When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,26

stretch. He’d learned to hold his tongue. Too late, at far too high a price, but he had acquired the skill.

“I am not wanted by the magistrates,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “I haven’t gained the notice of any thief takers.”

But she clearly feared somebody. Duncan came around the table and took the seat next to her.

Wild creatures were said to have two impulses when faced with danger: one to flee, one to turn and fight. Some animals—rabbits, burros, cats—adopted a third choice. They became motionless, blending into their surroundings, barely breathing, hoping to become invisible to their foes.

Miss Maddie fit that description, remaining seated at the table, wrapped in her shawls and her silence. She doubtless longed to dodge off into the night, just as she longed to rail against Duncan’s inquisition. He could feel that tension humming in her unspoken words and in her stillness.

He considered what puzzle pieces he had and connected them with logic and intuition, for the simple truth was, he did not want her to go. For her sake, he did not want her to be alone, battling the elements and God knew what foes with only a rusty pistol and a worn cape for protection.

And for his own sake, too, he longed for her to stay. Foolish of him, but he was no stranger to folly.

“If you are not fleeing the law per se,” he said, “then you are either the victim of a crime or you have witnessed wrongdoing, and your safety is jeopardized as a result. Of the two, the latter is the more difficult posture, but in either case, you have nothing to fear from me.”

He took her hand, tucked the table napkin containing the shortbread into her grasp, and closed her fingers about the sweets.

Her gaze put him in mind of the rabbit’s, not the snared animal’s blank acceptance of doom, but the bewildered gaze of a captive granted a reprieve.

“I will stay with Mrs. Newbury for the remainder of the evening,” he said, lifting Miss Maddie’s free hand in his own. “You will rest. We will speak further of your situation if, as, and when you decide the topic needs another airing.”

He kissed her knuckles, set the warm cider at her elbow, and left her alone in the kitchen’s cozy shadows.

* * *

In her toasty, curtained bed, Matilda had played chess games in her head as she’d tossed and turned. She’d twice risen to count her pieces of shortbread—four, because she’d taken all the remaining treats to her room. Before retiring, she’d also looked in on Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Newbury.

The housekeeper had been sleeping peacefully—a very hopeful sign—and the master had been reading a French Psalter by the light of three candles.

What sort of woman was attracted to a tired man reading scripture in French late at night?

What sort of woman trusted that same man when he was so adept at catching her in her lies?

“I know the answers.” Matilda could admit that to herself in the early-morning solitude of her pretty bedroom. “Any decent man will loom in my eyes as a hero, until, being decent and English, he writes to Papa and ruins everything.”

She took a fortifying swallow of the tea Danvers had brought and rose, though no clever plan had occurred to her in the dark hours, no brilliant strategy for dealing with Mr. Wentworth. If she told him what had sent her onto the king’s highway in the dead of night, he’d be implicated and guilty by association.

If she fled the safety of Brightwell she’d be dead by spring, and Atticus Parker would never even know her fate.

Her disappearance likely didn’t trouble him much from a sentimental perspective, but his pride was doubtless smarting. Ye gods, what an idiot she’d been.

She set her tea tray on the sideboard in her sitting room, collected her shawls, and made her way through the frigid corridors to the little parlor where she’d first taken sustenance at Brightwell earlier in the week. The day was brilliant, as only a sunny day on a snow-covered landscape could be, and thus the stairway, while cold, was flooded with sunlight.

Matilda paused outside the dining parlor, heart thumping for no reason. Why should the prospect of an informal meal fill her with nearly as much trepidation as a night spent in the open countryside had?

“Good morning.” Mr. Wentworth rose from his seat at the head of the table. He did not smile—did he ever smile?—but he did hasten to close the