“How did you come to be on that auction block?” He didn’t look back as he asked the question, but she could still almost imagine those dark blue eyes on her, measuring her, judging her . . .
It was so easy for him, a man of means, to ask something like that in a voice rife with judgment. For him it was unthinkable. He could never fathom himself in such a situation. Because he would never be in such a situation. The truth of that angered her unaccountably. Why should it be her lot in life? Or any woman’s?
“I married Mr. Beard when my father died. That was the arrangement they made when Papa took ill and it became clear he would not live long.”
“Your father did this to you? Auctioning you for any stranger to buy?”
She stiffened in her saddle, her hands suddenly damp where they clenched her reins. He didn’t understand. Again, he was full of scorn, passing judgment without all the facts.
“He did it to protect me,” she said tightly.
He made a sound. Part laugh. Part grunt. “Well, that worked out, didn’t it?”
She shook her head slowly. Her father loved her. He’d tried his best. “We should all have a crystal ball to see into the future. He thought he was doing the best thing for me. I would help Mr. Beard raise his children and work around the farm and when I was old enough, I would choose a new husband for myself and he would buy me from Mr. Beard at market.” It had seemed the perfect solution. She nor her father imagined it would end like this—with her bound to a stranger.
“Incredible,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.
“It should have worked!”
“But it didn’t.”
She sank back in her saddle, stung at that truth and feeling deflated. “He was supposed to be there . . .” she whispered, the betrayal of Yardley’s abandonment cutting deep, the wound still much too fresh.
He stopped abruptly and turned his horse about in one well-guided circle. “What did you say?”
Her mule pranced and hedged away, not comfortable in such close proximity with the much larger gelding. She could understand that. She didn’t particularly care for close proximity with his master either.
Marcus Weatherton stared down at her with hard eyes from atop the much higher perch of his mount. He repeated himself, canting his head. “What did you just say?”
She cleared her throat and flexed her damp hands around the reins. “I didn’t say anything . . . to you.” But she had spoken aloud and she heartily and intensely regretted that right now as he pinned her beneath his unblinking stare.
“You said: he was supposed to be there.”
“Well, if you heard what I said why are you asking me?” She knew she sounded cross, but she could not help it. He did this to her. He put her on edge.
She shivered, knowing it had nothing to do with the cold. No, it had everything to do with him and his arctic stare. She cast another look around them, at the thick press of snow-dappled trees. She knew nothing about this man and yet here she was in the middle of nowhere exchanging tense words with him.
He ignored her inquiry, stubbornly pushing, “Who was supposed to be there?”
She fidgeted, ashamed to confess her abandonment, to reveal how very unworthy she was. Her own friend, the man who had promised to marry her, changed his mind and left her with no explanation. That was the worst thing of all in this. Theirs had not been a passionate love, but she thought their friendship deep and true. She thought he would make a fine husband. She would have been a good wife to him.
“A lover?” he pressed, his cunning eyes sweeping over her and making her tremble anew. He laughed once, the sound harsh, his teeth a straight flash of white amid the dark pelt of his beard. “Of course.” He tilted back his dark head as though examining the sky, lips snapping shut over his teeth.
She watched him, feeling an odd stirring in her gut at the sight of him.
His broad hands loosely gripped his leather reins, but there was a restrained air about him. As though he might jump to action at any moment with those powerful hands of his. The wind had temporarily stilled and she was spared the scent of him. He was quite the virile specimen with that lush dark head of hair and his large frame. Those blue eyes far too calculating, too . . . observant. She shifted upon her saddle. They saw too much.
“What did he do? Make all sorts of promises and then fail to appear?”
She sniffed and moistened her wind-chilled lips. “How did you know that?” How could he guess so accurately?
He snorted. “I know something about the manner of men.” He looked angry then, his eyes fierce. “Your lover promised you the world between kisses and then would have let you be sold to someone like that tanner. That should teach you. Trust no man.”
She shuddered, remembering the repulsive tanner and how very close she had come to becoming his wife. He would have wasted no time claiming his husbandly rights. And perhaps more. He would have claimed her soul, too. Then she would have been as dead inside as all the animals whose hides he tanned.
She didn’t bother to correct that Yardley had been more friend than lover. He’d been her longest friend. Her truest, she’d thought. His letters to her during the years of her marriage had been her one light in the darkness. She’d read them again and again, until the parchment cracked. She’d absorbed his every word, memorizing his descriptions of the far-off places he visited and drinking in his promises of their future away from Collie-Ben.
Yes, there had been a few kisses between them. Her first kiss when she was fourteen, before he left. Then one just a few days ago, sealing, she thought, their commitment to each other. Both chaste. Obviously neither tempting enough for him to commit to being her husband at the final hour.
Trust no man. She mulled that for a moment. “So I should not trust you then?”
She studied him for his reaction, waiting and expecting his assurances that he was a good man. That he was a gentleman. That he would never harm or deceive her in anyway. That seemed the natural response.
But it never came.
Chapter 8
The wolf wasn’t like the other wolves. He craved solitude.
He had nothing in common with a dove.
He feared he might crush her.
The village was similar to the one they’d just left. Similar thatched-roof buildings. A smithy shop where loud clanging could be heard. A stone church with a neighboring graveyard. Hopefully this time he would make it through the night and not end up in a gaol.
At least it wasn’t as crowded. They maneuvered through a few streets easily enough until they located a large inn. As they arrived before the building, the delicious aroma of roasting meat reached his nose. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the hunk of bread and cheese he’d bought off one of the vendors in Collie-Ben.
He glanced over where she sat atop her mule, swaying slightly. She looked exhausted. Likely she was hungry, too. She could definitely use a little more meat on her bones. He felt a stab of guilt for not seeing better to her comfort. He should have acquired food for the both of them before he left Collie-Ben. He would order them a hearty meal. Hopefully that would help fortify her. He didn’t need her to sicken.
The instant the thought passed through his head, he cringed. There he went again. Overly concerning himself with her welfare. It was hardly typical protocol between employee and employer. He needed to keep perspective on who she was, who he was and most important who they were not to each other.
So I should not trust you then?
He hadn’t answered her question. He’d told her to trust no man. He wasn’t about to contradict himself and tell her he was the exception. It was better if she knew to stay on her guard. Better for her. Better for him.
They turned their mounts over to a stable lad, who made no effort to hide what he thought of Marcus’s aroma, taking several steps back. Damn it all. Finally, he’d have that bath and everyone could stop treating him like a leper.