have heard that your parents are no longer with us,’ Rhys asked, tactfully changing the subject.
She touched a finger to the tip of the arrow. ‘My mana is not alive. I miss her still. I miss her more now than when she died, because she has been gone from me longer.’
He stepped closer, into the whiff of her perfume—until he realised it wasn’t only the exotic scent around her, but that of fresh bread. His eyes snapped to hers.
The arrow tip followed his movement, but he didn’t care about that.
‘Have you been in the...cooking area?’ he asked.
She waved her palm the barest bit. ‘The staff here works hard. They do not need me watching over them.’
He edged forward and she stepped back. ‘You have a dusting of white on your face,’ he said.
She reached up, brushing, but missed it.
A duke simply did not reach out and touch a woman’s face, particularly upon their first proper introduction. But he did. Warm, buttery sensations flowed inside him. His midsection vibrated, but it was with the outward pressure against his waistcoat. If he looked down, he knew he’d see the tip of the arrow pressed there again. But the broken arrow wasn’t so long and it connected their bodies too closely. His blood pounded hot and fast. Blast. This was not good. He’d been too long in the country where he had to take such care because his movements were watched so closely. He needed to get to London soon and find a woman.
She smiled. ‘I use the arrows as my chaperon.’
‘Perhaps a maid would be better instead?’ He reached the slightest bit to nudge the arrow away, but stopped before connecting with the wood. If his hand touched hers, that would be more than he wanted to deal with.
He moved back, freeing himself in more ways than one, and examined his fingers while rubbing the white powder between thumb and forefinger. He was fairly certain it was flour or some such. Something one dusted on the top of cakes or used in producing meals.
‘You have been in a kitchen.’
‘I—’ Her chin jutted. ‘I do not...visit the kitchen. Often.’
He shrugged. ‘I do not mind. It just surprises me.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You shot at my gamekeeper—I don’t see why you’d have a problem with going into the servants’ area.’
He wasn’t in the mood to complain about her at the moment. But he must keep his thoughts straight. She had put a weapon against his waistcoat. She ran through the woods, tormenting a gamekeeper. She’d traipsed in the kitchen with the servants, chased a child with a broom in the sitting room and probably would not be able to respond quietly in the bedchamber as a decent woman should. He clamped his teeth together.
This woman was as untamed as the creatures she freed. She might be a relation of Warrington’s, but one always had an errant relative who did not do as they should.
‘I—’ She stepped back. And now the broken arrow rested against her bodice. ‘I cannot let the rabbits be trapped. I cannot.’
‘I suppose I understand.’ He did understand. More than she thought. She had a weakness for rabbits and right now his weakness was for soft curves and compassionate eyes. He must clear his head. No matter what it took, he must clear his head.
‘I would like to reassure you,’ he said, ‘that the rabbits will soon be holding soirées among the parsnips and their smiling teeth will be green-stained from all the vegetables they harvest. The traps are to be removed. You do not have to check my lands. No more traps.’
‘Thank you.’ She nodded. ‘It is a relief.’
‘In return, I would like very much for you to have tea with my mother tomorrow,’ he said. He heard the youth still in his voice. That strange sound. Too much sincerity for the simple question. ‘Please consider it. My mother is very alone right now,’ he quickly added.
She moved, still grasping the arrow pieces, but her hand rested on the spine of the sofa. She studied his face. ‘I don’t... The English customs...’
She was going to say no and he couldn’t let her. He had to explain.
‘My mother will not know you are arriving and I will summon her once you are there. Otherwise she may not leave her room.’ His chuckle was dry. ‘She likely will not leave her chamber, unless I insist. But as you understand what it is like to miss a person you care for, I would appreciate your spending a few moments speaking with the duchess. Perhaps she will feel less alone.’
She didn’t speak.
‘My brother has passed recently. My father died almost two years ago, soon after my older sister and her new husband perished in a fire while visiting friends. My mother is becoming less herself with each passing day. She misses her family more with each hour.’ He controlled his voice, removing all emotion. ‘She is trapped—by memories—and only feels anger and self-pity.’
‘I will visit your mana.’ She spoke matter-of-factly. ‘And if she does not wish to leave her chamber, I do not mind at all. I will visit her there.’
He turned, nodding, and with a jerk of his chin indicated the arrow in her hand.
‘Would you really hurt me?’ he asked.
Something flickered behind her eyes. Some memory he could never see.
‘I hope I could,’ she said. ‘I tell myself every day that I will be strong enough.’
‘You wish to kill someone?’
She shook her head, tousled hair falling softly, and for a moment she didn’t look like the woman she was, but reminded him of a lost waif. ‘No. I wish to be strong enough.’
‘Have you ever...hurt anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I know of no woman who has ever killed a man, except my grandmother, Gigia.’
He waited.
‘A man, from a ploio. A ship. He was not good. He killed one of the women from our island and hurt another one almost to her death. Gigia gave him drink. Much drink, and he fell asleep. He should not have fallen asleep. Gigia said it was no different than killing a goat, except the man was heavier. My mana and uncle were there and they buried him. I do not think the men from the ship cared about losing him. They did not hunt for him long. Gigia gave them wine and we helped them search.’
Rhys took a breath. He’d invited this woman into his home, where his mother would meet her. This woman who seemed no more civilised than the rabbits she wished to protect and yet, he wanted to bury his face against her skin and forget.
‘I see.’ He frowned, repressing his notice of her as a woman. He certainly did not need to be noting the insignificant things about her.
‘From your face, I think you do.’ Instantly, her eyes pinched into a tilted scowl, her nose wrinkled. She mocked him. His mouth opened the barest bit. Yes, she’d jested.
‘Miss Cherroll,’ he spoke, beginning his reprimand, holding himself to the starched demeanour
