Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The bell above the door sounded as Minerva stepped from the chemist’s shop, loud in the suddenly quiet street.
The air shifted, carrying a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
People looked away, conversations faltering, laughter cutting off mid-breath.
Instinct told her their reaction was not to her presence but to something else.
A glance to her left revealed the source of their unease. Dashiell Penrose stood to one side, dark coat tailored to broad shoulders, boots polished to a cold shine, expression neutral.
Stillness. Restraint. She had thought it the first time she had seen him, outside Mr. Granger’s office. She thought it now. But in between, he had stood before her, his thumb on her lip, his gaze hot and hungry, and she had not stopped thinking about that since.
In the face of his focused attention, an unsettling warmth stirred in her breast. She could not decide if it was anger, or defiance, or a traitorous awareness that had no proper place in daylight, on a village street, with half the town watching.
“Miss Ashworth,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of intimacy she both resented and relished. He glanced at Kitty. “Miss Dorsey.”
Kitty shifted the basket on her arm and smiled. “Mr. Penrose. This is a welcome surprise. You must call me Kitty. Everyone does. And she’s Min.” She tipped her head toward Minerva with cheerful disregard for the appalled look Minerva sent her. “Miss Ashworth is a mouthful.”
“Kitty!” Minerva said.
“Min,” he said, dark brows lifting in challenge.
It was a single syllable. It should not have slid beneath her breastbone, settling there, warm and welcome when it ought not have been. She felt it the way she had felt his thumb on her lip, felt it in her throat, in the tips of her fingers, in the racing of her pulse.
She wanted to tell him he absolutely could not call her that, that no one called her that except Kitty, that her name on his lips was an intimacy she had not offered and did not know how to take back now that Kitty had offered it for her.
But she said none of this because she suspected that gouging a notch in her control was precisely the reaction he wanted.
She schooled her expression and lifted her chin and told herself it was only a name.
Mr. Penrose did not offer the same in return. He accepted the gift of her name—a gift not freely given—and gave nothing back.
“I expected you would walk into town today,” he said, and while his words encompassed them both, Minerva suspected he spoke solely to her. Certainly, she felt the weight of his attention.
The street watched them, openly now.
There are those who will tell you who stood on that cliff with him that day. And those who would rather you did not ask.
Had the old woman on the cliff not already revealed Dashiell Penrose’s name, Minerva would easily have surmised it from the way the villagers cast him sidelong glances and offered a wide berth.
That was not the sole reason for their action, though.
She remembered the story Nessa had told her about the widower cast from his home.
They were eager to cast him as the villain and perhaps he was. But perhaps he was not.
“Mr. Penrose, you seem certain of our habits though we have yet to form them,” she said coolly, masking how unsettled his presence left her.
No, not merely his presence. His attention.
The way his copper eyes, bright against a fringe of dark lashes, fixed on her with sharp interest, as though she were a matter to be examined and resolved.
“Your provisions no doubt require replenishing. ’Twas no great leap of logic.” He offered a bland smile, the expression measured, controlled.
She could not say why she continued to engage with him so. Kitty’s wide-eyed expression and Minerva’s own better judgement urged her to take her leave.
Better judgement lost the battle.
The restraint he maintained, the way he allowed nothing of himself to slip unguarded…
that challenged her. More than that, there was something in his eyes, a heat that flared beneath his perfect composure when she answered him, as though he discovered in their sparring a satisfaction he did not trouble to disguise.
“Logic requires more than observation and supposition,” she said. “It requires proof.”
“Your presence here provides ample proof.”
“Proof of necessity, not habit,” she said.
A flicker of approval touched his expression. She recognized it, felt it with quiet force, unwelcome and undeniable, as though some secret part of her leaned toward it without her consent. Her skin felt too warm; she was grateful for the wind.
“Then we refine the conclusion,” he said. “You do not act from habit but from reason.”
The words should not have pleased her. They were nothing more than simple deduction, neatly drawn. Yet the way he said them, low and assured, sent a subtle warmth through her, confusing and impossible to ignore.
“Neither habit nor reason,” she said, just to be contrary. “I act from practicality.”
“And yet you chose the cliff path,” he said, “the winding, more difficult route when the road would have done as well.”
