He beat it back. She’d made it clear that he was the last man she wanted to touch her. “Pen, there’s something else.”
She didn’t glance up, but her hands stiffened into talons in the dark blue skirt over her upraised knees. “Not now.”
“I must.” He felt like the world’s biggest bastard. For once, not just because of the doubt surrounding his parentage. He straightened as if facing a dangerous foe. “Peter asked me to fetch you back to England.”
“I don’t need an escort.” Her voice was lackluster as she stared blindly at the shutters.
Sarcasm tinged his response. “That was apparent when I arrived.”
The tilt of her chin lacked defiance. “That’s never happened before.”
Any fool could see that she was near breaking. “I just wanted to say that we’ll go on together.”
He knew he’d said the wrong thing the moment the words left his mouth. Her eyes flashed with anger. It was an improvement on dumb grief. “Still giving orders, I see, Your Grace.”
“Don’t cross me on this, Pen,” he said steadily.
She cast him a look of pure dislike. “Go away, Cam.”
The problem with small inns in the back of beyond was that one had a devil of a job finding somewhere private to observe comings and goings. Particularly during an ice storm of Biblical proportions.
Even after weeks of rough lodgings, this shabby inn was the worst Cam had encountered. He was reluctant to intrude upon Pen’s grief. But nor did he want to sit outside in the snow, turning into an icicle. He couldn’t retreat upstairs to his room for fear that the bandits might return. The villagers had rallied, but he couldn’t entrust Pen’s safety to people he didn’t know.
Now he roamed the rooms like a lost dog, hungry and cold and unaccountably depressed by his reaction to Pen. And by her unenthusiastic reaction to him.
When she finally appeared, Cam was in the kitchen, suffering a glass of the pungent local red. The landlord’s wife cooked dinner and the savory smell made Cam’s stomach grumble. Confounding malefactors gave a man a powerful appetite.
“Good evening, Pen,” he said evenly, standing. “Would you like some wine?”
“Perhaps later,” she said without venturing inside.
She’d tucked her torn bodice into the neck of her shift. It reminded him, should he need reminding, that she’d faced down violence. It also reminded him, sod it, of her sweetly curved body. This continual, itching awareness of Penelope Thorne was tiresome. It wasn’t the response he’d expected—or wanted. “Are you looking for me?”
“I want Maria. I’d like to wash and change.” Her tone was almost as frigid as the weather.
“If you aren’t using the taproom, let’s bring our guardians inside for a meal. It’s a perishing night.”
“Noblesse oblige, Cam?”
He tried not to prickle under her mockery. Care for those who served him was bred into him. “If you wish to put it like that.”
“Poverina, poverina.” Their landlady abandoned the stove and bustled forward to place her arms around Pen. Pen sagged against her substantial bosom and Cam caught unguarded vulnerability in her expression.
No wonder she’d skulked in the doorway. She’d made a valiant effort to hide her grief, but he immediately saw her red eyes and spiky eyelashes. While he’d cursed the inconvenience, she’d been crying her heart out. He felt like a rat.
He watched, admiring her strength, as she gathered herself and straightened, towering over the dumpy, gray-haired woman. Their landlady gently led Pen to the table. Within moments a glass of wine and a bowl of steaming soup sat before her.
“Grazie.” Pen’s thanks were husky. She stared at the meal as if expecting poison.
“Eat it while it’s hot.” Cam cut her a slice from the hearty loaf in the center of the table.
Pen dipped her spoon in but nothing more. “Isn’t eating in the kitchen beneath the superb Camden Rothermere?”
“Stop trying to skewer me. You’re giving me indigestion.” Despite her bristling hostility, he touched her hand. The contact shivered through him, even as he told himself he offered comfort. “Eat, Pen. It will work out.”
“To your advantage, you think.”
Silence fell, thick with animosity. Such a pity. He and Pen had always got along famously. Until he’d proposed.
“I’m sorry about Peter,” he said quietly. He spoke in English to create some privacy. Around them, the business of the inn continued with maids carrying trays to the taproom.
“So am I.” She didn’t glance up, but her tone was less confrontational. “Thank you for saving me.”
He didn’t want gratitude, although God knew what he did want. “Any man would do the same,” he said uncomfortably.
“Noblesse oblige again?”
He didn’t respond. Instead he cut himself more bread. “Peter thought you were in trouble. From what I saw today, he was right.”
“You must have cursed him for involving you. Seeking out an old friend’s wayward sister wasn’t on your agenda. Especially when we didn’t part under the best circumstances.”
Just like Pen to refer so bravely to their last awkward meeting. Cam sipped his wine and decided to be equally frank. “You needn’t have run away. I had no intention of pestering you.”
Color tinged her cheeks and to his relief, she ate a little, if only to avoid his gaze. “I wasn’t running from you. I was running from my mother.”
Ah. He should have guessed. “She bullied you?”
Pen’s laugh was acerbic. “Into the ground. She even told my father to beat me until I agreed to marry you.”
He should have approached Pen before seeking her father’s permission. But in his arrogance, it had never occurred to him that she’d refuse. “Hell, Pen, did he?”
“Of course not.” For one poignant moment, they shared a knowing glance like the friends they’d once been. “Can you see my father raising a hand to me?”
The late Lord Wilmott had been a weak man who had avoided his shrewish wife. “No. He’d scuttle up to London and hide in his club.”
“He went to ground with his latest mistress. Mamma was not pleased.”
“I’m sure.” Just as he was sure that Lady Wilmott would take that displeasure
