenmeade kitchens all right, but she was going to have a nibble before she got started. She whittled a piece of cheese from the wheel eager to pop it in her mouth before attacking the bread.

"Please make yourself right at home." The sarcasm-laden comment spun her around with the knife firmly in her hand. Surprise pounded guilty fear through her veins.

Connal Delaney stepped out of the shadows from the back stairs with raised eyebrows and a raft of papers tied with string thrust under one arm. His resemblance to her husband struck her anew, sending further panic to twist her stomach and set her heart racing.

He was still dressed in his buff riding breeches and tall boots, but he'd shed his jacket and cravat. The stretch of linen across his shoulders betrayed powerful arms well-used to physical labor under his shirt. Years of dissipation had robbed Finn of such a physique if he'd ever possessed one.

Very conscious of the fact that her host was at least dressed whereas she was only attired in a cotton night gown and wool shawl, embarrassment heated her cheeks. She curled her toes into the rug and fought the urge to flee the kitchen as if she were a thief caught in the act.

"Jenna...Mrs. O'Toole said...she offered--" She stopped, hating the hesitation that made her sound guilty of something far worse than assuaging her hunger.

"Ahh, there is your problem. There is really nothing here that is Jenna O'Toole's to offer." He stepped closer. The lamplight glinted in his dark gaze. "This is my home, Mrs. Delaney. Your claims to it, or any its contents, have yet to be proven."

His tone twisted her name with edges as sharp as the dagger in her hand. Anger replaced fear as she looked up at him. "You actually believe I am perpetrating some kind of hoax?"

He shrugged and took another step toward her. "It is a possibility."

She spread her hands. "Why would I venture all this way on a lie? Why would I drag my child across the ocean?

He set his papers down on the table and tilted his head, quirking one brow at her. He moved closer. She fought the urge to take a step backwards.

"Surely not solely to rob my larder at knifepoint?" His gaze fell to the knife she still clutched, forgotten.

She lowered the knife immediately. To her horror her stomach chose that moment to issue a loud rumble. Heat streaked across her cheeks again. "I beg your pardon."

For the first time a genuine smile curled Connal Delaney's lips as some of his frosty demeanor melted away. "I should probably beg your pardon for being a less than gracious host. Your presence surprised me. I am too used to having the run of the house on my own at this hour."

"Perhaps I should apologize first for foisting your role as host on you." She managed a tentative smile of her own.

His dark gaze intensified, as if he were trying to peer directly into her thoughts. "Why did you leave America so soon after your husband's death?"

How much did she want to reveal to this man who was barely able to restrain his hostility? Would he really be open to the litany of her reasons for fleeing so headlong into the unknown. "I hardly think this is the time or place to exchange our life stories."

His eyebrow flashed up and he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"What better time or place than the dark of night to share intimacies?" His voice held a quiet calm she found anything but soothing.

He took a step closer. The clean scent of wind-blown grass and sandalwood that clung to him provided an odd comfort given the circumstances. If she could have stepped back she would have, but the edge of the sink already dug into her back.

"I am sure you understand," he continued, "that your arrival, your claims, are at the very least unexpected. Until I learned of his death a few weeks ago, we have had no word from Finn in over ten years."

"And suddenly a stranger comes forward to claim his share of an inheritance you believed to be yours alone." She tried to look at the situation from his viewpoint. "How inopportune."

"Aye." His lips thinned. He grabbed the forgotten dagger from her grasp. "For one of us at least."

She flinched, both at the bitter honesty of his observation and his nearness. He was entirely too much like her husband at the best of times, let alone this close. She pulled her shawl tight against her chest.

"So shall we share Finn's portion of our sad tales? Establish our common ground?" His dark gaze bore into her, through her.

"If you insist." She tried to keep her tone light and prayed he did not hear the little waver at the back of her throat. "Why did Finn leave Ireland? Leave Glenmeade and never look back?"

She blurted the questions that had bothered her over the years. Her husband had not suffered her curiosity over his past with any pretense at grace. How would she fare with his only remaining family?

Connal's intense gaze shuttered. He stepped around her and put the knife to work slicing the cheese. "What did he tell you?"

"That he loved this place above all others, but his father cast him out to make his fortune on his own. That he could never come back." Only in his drunken ramblings laced with bitter remorse and anger over some rash argument did Finn spill any information.

And then it had not been the truth.

She watched as Connal next sliced bread and put it on a plate beside the cheese. A pulse beat at the base of his neck as he held his peace, obviously waiting for her to continue. She took a deep breath. "He told me you were dead. Why would he say that when you are obviously not? Did you have a falling out? Did his father side with you and that is why he was sent away?"

