While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(44)

“Sentimentality is good and well until you take chill and sicken.”

She choked back the impulse to tell him the truth—that she couldn’t simply go purchase a new, warmer cloak. That kind of expenditure would require setting money aside for months. And right now Bryony had needs that came before her own.

They rode in silence for a good while and some of the tension began to ebb from her shoulders. Perhaps they could pass this journey in relative peace and without incident, after all. She stared out the small crack in the curtains, at the sliver of world awash in winter gray.

“Where’s your mother that she does not need her cloak?” he asked suddenly.

She started, her gaze returning to his. Was he interested in such things about her?

“She’s gone,” she said after a few moments. Conversation with him made her uneasy. He made her uneasy. He seemed to enjoy discomfiting her. She didn’t know what he would do or say next. “For twelve years now,” she continued. “My sister’s birth was . . . difficult. She was never very strong after that. Every cold, every ague, took its toll and left her weaker. She finally succumbed to consumption.”

The coach swayed with a comforting rhythm. Her hands stroked the velvet squabs restlessly.

She had never been in so fine a carriage. Even her brief time in the duchess’s carriage had not treated her to such luxury—and she had thought that was the finest carriage she would ever grace. Her fingers stroked the fine seat. Struan Mackenzie might not be highborn, but he certainly had wealth to spare if he could possess a coach the likes of this.

“I lost my mother, too,” his deep voice rumbled across the space between them to confess. “When I was ten and four . . .”

Awkward silence fell.

“I was two years younger than that,” she volunteered into the quiet. “I still remember her voice . . . things she said and did. How she liked to garden. In the spring she would smell like the soil, loamy and floral. But her face is less clear to me. That’s the most unsettling thing. I search my memory for her face and it’s always hovering, just beyond my reach.”

“Have you no portraits or sketching of her?”

“Sadly, no.” She gave a wobbly smile and looked down at her hands. “But the reverend’s wife says I favor her.”

“Then she was beautiful,” he quickly returned, almost as though the words had been unthinking on his part.

Her head whipped up at that. No one had called her beautiful before. That was reserved for Bryony.

He looked at her only a moment before turning his gaze to stare out the crack in the curtains that had held her attention earlier, almost as though he regretted uttering the compliment.

Poppy didn’t know what to say. She studied him for a moment. Hoping to change the subject, she inquired, “What happened after your mother died? Did you go to live with your father—”

His face hardened. “The Duke of Autenberry didn’t want anything to do with his lowborn son. I only met him once. A few months before my mother died. He was visiting friends on the estate my mother once worked as a maid.” His fingers clenched on his thigh, clearly recalling bitter memories. “They sacked her when she began increasing with me. Can’t have an unwed girl cleaning the chamber pots.” His lip curled. “Never mind it was their houseguest who pursued her as relentlessly as a bloodhound. It was she alone who bore the burden. My father ruined her and then left her. No family would take her in after that. She was soiled goods.” If possible that lip only curled further, revealing a flash of white teeth within the shadowy interior. He reminded her of a wolf. She shifted uneasily where she sat across from him.

She trembled, listening raptly, horrified as an image of his childhood in all its ugliness took shape before her. “Then what happened?”

“She made her living the only way she could. As so many before her have.”

“You grew up like that? With her . . .” It was too wretched to say. Although it was not something that hadn’t crossed her mind before. The constant strain of pinching pennies, fretting about the future for both herself and Bryony. How could such a fate that befell on so many hapless females lacking finances or protection not have crossed her mind as a dreaded fear?

“Aye, different men.” He nodded, his eyes taking on a faraway quality. “A slew of them coming and going . . .”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

He shook his head with a muffled curse. “My apologies. It’s not a fit subject. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He sounded bemused. “I’ve never talked about it with anyone. Perhaps it’s because of those eyes of yours.”

“My eyes?”

“Aye, they beg a man to spill all. Everything. Hold nothing back.”

“They do?” Her fingertips brushed her upper cheek. The afternoon was a day for revelations, it seemed.

“Aye,” he repeated. “That is when they’re not flashing as though you wish to maim me.”

She gave a small grunt of laughter, stifling it. “Well, you do wage a good argument for justified maiming.” She sobered, picking at a fraying thread along a seam in her dress. “I don’t mind you talking about your mother. Perhaps you do so now for the very reason that you never have. Everyone should have someone to confide in.”

“And you want to be my confidante, Miss Fairchurch?” His voice adopted a husky pitch that made her stomach roll. If possible, it seemed that the air grew thicker, the confines of the coach tighter.