A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(38)

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That can’t be true. I was raised at a miserable girls’ school, but even I have amusing stories from when I was a child. There was the time it was my turn to help in the kitchens, and I decided to be creative with the seasonings for our evening soup. I accidentally dumped the entire contents of the pepper pot into the broth, and I was too afraid to own up to it. And then it was supper, and I still couldn’t say a word. I’ll never forget watching all my friends and teachers take that first mouthful of soup—”

She broke off, laughing. “Oh, I caught so much trouble. Everyone went to bed hungry, of course. They had me copying out Proverbs for days.”

She waited for him to dredge up some similar story of youthful foolishness. Everyone must have at least one. Everyone. But she waited in vain.

Before she could ask him another question, Badger suddenly perked to attention. His funny little ears stood straight up, pointing skyward like twin church steeples. Then they flattened and he was off like a flash of lightning, streaking toward the church.

“Badger, wait,” she called, rushing after the pup.

Thorne paced her in easy strides. “Don’t call him back. He’s got his sights on a hare or a rat, most likely. Chasing is what he’s bred to do.”

The dog darted toward the small churchyard tucked behind the main buildings. Evidently, the pup’s quarry had escaped through a small hole in the bottom of the stone wall. Badger wriggled through the crack, disappearing from their view.

“Drat,” Kate said, breathless. “We’ll have to go around.”

“This way.”

They quickly skirted the circumference of the small cemetery until they came to the wrought-iron gate. Thorne opened it, and she rushed past him, into the crowded jumble of the high-walled churchyard. Mossy, timeworn monuments tilted at various angles, like rows of rotten teeth.

“Badger! Badger, where have you gone?” Kate started down a row of monuments, ducking and peering at the uneven ground. Remembering the meat pie in her pocket, she fished it out and held it as a lure. “Here, darling. I have a lovely treat for you.”

Thorne skirted the slab of an aboveground sepulcher and came to a halt in the center of the churchyard. He whistled.

After a brief pause, Badger came bounding out from behind a bit of crumbled stone.

“Thank goodness. Did he catch something?” Kate was almost afraid to look.

“No. But that’s good. He’ll run faster next time.”

There was real pride in his voice. And genuine affection in the way he rubbed the dog’s scruff and ears. He must care about that dog, despite all his disavowals.

There was so much more to him than he was allowing anyone to see. Right now they were secluded from the Gramercys, the Spindle Cove gossips . . . from the rest of the living world. This might be her only chance to get at it.

“Give me something,” she pleaded. “Your father’s trade, or the names of your siblings. The house where you were raised. A friend, your favorite plaything. Anything.”

His face hardened as he rose to his feet.

“For goodness’ sake, Thorne. Do you realize, I don’t even know your Christian name? I’ve been stretching my brain to recall it. Surely someone in the village would have used it, at least once. It would be in Sally’s ledger of accounts in the shop, maybe. Or Lord Rycliff would have mentioned it sometime. Perhaps in church. But the more I think on it, the more I’m certain . . . no one else in Spindle Cove knows it, either.”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.” She grabbed him by the sleeve. “You are important. And you need to let someone know you.”

His eyes bore into hers, nailing her in place. His voice sank to a low growl. “Stop pushing me.”

When a powerful, unpredictable man loomed over a girl and glared at her that way, her every instinct was to back down. He knew that, and he was using it against her.

“I won’t give up,” she said. “Not until you give me something.”

“Fine.” He spoke in a remote voice, utterly devoid of emotion, as if rattling off a list of drill commands or ordering up a list of dry goods. “I never knew my father. Never wanted to. He got my mother with child too young, out of wedlock, and then abandoned us both. She turned whore, found a place in a bawdy house. I could sleep in the attic, so long as I worked for my keep and stayed out of the customers’ sight. I never went to school. Never learned a trade. My mother came to like her gin, and she came to hate my face, the more I grew to resemble my father. Never missed a chance to tell me I was useless, stupid, ugly, or all three. If she had anything solid to hand, she’d beat the message in for good measure. I left when I had the chance, and I never once looked back.”

Kate couldn’t respond. Words failed her.

“There,” he said, taking the forgotten meat pie from her hand and tossing it to the waiting dog. “Charming story for the breakfast table.”

Her own silence mocked her. She’d asked for the truth. She’d pushed him for information, and now she was allowing him to push her away.

Kate willed her tongue to work. Say something nice. Anything.

“I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I find you unbearably handsome.”

He stared at her. “Miss Taylor . . .”