Page 58 of Barely a Woman
“Yes, but I want toseehis face when I destroy him. To watch his arrogance crumble and his hope die for what he has done.”
Much to his disappointment, she shook her head in disbelief. “You really intend to go forward with this, regardless of what I or anyone else says.”
“Without regret.”
She closed the gap between them and lifted a finger until it hovered inches from his chest. “Then hear me well, Sir Steadman. I want no part of this. I want no part of you.”
Her words struck him like a hammer blow. Surely, she did not mean such a thing. They were friends, and so much more. Could not two people disagree and remain friends?
“You can’t mean that.”
Tears brightened her eyes as she turned away without a word. Steadman watched his mercurial partner, his confidante, his romantic interest walking across the field, deep in conflict. He did not wish to lose the first friend—the first love—he had found since leaving home. He could not imagine an aftermath of his vengeance that did not include Morgan Brady. It seemedinconceivable that she might not forgive him. However, he was a runaway cart in motion, driven by gravity, momentum, and an enormous burden toward an inevitable collision. With growing resolve, he followed her path to retrieve his horse. He had avoided his visit to Fovant long enough.
***
An hour later, Steadman rode into the tiny hamlet of Fovant, ancestral home of the Atkinson family. He dredged up memories while studying each house as he passed it by. In the fifth house, he found recognition. After tying his horse to the gatepost, he approached the door of the small but well-kept house and rapped three times. When a woman answered his call, her eyes flew wide.
“Mr. Drew!”
“Just Steadman, Mrs. Atkinson.”
She curtsied deeply and nodded. “Please come in from the rain, sir. You are soaked to the bone.”
He eyed the threshold warily. Crossing it meant reopening wounds that had nearly killed him. With a deep breath, he stepped inside. “Thank you.”
“Warm yourself by the hearth while I pour you a cup of tea.”
He followed her instructions and spread his hands with his back against the crackling fire. After a few seconds, she pressed a warm cup into his grip before standing expectantly before him wringing her hands. His eyes wandered the confines of Mrs. Atkinson’s home with approval.
“You appear to live comfortably.”
She smiled. “Between your periodic gifts and the help of others, I do more than simply survive. I am content and have you to thank.”
He waved his free hand. “My contributions are the least I could offer after what my father did to your family. But now…”
“Yes?”
“But now I have returned to avenge the dead. To avenge Mary.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How?”
“My father has placed himself in a tenuous financial position. I have come back to see him ruined. To pay for what he has done.”
Steadman expected many possible reactions from Mary’s mother. Relief. Approval. Resolution. However, the expression that rippled across her features indicated objection. She shook her head. “Pardon my saying so, but I do not believe that is what Mary would want.”
He peered at her with bafflement. How could she say such a thing? “Did you not understand me? Mary will finally have the justice she deserves.”
“I am sorry. But perhaps it is you who fails to understand.”
He set his cup aside and lifted his palms to her. “Did my father not evict your family in the dead of winter for no reason other than my interest in Mary?”
“He did.”
“And did not your entire family perish from sickness during that miserable winter?”
She blinked twice and shook her head. “They did, but that is not the end of the story.”
“I know how the story ends.” He was becoming agitated by her unexpected resistance. “Two days from now, I will destroy Lord Atwood financially, and when I do, he will know without a doubt that his heartless treatment of your family is the root of his undoing.”
