Chapter Seven
“I’m not joining you.” Lucien stared at the glass of brandy he’d just poured, ignoring his aunt’s pointed look.
She gave a heavy sigh. “She’s cooked dinner for us. I believe it was her first time ever preparing a meal.”
“Then I especially am not going.” He took a long drink.
“What happened? She came back in tears and you looked like… well, you still look like you want to murder someone.”
He barked out a laugh. If only she knew the irony of her statement.
Are you going to murder me too?
Miss Ross’s words punched him in the gut again, and he scowled. “She can eat alone for all I care.”
“Oh, come now. Holding on to a wrong is like wrapping yourself in nettles and wondering why you itch.”
He jerked his gaze up at her wry words. “What in heaven’s name are you trying to say?”
She gave him a knowing smile. “I’m saying you look itchy.”
He shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders eased as a glimmer of amusement tangled with the frustration in his chest.
“Please. For me?” Her voice softened.
He pressed two fingers to the side of his temple. She knew he couldn’t say no to her. Finally, he blew out a long breath. “Very well. But I make no promises about conversation.”
“Oh, thank heavens. I was prepared to drag you down by your ear.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “I assure you, that would have been most unpleasant for both of us.”
She headed downstairs, and he fell into step behind her, the narrow staircase creaking under their weight.
Lucien paused at the threshold of the dining room, letting his gaze sweep over the table, set with precise care.
A small roast chicken sat at the center, its skin unevenly browned and splitting at the seams, with limp vegetables sagging around it.
The thin sauce in the bowl next to it seemed a few shades too pale.
His gaze flicked to Miss Ross, who stood twisting a lock of hair between her fingers, then to his aunt, who gave him a conspiratorial wink.
“I told Miss Ross this is one of your favorite meals.”
Of course, she had. Lucien’s mouth quirked.
There was no quicker way to fall short than by attempting a favorite.
Better a plain stew than this half-ruined effort.
Yet the sight of her, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat, her free hand worrying the edge of her apron, caught at something low in his chest. The defiance from the swamp had been replaced by a cautious timidness—she stood as if bracing for a blow.
His jaw tightened. He would have preferred distance, not a clumsy apology on a plate.
He pulled out a chair and sat. After the ladies took their places across from him, he served himself a piece of chicken. The gravy ran like water, pooling on the plate instead of the meat, and the carrot he took broke in half, clearly overcooked.
His aunt smiled fondly at Miss Ross. “It’s such a treat to have someone prepare a meal for us.” She took a bite. “Delicious.”
“It’s not as good as yours.” The dry words left him before he could stop himself.
He winced as the sharp toe of a boot struck his shin. Aunt Eloise glared at him. And Miss Ross’s face crumpled.
Damn it.
The edge of his anger softened. She’d tried to please him. And that, he admitted to himself with a grudging pang, deserved acknowledgment. He ran a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s…it’s better than I expected.”
Both ladies stared at him, wide-eyed. A surge of heat crept up his neck, and a sharp twist of guilt settled in his chest. He’d meant to soften his earlier words, not make them worse.
“I—damn it. That wasn’t what I meant.” He clenched his jaw, wishing he could take back the moment. “I truly do appreciate it.”
The remainder of the meal passed in a tense hush, not unlike the strained quiet of their walk home.
Forks scraped quietly against plates, the clink of silverware echoing from the walls.
Every glance across the table felt weighted, every cough and shuffle amplified, until finally the last bite was eaten and the plates cleared.
“Thank you, ladies.” He set his napkin on the table, muscles stiff with lingering tension. “I’d best be getting chores done.”
Outside, he drew a long breath of the night air. Never had he met someone who so thoroughly exasperated him—someone who could rattle his temper and yet hold his attention in equal measure. Even out here, the thought of her clung like the damp breeze, refusing to be shaken off.
“Mr. Moreau?”
He jerked to a stop at the top of the steps as if his thoughts had conjured her. He drew in a slow breath and turned. “Yes?”
She hovered at the threshold. “May I have a word please?”
Candlelight spilled from the doorway, haloing her hair and casting shadows around her face. Instinct told him to walk on, to leave her standing there and spare himself another tangle of words. Yet his boots stayed rooted to the step.
“What is it?” The words carried an edge he couldn’t quite file down.
