Page 95 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
“You need not scowl so fiercely,” she murmured, “they’ll think you mean to hang someone.”
“I might,” he said under his breath, “if I discover who sent those men.”
“Then find out. But not before I’ve spoken to the vicar as I promised.”
He gave her a long look, equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration.
“Lead on, Lady Duskwood. God help the poor fool who tries to stop you.”
She smiled, just a little, and together they crossed the green toward the church, sunlight spilling on the path before them. She felt a chill at the notion that someone had tried to arrange for her abduction. There was a prime candidate for it, but Christine would not let that person intrude on this moment.
She walked in warmth, holding Tristan’s arm. Within, she was warmed by the knowledge that he had chosen to be in her company.
He searched for me. He wanted to be with me.
That thought warmed her more than the loveliest summer day.
Twenty-Seven
He felt the shiver go through her before she admitted it. Not fear, at least not the kind that turned a spine to water. It was the fine tremor of danger narrowly missed. She had insisted upon the village, so he had stubbornly decided to give her the village. And carry her across its threshold himself if only to quiet the painful, irrational memory of her wrist under a stranger’s hand.
They put their hands on her. They tried to take her prisoner. After the life she has lived at Gillray House! If that was Lady Gillray’s doing, I will burn her house to the ground.
The Hart and Thistle stood on the green, its sign creaking, its whitewashed front sunlit and already warm with the day’s trade. Curtains twitched at the glazing of the upper windows. The Duke of Duskwood, striding through the door of the inn with his future duchess on his arm, was, judging by the sudden hush, a spectacle no one had expected to witness before noon.
Or at all, given his years of distance from his tenants.
Inside the inn, cool shadow, the smell of yeast and roasting meat, the mellow drone of voices halted mid-word. Mr. Reeve, a great-shouldered fellow with careful hands and a mayor’s sash worn as if it embarrassed him, pushed through the taproom with the briskness of a man used to every kind of trouble that could walk in from the green.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing.
His eyes went at once to Christine’s face.
“And my lady. You’ll be wanting a chair and a private room if there is one to be had that suits you. Alice!” He clicked his fingers.
A girl appeared.
“Upstairs, the front chamber. The one with the good light.”
The front chamber was plain, clean, with a window looking over the green and the church beyond. Sunlight fell across the scrubbed boards. Christine sat down upon the settle near the window. Tristan stood before her. He studied her face for the signs he dreaded. Color had come back to her cheeks, and the stubborn line had returned to her mouth.
She will be difficult again within the hour.
Relief, unwelcome and foolish, eased the tightness in his throat.
“I am not porcelain,” she said softly, watching him watch her.
“That has never been my complaint,” he said, equally soft, “if you were a porcelain doll you wouldn’t be so…”
He turned away, frustration on his face and gates slamming shut behind his eyes.
No, this is not what I either wanted or needed. I will not let her become closer than she already has.
“So…annoying? Stubborn? Unsuitable?” Christine asked.
He whirled to face her, anger sparked by her self-deprecation. It had never been less appropriate.
“Magnificent, fierce. Independent. Strong.”
