had turned so poignant it only made what he had to say doubly hard because she seemed to be sorry for him—for him having to tell her.
The realization stunned him. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he blinked them back.
She said softly, “Sir . . . you are trying to tell me . . . about my father.”
He simply looked at her.
She took a small step away from the desk and held up a hand as if to stop his unwelcome words. “He’s not—”
“Miss Rowan—”
“—coming back.” She blinked and backed up further, and when he tried to speak again, she whispered, “Please . . . don’t.”
The simple words were a broken plea that he understood completely. “I’m . . . so . . . sorry.” He ground his back teeth to steady his voice, but the Irish lilt of his words seemed to pulsate with anguish. Could she hear his deep regret?
She spun away without another word, and relief coursed through him. Perhaps it was enough, he thought.
For now.
Roxanna lay on the bed her father had lain on in life, dry-eyed and disbelieving. Her shock and lonesomeness was eased somewhat by Bella’s snoring on the pallet near the hearth. She’d wanted to be alone, but Bella had insisted she stay near, if just for one night, and Roxanna had been too benumbed to protest.
I should be growing used to this grieving.
But she was learning that there were all kinds of grief. Ever-present ones like feeling forever unattractive or unaccomplished. Then those that hollowed out an undeniable ache inside, like the loss of a mother who was never satisfied. A broken betrothal . . . a heart betrayed. What kind of grief would the loss of her beloved father prove to be? Taken one at a time these were bearable, but heaped together they were too much.
Father in heaven . . . help Thou me.
The stone house, always welcoming as a woman’s arms, now felt like a tomb. Cass passed through the front door, hardly aware of Hank on his heels and the orderlies scattering below to kindle fires. The room at the top of the stairs was cast in deep shadows, and the enormous bed specially made for his tall frame seemed the only furnishing in it. As he walked, he stripped off his coat and soiled shirt, then bent down to unfasten his garters and remove mud-spattered leggings.
My apologies, Bella.
He was in no condition to be tidy tonight. A trail of clothing led from the staircase landing to the threshold of his bedchamber and then to a corner washbasin skimmed with ice. He dunked his head in the chill water, and his feverish brow seemed to sizzle.
He needed help with his boots, and Hank was there with the bootjack, pulling them off before he asked. He was too sick to bathe. Too sick for his usual double dose of whiskey. With any luck, he’d be asleep before the worst of the delirium hit. Perhaps this time the attack wouldn’t be so bad and he could begin to make amends to Miss Rowan. As his backside deflated the fine feather tick, he remembered the locket.
His speech was almost slurring now. “Hank, bring me my coat—top of the stair.” Hank hurried to obey.
In the light of a single tallow candle, he flicked open the miniature and studied the vulnerable, winsome face within. He’d done the same in the blockhouse before the flesh-and-blood Roxanna came in—only beneath all that fragility was a wall of composure he’d not reckoned with. He’d seen hardened soldiers bear bad news with less grace.
Miss Rowan, I will honor your father’s request and take care of you—though you may not want me to.
Under any other circumstance, one would think Cassius Clayton McLinn was trying to woo her. His courting began with a letter, slipped by an orderly beneath her cabin door. She heard its rustle from her bed, though she continued to lie a long time before rising to retrieve it. The sight of the paper brought a queer pang, for it was the same linen paper Papa had used in all his letters to her, only the handwriting on the outside was
The realization stunned him. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he blinked them back.
She said softly, “Sir . . . you are trying to tell me . . . about my father.”
He simply looked at her.
She took a small step away from the desk and held up a hand as if to stop his unwelcome words. “He’s not—”
“Miss Rowan—”
“—coming back.” She blinked and backed up further, and when he tried to speak again, she whispered, “Please . . . don’t.”
The simple words were a broken plea that he understood completely. “I’m . . . so . . . sorry.” He ground his back teeth to steady his voice, but the Irish lilt of his words seemed to pulsate with anguish. Could she hear his deep regret?
She spun away without another word, and relief coursed through him. Perhaps it was enough, he thought.
For now.
Roxanna lay on the bed her father had lain on in life, dry-eyed and disbelieving. Her shock and lonesomeness was eased somewhat by Bella’s snoring on the pallet near the hearth. She’d wanted to be alone, but Bella had insisted she stay near, if just for one night, and Roxanna had been too benumbed to protest.
I should be growing used to this grieving.
But she was learning that there were all kinds of grief. Ever-present ones like feeling forever unattractive or unaccomplished. Then those that hollowed out an undeniable ache inside, like the loss of a mother who was never satisfied. A broken betrothal . . . a heart betrayed. What kind of grief would the loss of her beloved father prove to be? Taken one at a time these were bearable, but heaped together they were too much.
Father in heaven . . . help Thou me.
The stone house, always welcoming as a woman’s arms, now felt like a tomb. Cass passed through the front door, hardly aware of Hank on his heels and the orderlies scattering below to kindle fires. The room at the top of the stairs was cast in deep shadows, and the enormous bed specially made for his tall frame seemed the only furnishing in it. As he walked, he stripped off his coat and soiled shirt, then bent down to unfasten his garters and remove mud-spattered leggings.
My apologies, Bella.
He was in no condition to be tidy tonight. A trail of clothing led from the staircase landing to the threshold of his bedchamber and then to a corner washbasin skimmed with ice. He dunked his head in the chill water, and his feverish brow seemed to sizzle.
He needed help with his boots, and Hank was there with the bootjack, pulling them off before he asked. He was too sick to bathe. Too sick for his usual double dose of whiskey. With any luck, he’d be asleep before the worst of the delirium hit. Perhaps this time the attack wouldn’t be so bad and he could begin to make amends to Miss Rowan. As his backside deflated the fine feather tick, he remembered the locket.
His speech was almost slurring now. “Hank, bring me my coat—top of the stair.” Hank hurried to obey.
In the light of a single tallow candle, he flicked open the miniature and studied the vulnerable, winsome face within. He’d done the same in the blockhouse before the flesh-and-blood Roxanna came in—only beneath all that fragility was a wall of composure he’d not reckoned with. He’d seen hardened soldiers bear bad news with less grace.
Miss Rowan, I will honor your father’s request and take care of you—though you may not want me to.
Under any other circumstance, one would think Cassius Clayton McLinn was trying to woo her. His courting began with a letter, slipped by an orderly beneath her cabin door. She heard its rustle from her bed, though she continued to lie a long time before rising to retrieve it. The sight of the paper brought a queer pang, for it was the same linen paper Papa had used in all his letters to her, only the handwriting on the outside was
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