Page 74 of Darkest at Dusk
“For what?” She waited for shame to come and found only tenderness, and a prickle of sorrow for the years she had taught herself not to want.
“For the fear,” he said. “For the house. For—” He stopped. The hand in her hair closed, not roughly. “For what I mean to ask of you still.”
“You did not make Catrin.”
“Didn’t I ?” he asked, his voice laced with pain. “I barred the door.”
Her palm slid to his ribs. He was all hard muscle under warm skin. “You did not teach her to kill. You did not summon her to Harrowgate, setting a viper free among those you love. You did not light that lamp.”
“No,” he said. “But I laid a snare for you in the library.” The words entered the room without apology and without defense. “I wanted you to open that box. I bought it for the mark, Thorn & Sons, because I knew your father’s key would turn there.”
“I suspected,” she said, because she had and because suspicion had tasted like gall until tonight. “You omit,” she added, soft, “but you do not lie.”
“I will not lie to you,” he said, and the vow had weight. “I would rather you hate me for what I am than trust a man I invented.”
“Why did you not simply tell me the whole of it from the beginning? Your family. Catrin… All of it?”
He made a soft laugh, devoid of mirth. “I told your father. Laid it bare, every damnable piece of it, save the barring of the door. I begged his help, and yours. You saw his answer. I thought it better to let you stitch together the truth for yourself, one page at a time, than to have you drive me into the street hurling insults and wrath.”
She thought, with a pang that was half grief, half rue, of Papa muttering Rhys’s name with scorn, of the sharp words he had used when speaking of the man now lying beside her. Only because he meant to protect her from harm. Strange how memory could cut and comfort, both. How the echo of Papa’s warnings didn’t lessen the warmth of the shoulder beneath her cheek.
Then she thought of the letters, of Rhys’s mother’s hand steady until it broke, of boys who were alive and then were not. She thought of the way Rhys had looked at her when she asked what happened to Catrin: steady, unafraid to let her see the black and the bright together. She set her mouth to his shoulder, a small press that might have been comfort or thanks.
He made a sound then, an unguarded one, and she felt it pass through him like a ripple.
As he reached for her, a knock sounded, two quick raps, then a third. Before either of them could snatch a robe or utter a reply, the latch turned, and Mrs. Abernathy swept in with a tray balanced on her forearms, steam and spice riding the air ahead of her. Two cups, two plates, two spoons, two of everything: porridge glossed with cream, buttered toast, baked apples jewelled with currants, a pot of dark tea, another of chocolate. The scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, butter, folded through the air, warm and ordinary. She set the tray on the round table by the fire as if she had placed such trays in such rooms—lovers’ rooms—a thousand mornings.
Her gaze took them in. Isabella, wearing only Rhys’s discarded shirt and wrapped now to her chin in the blankets she had yanked up to hide herself as the door had opened. Rhys, propped against the pillows, bare-chested and unrepentant.
If Mrs. Abernathy had an opinion on propriety, she folded it neat and tucked it away. But Isabella felt as if her face was on fire, her cheeks burning with mortification. The housekeeper had discovered her in the master’s bed. Inconvenient feelings.
For the space of a breath, she wanted to sink into the mattress and vanish.
As though he knew her thoughts, Rhys whispered for her ears alone, “Not inconvenient.”
His words made her recall whose bed she lay in, whose hand had steadied her, whose shirt she wore. She forced her chin up and met Mrs. Abernathy’s gaze and found no censure there.
Rhys’s lips curved. “You might knock, Mrs. Abernathy.”
“I did,” she returned, unruffled, and added, “sir.” A faint emphasis, just shy of cheek.
She poured tea out for Isabella, chocolate for Rhys, and set the cups within easy reach. Her gaze went to Isabella and her expression softened. “How do you this morning, Miss Barrett?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Isabella said, striving for composure, though embarrassment made her pulse thud like a guilty drum.
Mrs. Abernathy flicked a glance at Rhys. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Isabella opened her mouth, shut it, and wished the floor might rise up and swallow her whole. Beside her, Rhys made a low sound that might have been a laugh strangled into a cough. His gray eyes gleamed with wicked amusement as he met her gaze. He shifted one hand beneath the sheet, his thumb brushing the back of her wrist in secret reassurance, and her heart leapt.
“I did not come to gawk,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her expression turning serious. “Nor to intrude. But there are matters that have pressed upon me.”
“Go on,” Rhys said.
Mrs. Abernathy folded her hands at her waist. “Peg gave me a turn yesterday.”
“Peg?” Isabella sat up, mortification forgotten. “Is she unwell?”
“She’s sound but bruised. She fell on the back stair. Slipped, I gather. But…”