Connal's jaw worked as he continued to fill the plate in silence. She had begun to think he would not answer any of her questions when he spoke at last. "If you stay here you will learn all you need to know from the tattlemongers soon enough."

"I have little use for gossips." Twisted and inflated stories caused only harm and misery. "I would prefer to hear whatever truth there is from you."

"Truth? I think ladies should go before gentlemen." Connal put the knife down and twisted to look at her directly again. She swallowed and nodded slowly.

"Did you love him?" His hands gripped the side of the sink as if he braced himself for her answer.

The question shocked her. It had been the last thing she expected. What kind of test was this? Her heart pounded and she inhaled another breath as she struggled to form an answer around the painful lump in her throat.

"Finn...was my husband for almost eight years."

"But did you love him?" A strange urgency laced his question. "Was Finn happy in his marriage? In the life he made for himself in...Wilmington? Was he good to you?"

She met his piercing gaze and tried to read the purpose in this line of questions. Did this man really want the truth? How would he react if she told him of his lost cousin's escalating drunkenness through the years? Of his womanizing? Of the devastation he visited on the once thriving business her father had left to them?

"He...was...away much of the time these last few years." She swallowed against the bleakness of her answer, torn between truths she'd admit to no one and lies she could no longer bear telling. "We led separate lives for the most part, after he gave me Ross."

"Separate." Something hardened in Connal's gaze. "Is that why he sought solace in the arms of another woman so far from your home? Is that why you allowed him to be buried in a potter's grave?"

Her stomach burned at his tone. How could he question what she could not defend? Her husband had betrayed her numerous times. Left her in poverty, ashamed to bear his name, ashamed of the tarnished reputation he'd left as sole legacy to their son.

"I had no funds to bring his body to North Carolina," she answered with as much truth as she was ready to share. "I sent money for a funeral Mass. The curate at the church nearby promised to care for his grave until I could send more for a headstone."

"No funds? Yet you had the means to travel overseas. To come here with your aunt and your son?" He faced her fully

Connal's tone held shards of ice. The truths he sought burned against her tongue. Truths she had borne for most of her marriage and would carry with her for the rest of her life. Yet, she couldn't speak them. Behind his attack, in the deep brown depths of his eyes, she recognized grief and the need for this man to deal with the loss of a member of his family.

"I told you. I came here seeking my son's grandfather. To give Ross a sense of his family, his heritage. Finn was finished with me years ago." She couldn't bring herself to tell him the whole truth, that she had fled the shreds of the life she had shared with his cousin.

Connal studied her, the moments stretching toward eternity. Lamplight put shadows on his cheeks, deepening the harshness of his scrutiny. He was so much like Finn. The urge to turn and flee the kitchen swelled. She resisted, sensing such action would gain her little. Instead, she met his appraising stare with her own. Did you love Finn? Was he happy? Why had those been the questions he'd asked first?

He reached out and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Her breath caught in her chest. His touch was unexpected and surprisingly gentle. "Why would Finn, why would any man, ever be finished with a woman like you?"

He asked the question gently, but the curl of his lip branded her as a liar. In this and everything else. His censure stung, echoing too many nights of dread and condemnation for her inadequacies she'd thought she'd escaped. She tugged her shawl tighter about her to hide her shivers of rage, past and present.

"My husband told me he preferred the comfort offered him by women who understood a man's needs. From real women." She nearly spat the least colorful criticisms her husband had heaped on her as her throat tightened.

"You look real to me." Connal stepped closer. His hands grasped her shoulders.

"And you certainly feel real enough." His fingers bit into her arms as his breath fanned heat across her cheeks. His narrowed gaze dipped to her lips. Blood pounded in her ears and her stomach twisted.

No. The word sounded in her mind, but she couldn't get it past her lips as he pulled her closer.

Fear froze her. Habits she thought had died along with her husband surged to the fore. Suddenly it was Finn holding her, forcing his rights whenever he felt the need. This would go easier--quicker--if she cooperated. That much the years, their marriage, had taught her.

Relax. Just breathe and it will be over soon.

A hint of sandalwood filled the air she gulped. Finn was dead. Connal Delaney looked down at her. She would not let the shadows of the past hold sway over the present. She pushed against Connal's shoulders, winning an unexpectedly release. His dark gaze held hers for a moment as their ragged breathing echoed. Then he stepped back and released a shuddering sigh.

"Finn was a fool," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him. He reached for the plate filled with bread and cheese and offered it to her. "Take this and go before I am tempted to discover just how foolish he was."

Her hunger had long since fled. She spun on her heel and departed the kitchen with as much dignity as she could muster.