Page 25 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Or one of those. What if I did, and I was given the kind of test those heroines faced.”

“What sort of test?” Desmond asked.

“Picking the right enchanted acorn, or seeing through the illusion to discover which of the bears was actually the prince in disguise, or defeating the magician using only my wits. What if I was given a test like that and I…” she swallowed “…I failed?”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Gideon said firmly.

She shook her head. “Our acquaintance is less than one day. It isn’t possible for you to know if I could meet such a challenge.”

“Oh,” he said, gazing down at her, a soft smile curving his mouth, “I think I do know.”

Her lips parted, and they stared at each other for a long, charged moment. Her heart thudded and her breath came quickly. Within the deep brown of his eyes, Gideon’s pupils widened, darkening his gaze.

There was a rending within her, the cloth of an older self being torn in two, revealing something fresh and raw.

Clara hurried down the path. Gideon and Desmond followed her. The familiar crunching of gravel beneath her feet heralded that soon, she’d be in one of her favorite places, and it soothed her thrumming pulse.

The glasshouse stood a hundred yards away from the manor. She continued on toward it.

“It’s much newer than the house,” Desmond noted, close behind her.

“I had it built soon after I came here.” She paused to stare up at the structure, built of redbrick, in a classical style, with tall arched windows to let in the sunlight. “One of the few things I altered about the place.”

Gideon let out a whistle. “Look at all those windows.”

“Takes more than a handful of ha’pennies,” Desmond said.

She couldn’t help but flush. “It had been an expense, especially with the tax on glass, but Arthur didn’t balk at the price. I suppose he considered it the cost of keeping me out of his way so he could pursue…other opportunities.”

Little revealing details about herself kept slipping through, as though she tried to stop a well from leaking with only her hand, and the water sprayed from between her fingers.

She pulled open the door, and humid warmth immediately clung to her skin. By the front door was a wooden table. She set the book atop the table and consulted it pages. Once she had her answer, she slipped onto her arm a flat, woven trug. Into the basket, she set the small pruning scissors. As she moved farther into the glasshouse, Desmond and Gideon entered and stood at the doorway, wearing matched expressions of awe.

The ceiling was high and vaulted, with a cupola. Abundant gray light filled the long structure, and two long trestle tables marched in parallel down the middle. Potted plants of every variety crowded the tables, lush and green, even this early in the spring. There were even trees in large terra cotta containers stretching their branches up high, their leaves forming a trim but sumptuous canopy.

“I’ve never been in a place like this before,” Desmond said in a low voice reserved for a library or church.

“Nor I,” Gideon added. “It’s like a temple to growing things. Did you design it yourself, Mrs. Ballantine?”

“An architect from Cheltenham came up with the plan.” She walked between the two tables. “And a botanist, a woman, helped me to determine which plants I wanted growing here. Nothing imported. I didn’t want plants ripped from their home soils and sailed across the sea solely for my pleasure. Only English flora, things that would benefit from more constant warmth and light.”

Desmond and Gideon moved from the doorway to walk with her, one on either side. If she avoided the woods because of their secrets, the glasshouse was safety, the known world, yet enigmatic because it held the mysterious things that grew in soil.

She touched the leaves of a lemon balm and tested the soil of the rosemary. Later today, she would give everything a good watering, but for now, they’d manage.

“Is there something you’re looking for now?” Gideon asked her, as she continued to examine the plants.

“I have a store of willow bark down here. I’ll make a tea of its leaves and give that to Hugh, for his fever. And there’s also yarrow, which I will make into a poultice to help heal the wound.”

She labored quietly, methodically. Ordinarily, she performed these tasks alone. It ought to feel strange or irritating to have not just one other person but two with her in the glasshouse. Yet having them nearby was almost…comfortable. As though they’d accompanied her here before, and were happy to do so, needing no entertaining, nor pressing her to hurry up so they could move on to something else.

Clara set her collected cuttings in the trug on her arm. The familiarity of this task stilled the rough waters of her equilibrium after the most eventful night and morning of her life.

“You mentioned your father is a doctor,” Gideon said.

“Was. He died eight years past.”

“I’m sorry,” Gideon murmured, and Desmond made a sympathetic sound.