Page 55 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“Mr. Rutherford.” The older woman looked over at Sloane, curiosity clear in her eyes.

“I should take care of your horse. Pray excuse me,” he said abruptly, and strode out of the workshop.

Before Mrs. Todd could ask questions about Sloane and Annabeth being alone in this secluded place, Annabeth said, “I hope you do not mind our coming here. I know I should have asked your permission, but I didn’t think about it yesterday, and we were out riding nearby. I thought you would not mind.”

“No, of course you’re quite welcome to visit it.” The older woman looked around doubtfully at the dirty room, made even messier by their search.

“I have many happy memories of this place,” Annabeth said by way of explanation. “My father loved it. I’m so glad you didn’t tear it down.”

“It seemed a bit of a waste. Mr. Todd thought we might be able to use it for something one day.” Mrs. Todd gave it another skeptical look.

“There are one or two things I might want to take with me. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, dear.” This wish, too, seemed something Mrs. Todd had trouble envisioning. “Well... I should let you get back to work. Perhaps you’d like to come up to the house for tea.”

“That’s a lovely thought. Thank you for the invitation. But as you can see, we aren’t suitable for calling on anyone.” Annabeth swept her hand down her front, indicating the dusty state of her clothes. With horror, she saw that she had not buttoned one of her buttons. Her cheeks colored, but she managed to continue to smile at her visitor, if somewhat stiffly.

“Of course. I hope to see you again soon.”

Annabeth kept smiling, walking with Mrs. Todd to the door and watching as the lady started down the path toward the house, the groom trailing along behind her. Annabeth let out a sigh of relief and sagged against the doorjamb.

If Mrs. Todd didn’t yet think something scandalous had been going on here, she was bound to come to that conclusion when she thought it over. She would spread the gossip all around. Well, at least Annabeth wouldn’t be here to hear it. The Haverstocks and Uncle Russell were the only ones who knew them, and Annabeth was certain that neither Priscilla nor Russell would spread any harmful rumor.

But the real problem wasn’t what Mrs. Todd thought of her or what gossip she spread. It was what Annabeth had done. She let out a groan and sat down on a low step of the staircase, bracing her elbows on her knees and sinking her head into her hands.

How could she have acted that way? After all the denials of love that she had made to Sloane, after all the harsh words and bitterness, she had just fallen into his arms like a hussy. What would he think of her—that she was a liar, a hypocrite, a wanton woman? And he believed she was still engaged to marry Nathan; she hadn’t told him differently. He would think she had broken her vow to Nathan as well.

It didn’t matter what Sloane thought of her, she told herself. He’d participated in their mad behavior, too. The real question was what was she to think of herself? She didn’t love Sloane. Love didn’t last for years, unrequited, and she couldn’t have fallen in love with him after he came back into her life. Their relationship since then had been antagonistic.

Her passion had been nothing but physical desire. But that didn’t say anything good about her. She could tell herself that the desire she had felt for him twelve years ago, unfulfilled, had simply been reawakened. She could say that the fear and drama of the shooting had put her into an excited state and heightened her senses, turning what she’d felt on the ride with him into something stronger.

But none of that made her feel better. None of it quelled the rising fear that she was about to throw herself into an all-too-familiar fire, that she might give Sloane her body and her heart and be devastated all over again. She had to regain control of herself, distance herself from him.

The door opened, and Sloane stepped inside. His jaw was set, his face expressionless, and he didn’t look at her. “I apologize for my behavior. I was wrong to kiss you. I—” He shot her a single blazing glance. “I don’t regret a moment of that. I couldn’t ever regret that. But I broke my word to you. I told you I would not bother you, and I didn’t keep my promise. And for that I am sincerely sorry. It won’t happen again. I know that I promised that before, but I will be more careful this time. I will stay in control.”

“I accept your apology.” Annabeth wanted to cry, which was beyond foolish. She should be relieved. Glad. “I was equally wrong. I suggest that we both put that behind us and deal with the matter at hand.”

“I agree.” He paused. “This box...the folded-up writing desk. Do you know where it is?”

“No. I haven’t thought of it in years. I certainly don’t have it. Nor, I think, would Uncle Russell. I think it would have to be with my mother. I don’t think she would have thrown it away. It was very dear to Papa.”

“Could it still be here?” Sloane looked up the stairs. “We haven’t looked up there.”

“It could.” She turned to look at the stairs, filled with reluctance to go where her father had fallen to his death.

“I’ll do it,” Sloane said, and started up the stairs.

“No, I have to go. I won’t be a coward.”

He stepped aside to let her climb the stairs in front of him. She stuck to the inside wall, not looking at the damaged railing. But she could not help but see the gaping hole out of the corner of her eye. The riser wobbled a bit as she climbed past the gap in the banister, and Sloane reached out to steady her.

That was how her father had died, she thought, a loose board on a step that made him stumble and go crashing to the ground. She pushed back the sorrow that rose in her chest and continued up the stairs.

The small loft held only a few furnishings—a cabinet, a comfortable chair, a table and lamp, and her father’s telescope on its stand in front of the round window. She knew of no hiding places in this part of the building, and it didn’t take long to look through the room. The portable desk was not here.

Sloane turned and started back down the stairs. Annabeth went over to the window and stood looking out, her hand resting lightly on the telescope, remembering her father.

“Annabeth...” Sloane’s voice was odd—low but with a note of urgency in it.