Chapter Five
Water dripped from Lucien’s face as he leaned over the edge of the bayou.
He took a shaky breath, then splashed more across his brow.
Dawn’s mist clung to the cypress knees around him like the memories still swirling in his head.
Somewhere, a heron cried, but he barely heard it, lost instead in the echoes of last night.
His fingers curled in the grass along the bank as a tremor of nausea rippled through him, courtesy of the bottle of brandy he’d downed the night before. With a growl, he straightened, glancing at the quiet house, his gaze drawn to the second window on the top floor.
His eyes narrowed. Miss Ross had no right to infringe upon Isabelle’s room.
Hell, he hardly ever went in there. And now, he had a stranger staying in there, disturbing all the memories preserved inside.
He pulled the linen he’d found on the floor last night from his pocket, the sharp scent of brandy bringing a fresh wave of bile burning up his throat.
His fingers clenched around it, bunching it into a ball.
Someone had been in his study after he stumbled outside.
Eloise had long since learned to let him be when he had an episode.
And she wouldn’t have left a wet rag on the floor.
His mind spun with possibilities, each one more uncomfortable than the last. Had his aunt intervened, embarrassed by his state with a guest in the house?
Or had someone else—Miss Ross—been there, watching, judging?
The thought tightened his chest, and the mist seemed to curl closer, as if the swamp itself whispered confirmation of his fears.
With a sigh, he wiped his forehead and started toward the house, the damp grass whispering beneath his boots.
For a moment, he lingered on the porch, his eyes flicking to the empty rocking chair.
With a scowl, he stepped over the fresh board and took hold of the door.
He slipped inside, letting the quiet of the house settle around him like a familiar cloak, and started toward his study.
As he passed the dark kitchen, a dish scraped, and he jumped, jerking to a stop.
Miss Ross stood next to the sink, stacking plates.
Had she seen him last night, lost to drink and grief, arguing with shadows? He wanted to ask. Wanted to demand the truth. But the words stuck, tangled in the knot of his pride and guilt.
“Good morning.” He flinched at the cheerfulness in her voice. “Tea’s ready.” She held out an empty china cup and nodded toward the stove. Her smile was practiced, and annoyingly serene.
Lucien’s throat tightened, and he shook his head, clearing it. “No, thank you.”
She didn’t press him, setting the cup down and turning back to her work. He took a cautious half step closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Miss Ross glanced up, her eyes warm but alert, sending an irrational flicker of panic through him.
He swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “Did… Did you sleep well?”
Her hand paused mid-reach to a dish. “I did, thank you. And you?” Her tone was bright, teasing even, but her eyes lingered on him with enough wariness to make him shift uneasily.
“I… Well…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t ever sleep well.”
Blonde brows rose, but she returned to the dishes. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t need her pity. With a scowl, he snatched the teacup up and strode to the stove anyway.
He forced himself to focus on pouring the tea and took a hasty sip.
It burned down his throat, washing away the remnants of last night’s brandy.
The shuffle of footsteps behind him gave a moment’s notice before Aunt Eloise’s arrival.
“Ah, good morning. Didn’t expect to see you up so early.” She pierced him with a knowing look.
He raised his cup and strode from the room before she could scold him.
Measured steps carried him to his study and he closed the door behind him.
His eyes fell on the empty bottle of brandy and the glass neatly placed next to it—the very one he’d thrown last night.
Heat pooled in his chest, and his fingers itched, wanting to knock the tumbler over again.
He forced himself to look away, his gaze traveling to Isabelle’s portrait.
Her eyes, sharp and accusing, bored into him, and he groaned.
Even the dead had found it fit to judge him this morning.
He dropped into his desk chair and angled it away from the hearth before reaching for the ledger from the shelf behind him.
One by one, he recorded the supplies he’d purchased in town.
The scratch of the quill against paper kept his hands busy and his mind from wandering too far back into last night.
A quiet knock interrupted him as he finished, and he glanced up as the door opened. Miss Ross stepped in. “Your aunt suggested I bring your breakfast to you.”
She carefully crossed the room and set a tray on the corner of the desk. A teapot sat on one side and a plate with a buttered roll and pot of preserves on the other. Simple. Exactly what he needed after last night. He nodded his thanks and refilled his cup.
