Her eyes widened. She shook her head and stepped back, “Mr. Welbourne, I—”
“About that day at Even Tor, the day I left. That is not how things should have ended.”
* * *
Charlotte stiffened, spurred by the onset of unsettling panic as what he was saying registered in her mind.
He intended to talk to her about that day—about what they had been to each other.
Her face grew hot. Her head grew light.
Today had already been difficult, and now she could barely contain the emotions pummeling her, let alone allow herself to open that vault.
Yet Anthony was standing so close.
She could feel his warmth. He was not touching her, yet she knew the feeling of sinking against his chest. Of the comfort that could be found in his arms. The sensation of it replayed with vibrant colors in her mind—tempting her to lower her guard.
“I think it best we do not discuss it,” she shot back. “Nothing good could come of it.”
“But, I—”
“Stop. Please,” she said, much sharper than she intended. “’Tis not a good idea.”
A slight wince tightened his face before he concealed it.
She immediately regretted the harshness in her tone. The swiftness of her response. But she would not—could not—relive that day. It would weaken her.
He relented. “Very well. But if you’ll permit me to say one thing, I’ll not revisit it again.”
The blood roared in her ears, and she stared at him, unsure how to respond. She feared the words that would pass his lips. Not afraid that they would injure her, for her heart was already broken. Nay, she feared just the opposite—that they would offer her a sense of peace that she, at this time, did not feel free to take.
“I cannot hear it,” she blurted. “The past must stay in the past.”
His eyes, unnervingly astute and direct, were fixed intently on her. As if he could read every thought flitting through her mind and sense every feeling. “Wouldn’t you rather put it to rest than act as if it never happened?”
Tears threatened to gather. “To what end?”
They were staring at each other—the intimate link of two people who knew each other too well. It was a communication all its own—even more frightening to Charlotte than words.
“So this is how we handle it?” he challenged. “Pretend to be strangers? For I cannot pretend that it is not difficult to see you like this. To see you struggle and in conflict.”
“I pretend nothing. I am simply doing the best I can in the wake of my husband’s death.”
“Then it must be me, alone, who cannot forget those evenings on Even Tor.” He stepped even closer, dangerously so, and his scent of wool and the outdoors was intoxicating, the directness of his gaze impairing her. “Have you not thought about that day even once since we’ve been here? It seems to be all I can think about.”
She had to make this stop. It was too painful. Anger was starting to wind its way in, for she didn’t know how else to feel. “Do you want to know what I really think about it? Very well. All I can think about is Henry. You cannot imagine the world we have just escaped. My sole existence moving forward is to protect him from Silas Prior and to protect him from becoming a man like Roland. I do not have the luxury of time or indifference. I refuse to let Henry be lost to their world. So you will excuse me if my thoughts are not fixed in the past, for my present is very much a nightmare.”
She did not wait for his response. She couldn’t—tears of frustration she had held back since Roland’s death were threatening, and she refused to let Anthony see them fall.
* * *
Anthony stood alone in the silent parlor—alone with the whistling wind, the crackling fire, and the echo of the words that had just been spoken.
Every interaction with Charlotte revealed another layer of her experiences after he’d left.
His suspicion had been correct. She was not a grieving widow but a frightened one. A threatened one—one who was backed into a corner and ready for a fight.
He found it difficult to leave the parlor, as if by leaving he would be putting an end to this conversation.
In his heart, it was far from over.
When he saw the anguish in her eyes, he’d wanted to grab her and kiss her to shut out the rest of the world until just the two of them remained. Until they were more like the two young people who had been so in love instead of the two strangers they were now. Until the torment they’d both endured faded into hope for a happier future.
It would not take long. At least for him. For he was already there.
But she clearly was not.
He needed to give her time, and he suspected she would need a great deal of it. Whereas he had time since returning from the war to come to terms with thoughts and experiences, her world had only just turned in the last week. In a horrific and traumatic manner.
He would have to be patient and understand that things might be out of reach.
Chapter 20
Night, along with a steady rain, had fallen by the time the carriage transporting Miss Sutcliffe finally returned from Leeds. Anthony had been watching for it and met it with lantern in hand. After assisting Miss Sutcliffe down from the vehicle, he then stepped back as Timmons dismounted his horse and joined them. “I was beginning to fear you’d encountered a highwayman.”
“Bah, nonsense,” blurted Timmons, as energetically and good-naturedly as if he had not just ridden a horse to Leeds and back. “Ye know me—I dare a ’ighwayman t’ glance at me sideways. No, a bit of rain that proved more offensive. Miss Sutcliffe preferred t’ wait in t’ dining room at a traveling inn t’ pressing ahead.”
“I fear I’m not as accustomed to such traveling.” She lowered her hood. “I apologize if I put us terribly behind schedule.”
Anthony closed the carriage door behind her. “Not at all, Miss Sutcliffe. I was worried for your safety, ’tis all.”
Using his lantern as a guide, Anthony walked her to Hollythorne House’s main entrance and then returned to help Timmons stable his horse. The familiar scent of horses and straw met them as they entered the stone structure, and the lantern’s light flickered and glowed against the ancient stone walls and timber beams.
“Did you speak with Mr. Walstead?”
“No.” Timmons removed his horse’s head collar. “But I spoke with Dunston. Walstead was out of town.”
Anthony raised a brow. “Did you leave the letter?”
Timmons nodded. “Dunston did say that Mr. Walstead was plannin’ t’ visit Hollythorne House in t’ next day or so.”
Anthony kept his voice low as he lifted the saddle from the horse’s back. “Silas Prior was here today to call on Mrs. Prior. I heard a bit of the conversation. Sounds like things are a bit messy at the mill there.”
Timmons snorted and shook his head. “Did ’e tell ye three men were apprehended attemptin’ t’ set a fire outside of Wolden House?”
“No, but he said some of the men were awaiting payment on a job.”
“I ’eard the same. From what I gathered from Dunston, Roland Prior ’ired this group of men t’ collect a shipment of goods, but he never paid them.”