Page 30 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“All done, Mrs Bridges,” the captain called, as he entered through the door.
He was, Flora saw with a mix of relief and disappointment, in the process of rolling down his shirt sleeves.
“I’ll just go out and have a look,” her grandmother declared, before turning to Flora and commanding. “Get the man a drink, Flora.”
Flora rolled her eyes and moved to the counter, where she poured the captain a glass of milk. She handed it to him shyly, almost afraid to meet his eyes.
“You didn’t have to—” she began, but he brushed her off with a wave of his hand.
“Happy to help,” he said, with an easy shrug. “I’ve been far too idle these past few weeks. It felt good to do some real work.”
“Still, I want to thank you for choosing to expend your energy by helping here,” Flora said, finally daring to look up at him.
That was when she saw it: a long speckled feather lodged stubbornly in his dark hair. The sight was so incongruous—so endearing—that she could not help but smile.
“Is something amiss?” he brought his hand at once to his hair, sweeping it through his thick locks—though this only served to move the feather so that it was standing straight up.
Flora bit back a laugh at the very unfashionable headpiece he had made for himself.
“It’s just—you have—it’s—” she began, then laughing rose up on her toes and leaned forward to pluck it free.
Which proved to be a very large error on her part.
He stilled as she leaned close, and so did she. The air between them felt charged, their breaths mingling. For one dangerous heartbeat she wondered—hoped—that he might lower his head and kiss her.
The very thought made her skittish and she clumsily snatched the feather, waving it between them with a nervous little laugh.
“See? Nothing at all,” she said, taking a step backward to put some space between them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have….I should have said—I should have told you—”
She did not get a chance to finish her stuttered sentence, for her grandmother’s voice cut across the room.
“Oh, good,” Mrs Bridges said from just inside the door. “You’ve told him about the wolfsbane.”
Time seemed to stand still, as Flora turned her eyes to Captain Thorne and the only thing she could think in that moment was that her grandmother was right; blue eyes never lied.
She saw confusion and hurt cloud them, followed by a coldness that crept its way into her heart.
“What wolfsbane?” the captain finally asked, directing his question not to Flora, but her grandmother.
“I keep a jar in the cupboard over there,” Mrs Bridges said, in a cheerful tone that let Flora know she hadn’t picked up on the strained undercurrents. “Flora discovered, the day after the murder, that the jar had been tampered with and some of it was missing. She thinks the poison used to kill Sir Ambrose came from this very house—she reckons somebody stole it while visiting. She was afraid to tell you but I’m glad she’s finally found the courage.”
“Indeed,” Captain Thorne said at last, his tone quiet but curiously flat. He turned his gaze on Flora, blue eyes unreadable. “And you did not think to tell me?”
The words were not harsh, yet they struck harder than any rebuke. Flora felt her stomach twist. Did he believe her afraid to trust him? Or worse—that she had something to hide?
“I didn’t know…” she began then trailed off. She wanted to say, I didn’t know you, but it felt somewhat childish.
“If I was worthy of your trust?” the captain arched a brow. From his expression, she could tell that the feeling was now mutual.
“I wish you’d told me sooner,” he finally said at last. A queer grief rose in her throat, leaving her mute. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I wish to return to the inn to wash after all that exertion. My thanks for your hospitality.”
He reached for his coat, took his hat from the table, and bowed with perfect courtesy. By the time Flora gathered her wits to follow, he was already gone. She opened the door in time only to glimpse him cantering down the lane.
The bright morning had vanished; dark clouds were massing in the east. Her grandmother had been right, Flora realised dully. A storm was coming in.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE PINT INfront of him had gone flat, though James had scarcely touched it. He sat hunched over the scarred oak bar of The Ring’O’Bells, glowering into the rapidly dispersing foam.