Her eyes settled on the tumbler and empty bottle at his side, then flicked to his face.
She froze, eyes widening when he caught and held her gaze.
With a swallow, she turned away. Pale hair had been pinned in a loose twist, and he studied the curve of her back.
The morning sun highlighted the expensive muslin of her gown, though dirt stained its wrinkled hem.
The same dress she’d worn the previous two days.
At the door, she came to a stop, her slender fingers resting lightly on the door frame. “Mr. Moreau?”
He settled back in his chair as she twisted to face him. When she didn’t speak, he took a sip of his tea and raised a brow.
“I’ve an important letter to post and was wondering if there might be a chance of going into the city?”
“I’ve already been to town more times in the last two days than I usually go in an entire month.” His whole body tensed at the thought. “I’ve no reason to go back.”
She wrung her hands together. “I realize that. It’s just… very important. That’s all.”
He let her words hang in the air, tapping his pen against the ledger, waiting for her polite insistence to falter. “Important or not, it will not be soon.”
“I… I don’t have much, but I could pay you for your time.” This time her voice came more tentative, and she struggled to meet his gaze.
A sharp laugh burst from him, cutting through the quiet. “I’ve no need of your money, Miss Ross. It will do you little good here.”
Her shoulders stiffened, and he caught the brief flash of frustration in her eyes. Good. That tiny spark of defiance was far more compelling than any haughty tilt of her chin she’d given him over the last days. He found himself almost hoping she’d argue further.
With a sigh that seemed to carry every ounce of her disappointment, she nodded. “Very well.” Shadowed blue eyes dropped to the floor, and she turned, sweeping from the room without a backward glance.
After her footsteps faded, he forced himself to look back at his ledger. The numbers swam before his eyes, meaningless and blurred. Guilt twisted in his chest. He’d pushed too hard, and the spark he’d respected had become a wound. One inflicted by him.
“Lucien, when did you become so callous?” Aunt Eloise’s soft voice put a voice to his conscience.
Christ. Miss Ross had barely been under his roof for more than a day and already everything had gone off course.
He steadied his expression and raised his gaze. “Eavesdropping?”
She crossed her arms. “I was merely making sure you didn’t say something to upset her. Based on the way she fled the room, I’d say my concern was warranted.”
“You know how much I dislike going into New Orleans.” He pressed his palm against the dull throb behind his temple.
“Of course, I do. You needn’t remind me.” Her posture straightened and her hands curled. “We don’t know what she’s been through. A little kindness goes a long way.”
His chest tightened at his aunt’s barbed response. “Speaking of, do you know why Warstein brought her here?”
She pursed her lips. “I didn’t think it prudent to press, but she said they were forced to leave their home abruptly. It makes sense why she has so few belongings. It took them over a month to make it here from Savannah.”
He tapped his fingers on the ledger. Savannah. Only a two-week journey by ship. Perhaps they had encountered difficulties along the way.
“If you don’t take her, I will.”
His fingers paused mid-tap at her statement. She glared at him, daring him to say no. He knew better. He had two options. Let Aunt Eloise take Miss Ross to town and inevitably worry about them, or take them himself.
He snorted. Who was he fooling? There was only one option.
“Very well. At the very least, it gives me an excuse to pay Warstein a visit and get some blasted answers.”
*
Lucien braced a hand against the cart as he helped Miss Ross to the ground.
Her fingers clenched at her sides, gaze fixed anywhere but on him.
As soon as her boots hit the cobblestones, she stepped away, rubbing her elbow as if his touch had burned her.
Of course. Every small concession he made was met with insolence.
Fine. Let her stew. He straightened, forcing his patience into a tight coil, and turned to help Eloise down.
“Would you like me to wait?” He nodded toward the post office.
“Heavens no.” His aunt glanced up the street. “It’s been months since I’ve been to town. Seems a pity to waste a trip here on just posting a few letters. I’d love to get some shopping done and I’m sure Miss Ross needs some things as well.”
A flush spread across Miss Ross’s cheeks. “Oh, no need. Besides, I only brought enough to pay for the post.”
The image of her single bag rose unbidden, its near-weightless pull in his hand still fresh in his memory. He nodded to Eloise. “Get her what she needs.”
Miss Ross’s blush deepened. “Truly, I’m fine. I don’t want to be a hinderance.”