been pummeled quite soundly.”
He didn’t look as if his pride had been pummeled. He looked, in fact, as if he were inordinately pleased with himself for having goaded her.
She settled back into her seat. Her fears returned as they drove into the village square.
“Where is the modiste?” he asked.
She made a sound alarmingly like a snort. “There is no modiste, Mr. Mannion. You confuse us with posh London. There is a dressmaker.”
Helena saw a woman walking on the side of the road stop in her tracks and gape at the passing carriage. Jaw slack, eyes wide, she dropped the basket of baked bread she was carrying. The golden brown loaves rolled in the dust. The woman she had been walking with noticed Helena at about the same time. Her reaction was just as dramatic. She stumbled and stared without any care for manners.
Helena wished she could look away with a haughty lift of her chin, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from them. Miserably, she watched helplessly as the two women ducked their heads together and commenced whispering vigorously.
“Ah, I see the sign,” Adam said, oblivious to the little dramas taking place all around them.
Across the street, the butcher had rushed out of his shop. The thin, fussy tobacconist hurried over to confer with him. Their gazes seemed to blaze clear into Helena’s forehead.
Adam continued, “I’ll bring you inside, but I won’t wait. Can’t stand that sort of thing. Can barely manage to keep my own wardrobe up. What do you say we meet at the tea shop at…oh, say, twelve? We’ll lunch there. If you are too busy and can’t make it, send word and I’ll go ahead without you…Helena?”
She sat motionless. Adam took her hands, his own warm and strong. She fought a sudden desire to fling herself into the protection of his arms.
What would make her have such a thought? Her terror had her too confused to think properly.
“Something is wrong.” Adam’s voice was demanding. “Don’t play the martyr now, for God’s sake. Tell me.”
“The people…” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eye. “They are looking at me, talking about me. They frighten me.”
“Nonsense. They are merely looking at you because you are so lovely today.” She did glance up then, incredulous and painfully suspicious that he was mocking her.
There was kindness in his eyes. True kindness, not a false show or, worse, pity. His well-formed mouth was slightly curved in a smile that was soft and seemed to be genuine.
Her hands felt warmer already. “This is why I never come out,” she said in an emotion-roughened voice. “The gossip. The dreadful staring. I cannot stand it.”
“Well, you see, that’s the trouble.” His tone was low and reasonable, yet without a trace of patronization. “They never see you, and since you live so close, they no doubt find this odd. Now that you appear, they understandably take notice. It is a temporary condition. It will surely pass as soon as they become used to you being about. Come now. Let us go into the dressmaker’s—which, thank you for correcting my error, is not to be confused with a modiste.”
He leaped down and put the box up against the side. With a flourish, he handed her down. Once her feet touched the floor, he held her a moment longer—long enough to bestow a quick kiss on the gloved knuckles. He raised his head and said, “If it’s gossip they desire, that morsel should do nicely to keep them busy for a while.”
She wanted to weep with gratitude. She might have if she weren’t still so afraid. But, somehow, he made it easy for her to ignore curious faces as they walked down the street to the dressmaker’s shop.
The word had apparently spread. Shopkeepers were coming out of their shops, mothers rushing outside with squalling babies, tradesmen pausing—all to stare at her. She could feel their gazes crawl over her like a swarm of slugs.
“Did you arrange to make an appointment?” Adam said. She latched on to his voice, so sensible among the madness growing inside her. She wanted more than anything to flee. It took all her concentration to put one foot in front of the other. Keep your eyes fixed straight ahead. Steady on.
At the door of the dressmaker’s, he paused. “If you don’t have an appointment, then I will wait to see if she will see you. You don’t mind if I do? I know I said I have an aversion to dressmakers and such, but in this instance I shall make an exception, as I’d hate to see you lose the morning to waiting.” They entered, setting the little bell tied over the door tinkling furiously. “I come by it honestly. My aversion, I mean. You see, my mother used to drag me about as a boy when she did her shopping. It was horrible torture for a rambunctious lad.”
His voice was like a touchstone. Helena forced herself to listen, to concentrate on what he was saying. She suspected he was talking to distract her from the churning apprehensions burning in her belly.
How odd that he should come to her rescue. He had been her enemy from the moment he had stepped foot on the doorstep of her house. Now he was her unexpected ally.
A pang of guilt grabbed her. He didn’t even know why it was she feared the village folk, or going out among them. He didn’t know the answers to any of her secrets—all those questions he had admitted plagued him. And still he had been kind to her.
If he knew, it would change things. It would change everything. He would no longer be solicitous, and he surely wouldn’t be cajoling her so effectively out of her terror.
No. One was never kind to a murderess.
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