Miss Ross pressed her lips together and stepped across to the railing. After a beat of silence, she faced him, blue eyes swirling with emotion. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in a rushed whisper.
A steady chorus of crickets came from the shadows beyond the porch, and he forced himself to focus on the soothing sound. Not on what she’d said earlier. Was she apologizing for that, or was she talking about dinner?
“Sorry for?” He couldn’t help pushing.
She tore her gaze from him, fixing it somewhere in the swamp. “For everything.”
“Everything?”
“For being here against your wishes. For bothering you. For what I said. For ruining the chicken.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a hopeless shrug. “Everything.”
The breeze stirred, and a strand of blonde hair stirred against her cheek.
She shifted, hands twisting at her waist, each line of her posture speaking of hesitance and quiet strength.
Each slight movement—the tilt of her shoulder, the brush of her sleeve against her side—rekindled a familiar irritation, and beneath it, a heat he couldn’t name coiled in his chest.
With a sigh, he stepped over, settling beside her at the railing.
Elbows pressed to the wood, he leaned forward, letting his gaze drift over the shadowed trees beyond.
Her scent drifted over him, delicate and rich all at once.
The perfume he’d bought her. His jaw clenched.
He wasn’t meant to feel drawn to her—he shouldn’t. And yet…
After a few moments had passed in silence, he straightened and drew his fingers back and forth across the railing, as if he might find some small measure of comfort from the wood. “While we are on the topic, I believe I owe you an apology as well.”
Her breath caught. “You do?”
A slow grin tugged at his lips as he slanted his gaze her way. “You don’t think so?”
A pretty pink blush spread across her cheeks.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve not made it easy for you since you’ve arrived.”
“Even so, I’m in your debt. Not only for letting me stay here, but you saved my life today.”
His jaw tightened as he relived the encounter and how all his frustration had evaporated when the beady eyes broke the surface of the water behind her.
Years of lost livestock and encounters with the swamp’s predators had taught him a healthy respect for their power—and the beast that stalked her had been one of the largest alligators he’d ever encountered.
“Even if I didn’t deserve it.” Her quiet words broke through his thoughts.
“You must hold an exceedingly low opinion of me if you truly think I’d let a few hurtful words put you in danger.”
She chewed her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on her feet.
A low opinion indeed.
“Perhaps…” He shifted his weight, the need to set things right suddenly overwhelming. “If it would be alright with you, could we start over? A new beginning of sorts?”
She went still, save for the gentle bob of her throat as she swallowed, mulling his words. Her hesitation stretched the silence, each thump of his pulse reverberating in his head. Why did he care so much that she accepted?
He shifted a fraction nearer, careful not to crowd her. “What do you say? Friends?” Locking his eyes on hers, he extended his hand.
Miss Ross stared at it, and for an agonizing moment, he braced himself for a polite refusal—began formulating a desperate plea. Then, the corners of her mouth lifted into a gentle smile, and she glanced up from beneath lowered lashes.
“I think that would be nice.” She reached out, her fingers settling in his palm.
Her touch ran like fire along his arm, jolting him into awareness. She released him after a gentle squeeze, color flushing her cheeks once more as she drew back.
He flexed his hand at his side, willing the warmth of her touch to fade. “Now that we’re friends, could you tell me why exactly Warstein hid you here?”
She drew in a shuddering breath, then nodded. “There’s a pirate hunting my father and me.”
“A pirate?”
“Yes. He’s ruthless. No one has ever survived an encounter with him. Well, no one except for my friend Samantha. Lieutenant Caldwell told me he would slit my throat in front of my father.”
His gaze fell to the pale expanse of her neck. “Why is he hunting you?”
“I don’t know.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“My father will not tell me. He’s scared though.” Her voice faltered. “I’ve never seen him afraid before. Not in my whole life. Mr. Warstein said he knew your family, that it would be safe here.”
Lucien pressed his lips together. His father had spoken highly of Warstein and often regretted leaving his crew. He’d only met the merchant once, when he first arrived in New Orleans last month. Warstein had hoped to see Lucien’s father again and had been saddened to learn of his passing.
He nodded. “I guess I should be honored he thought of me.”
“I don’t even know where my father is. And who knows how long it will take for the danger to pass. He said he’d written to friends in Washington, but correspondence takes so long out here.”