“The faster, shorter route,” she said. “And there are factors you have not accounted for.”
“Then I welcome correction.” The invitation was mild. The expectation beneath it was not.
For a moment, she found herself without answer, her pulse tripping too fast.
His gaze did not waver.
“You mistake coincidence for pattern,” she said at last, knowing it was feeble at best.
He held her gaze a moment longer than was comfortable and then he asked, “Have you been enjoying the village?”
“We’ve made several purchases,” Kitty said, lifting her laden basket. “And chatted at every shop.”
“You were made welcome?” There was an edge beneath the words.
“Welcome enough. The townspeople have been most informative,” Minerva said.
Something jaded flickered across his features, there and gone. “I imagine they have.”
Tired of the game he played, Minerva removed herself from the dance and stated baldly, “You will not be surprised to learn that your name is on some tongues.”
Kitty’s elbow nudged her side, but Minerva ignored it. She had no intention of acting the mouse to his cat.
His expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “And what conclusions has the village drawn today?”
Minerva held his gaze as Kitty gave a soft squeak. “That depends upon whom one believes.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “And whom do you believe?”
“I prefer facts to gossip,” Minerva said.
The smile widened, reaching his eyes, warming them to molten copper, tiny creases fanning from the corners. She had not seen him truly smile before this moment and the effect caught her unawares. He was beautiful. Truly beautiful.
“Wise,” he said.
His opinion should not have pleased her. But the way he said it, low, thoughtful, laced with approval, made a seedling of warmth unfurl in her chest. She could not decide which was more alarming, that she cared what he thought, or that, in this moment, caring felt entirely natural.
“The wind is worsening,” he said. “The cliff path grows treacherous in poor weather.”
Minerva folded her arms. “We are surefooted. You need have no fear for us.”
“Not fear.” His gaze snared her. “Experience.”
The word settled between them like a rock dropped in a still pond.
She thought of what the old woman had said about Carrek, stark against the ashen sky, and about the darkness and whether it had followed Dashiell Penrose home or been there all along.
“You speak as though the cliff has a will of its own,” she said.
For the briefest instant, his expression shifted like a seam giving under pressure, without sound or warning, invisible until the fabric frays and gives way.
The silence stretched. Somewhere behind her, a door closed sharply.
“Well,” Kitty said with forced brightness. “We should be on our way, Min. As Mr. Penrose said, the wind is picking up…”
“My carriage is at the end of the street,” he said. “Allow me to see you safely home.”
Kitty brightened. “That would be most kind—”
At that moment, Thom Gloyn appeared, making his way back toward the quay. He saw their small group and altered his course.
“Miss Dorsey,” he said, pulling off his cap again. “Miss Ashworth. Mr. Penrose.” He nodded at each in turn.
Kitty cast him a sidelong look through her lashes. “I wonder, Mr. Gloyn, are you going our way?”
He was, it emerged, entirely willing to go their way. Within the span of a moment, through a series of small movements and conversational redirection whose engineering Minerva could not help but admire, Thom had offered to walk Kitty home by the cliff path.
She turned to Minerva with sparkling eyes and an expression of perfect innocence. “You can join Mr. Penrose in his carriage, Min.”
Minerva glared at her.
Kitty looked back with the unblinking serenity of a woman who had done nothing wrong and could not imagine why anyone would think she had.
Minerva could not look at Mr. Penrose. She thought of sitting beside him in the close dark of his carriage, of the air growing heavy as she searched for somewhere other than directly at him to look.
She thought of the feel of his thumb pressing against her lip, the hard coil of heat that had tightened in her belly.
She thought of the disappointment she had felt when he had stopped short of pressing his mouth to hers.
She thought of how much she had not wanted him to step back.
And she arrived at the unambiguous conclusion that she could not join Mr. Penrose in his carriage.
“I prefer to walk,” she said.
Kitty’s brows rose. “Min—”
“You go ahead with Thom,” she said. “I will follow shortly.”
Kitty looked at Thom. Thom looked at Kitty. Some silent communication passed between them.
“Well,” Kitty said and took Thom’s arm and the two of them moved off down the street.
Minerva watched them go. She was acutely aware of Mr. Penrose standing a mere foot to her left.