He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her face, not wanting to take advantage of that purity. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me,” she said urgently. “What happened in the Colonies? Where have you been for seven years?”
“No.” Brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood. He was too late. He pushed away from her, afraid she’d see the demons laughing behind his eyes.
“Why not?” she called. “Why can’t you tell me? I can never understand you until I’ve heard what happened to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “There’s no need for you to understand me.”
She threw her hands in the air. “You’re impossible!”
“And we are back where we started.” He sighed.
She frowned at him, her gray eyes sparking with displeasure as she tapped one small foot. “Very well,” she said at last, “I’ll lay aside the matter of your past for now, but you can’t ignore the fact that someone tried to kill you today.”
“I’m not.” He turned and gathered the knife, whetstone, and the piece of leather he’d been using to sharpen the knife. “I don’t think it’s any of your concern.”
“How can it not be my concern?” she demanded. “I was there. I saw that third shot. The first two might have been random, but the third was most definitely aimed at you.”
“And again, I say that this is none of your business.”
He stowed the whetstone and leather in the top of a chest of drawers, but he hung the knife at his waist. He’d had it for seven long years, used it to butcher deer and bear, and once, years ago now, he’d killed a man with it. The knife wasn’t a friend—he had no emotional attachment to it—but it had served him well, and he felt safer, more whole, with it at his side.
He looked curiously at Miss Corning, still standing by the bed across the room. “Why do you persist?”
“Because I care,” she said, “no matter how much you try to hold me at arm’s length, I still can’t help but care. And because I am the only one who might get you to understand that Uncle Reggie had nothing to do with the shooting. Think: If it wasn’t Uncle Reggie, then someone else has tried to kill you.”
“And who do you think that might be?”
“I don’t know.” She hugged her waist and shivered. “Do you?”
He frowned down at the top of the chest of drawers. It held only a basin and a pitcher of water—nothing like the furniture that’d been in his old rooms in this house. But then again it was richly appointed compared to the wigwams he’d lived in for many years. For a brief moment, he felt dizzy with displacement. Did he belong anywhere anymore? The demons surged forward to take control.
Then he shook his head, shoving them back. “Vale said he’d been looking for the traitor for a year now. He’s obsessed with the search. And he said the traitor had a French mother. My mother was French.”
“Would Lord Vale have you killed if he thought you the traitor?”
Reynaud remembered the man he’d known, a laughing man, a friend to everyone he met. That Vale would never have done such a thing, but then again, that Vale was from the past. Would Vale kill him if he thought he’d betrayed the regiment at Spinner’s Falls? A man might change in many ways in seven years, but could Vale turn into a killer of friends?
“No.” He answered his own silent question. “No, Jasper would never do that.”
“Then who would?” she asked quietly. “If another of the survivors of the massacre thought you were the traitor, would they kill you?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned, thinking, and then shook his head in frustration. “I don’t even know who survived the massacre besides Vale and a man called Samuel Hartley.” Dammit! He wished he could call on Vale for help, but after yesterday afternoon, it seemed impossible. “I don’t know who to trust.”
He looked at her, the full realization dawning on him. “I’m not sure there is anyone I can trust.”
“THEY SAY THE bullet came within inches of his face,” the Duke of Lister drawled, cradling a goblet of wine between his large pale hands.
“At least that close.” Blanchard frowned. “There was blood on his cheek. Although I think that was from a splinter striking him.”
“Pity it wasn’t closer,” Hasselthorpe said as he swirled the wine in his glass. The burgundy liquid was so dark it was nearly black. Like a glass of blood. He set it down on the table beside his chair in sudden distaste. “Had the bullet smashed his skull, you, Lord Blanchard, would have no fear for your title.”
o;He did save me.” Beatrice looked down at her slippers. Lord Hope’s sanity was the very subject she’d been grappling with when Uncle Reggie had interrupted her. “Perhaps he was merely confused by the suddenness of the events. Perhaps he spoke in haste when he talked of Indians.”
“Or perhaps he’s mad.” Uncle Reggie’s voice softened at her look. “I know he saved your life, and don’t think I’m not grateful the bastard risked his life for you. But is it safe to have him in the house? What if he wakes one morning and decides I’m an Indian—or you?”
“He seems sane otherwise.”