An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(93)

But this reaction was calculated in its coldness. This was no sound and fury that signified nothing. This was a withdrawal, a pulling back within himself like a wounded thing, guarding and protecting himself. From me.

I rested my head on his shoulder. There was nowhere for him to move, but I felt his muscle flinch in protest. He would offer me no willing succor.

“I am sorry,” I said softly. “You are quite right. I did fling myself headlong into this endeavor without ever believing the consequences would come to this. And I did so knowing that you would follow. As you always do.”

“More fool me,” he said into the darkness.

“I only wanted—”

“I know what you wanted.”

“To find justice for Alice Baker-Greene. And then to help the Alpenwalders,” I finished. “It seemed a noble pursuit.”

“To find justice? To help the Alpenwalders?” His voice was frankly incredulous. “Just now, when we are facing death yet again, I would very much appreciate it if you could be bothered, just this once, to tell the truth.”

I reared back in shock, slamming my head into the side of the trunk. “I beg your pardon? Are you calling me a liar?”

He took a deep breath, as deep as the confines of the trunk would permit, and exhaled slowly, ruffling my hair. “Not intentionally,” he said. “You are as dishonest with yourself as you are with me.”

“Dishonest! If we were not locked in a trunk and possibly destined for a watery grave, I would demand satisfaction.”

“Demand all you like. What you will get is the truth. You are in the grip of a very strong delusion if you think you did all of this in order to help Alice Baker-Greene or the Alpenwalders.”

“To what other motive would you impute my actions?” I asked icily. “I could hardly be driven by remuneration considering we will not be paid for our efforts. It is not public adulation since our actions must remain private. So, fame and fortune are not my aims. What drives me then?”

“Ennui.”

“Ennui?” I laughed aloud. “You think I am bored?”

“I think you are afraid of becoming so,” he corrected. “You have your work, which you enjoy but which offers no real sport now that you have curtailed your field expeditions. You no longer travel the globe in search of specimens, meeting new acquaintances and testing yourself against the most demanding of circumstances. Those are confining conditions to one who has been accustomed to the most liberal of freedoms.”

Confusion settled over me, and I could not reply as he went on.

“But most of all, I think you are afraid of becoming bored with me.”

“With you?” My laugh emerged on a sob. “How, I implore you, could any woman be bored with you? You are changeable as the weather, Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. I could no more predict your moods than I could those of a volcano. I wake each day never knowing if I will find you wreathed in smiles or taking out your grievances on a stuffed walrus. You are the least boring man ever fashioned by Nature.”

“Perhaps you will not become bored with me,” he amended. “But you could well become bored of who you are when you are with me.”

“Who am I when I am with you?” I whispered into his shoulder.

“A domesticated creature,” he replied. “One who fears her wings have been clipped. You’ve no liking for cages, Veronica. And I think you fear that in allowing yourself to love freely, you will find one of your own making.”

“That is ludicrous—” I began.

“You needn’t persuade me,” he cut in. “It is yourself you have to convince. Do you really mean to tell me you have never lain awake at night, worrying at what you have become? That a settled, domestic life has become your destiny? That we will trudge on from year to year with the only variation being whether Cook sends up treacle tart or Eton mess on a Sunday for pudding?”

“Only you would think to bring up the subject of food at a time like this,” I chided. “I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

“And I can see you, fleeing the scene of a conversation we ought to have had weeks ago,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait.

I remained silent, stubbornly so. It was my only defense. I could not remove myself, but I could remove my response, I decided as he went on.

“Veronica, I know you said you would never marry, but—”

“Do not dare,” I hissed, thrusting a pointed finger between his ribs. “Do not even think of proposing marriage to me under these circumstances.”

“Then under which?” he asked, his voice lit with sudden hopefulness.

“None! I thought you understood me,” I blazed back at him. “Did you think I spoke in jest when I said I would never marry you?”

“No, but I thought—”

“You thought I would change my mind,” I jibed, thoroughly enraged. “You thought I was a woman, inconstant as the moon, and I would be persuaded by pretty speeches or spirited lovemaking or some other romantic nonsense. But I will not be swayed,” I warned him, poking again hard. “I will not be swayed.”

“Very well,” he said. “But it does not always have to be settled domesticity or murderous pursuits. We might travel a little, you know. Find a meeting place in between dull routine and homicidal peril.”