Page 29 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Why has someone not come to fetch our luggage?” Mr. Ballantine glanced back at where the footman labored to bring down the sizeable trunk lashed to the carriage.

“Given that I did not anticipate your arrival,” Clara answered with an apologetic half-smile, “I hadn’t had the opportunity to hire some men from the village to attend to your needs.”

Mrs. Ballantine waved her hand, dismissing the topic. “We will take refreshment in the back parlor.”

“Yes, of course,” Clara stammered. She glanced back toward the house, but there was no sign of Desmond, Gideon, or the others. Even Cyrus seemed to have absconded from his duties menacing her.

Could she dare hope that the highwaymen had hidden themselves somewhere? Even better, perhaps they’d abandoned her house entirely, and somehow taken Hugh with them.

Clara gestured for her in-laws to go into the house, but they were already in the process of entering, sweeping past her without a single glance. She left the footman wrestling with the trunk to follow Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine.

Inside, the highwaymen were once more absent. Moving down the hallway, Clara poked her head into the numerous receiving rooms that populated the ground floor. She eventually found her in-laws ensconced in the back parlor. Mrs. Ballantine sat on the divan, her skirts spread out in pretty pale rose silk swaths, whilst Mr. Ballantine moodily stared out the windows that looked upon the gardens.

“The topiary needs tending,” he said without turning around. “Looks like a bunch of rabid animals.”

“I’ll bring someone in soon,” Clara assured him.

Her mother-in-law eyed Clara again, clearly disapproving.

“You have dressed yourself like a slattern,” she said tartly. “It is ill-becoming in a widow to attire herself thusly, and reflects poorly on her righteous grief for her late husband.”

Clara smoothed her hand over her hair, though it likely did little to tame her unruly tresses, before attempting to flatten her wild skirts. This, too, had small effect on her appearance.

“Apologies, madam.” She attempted to smile. “On my own, as I am, I give little thought to how I look.”

“Well, you ought to,” Mrs. Ballantine sniffed. “One would think our dear Arthur left you destitute, when we know that is hardly the case.”

“A liberal hand, he had,” Mr. Ballantine added, “when it came to you. Indulging your whims as he did, when he hadn’t much cause to gratify them. Not when you failed to gratify his.”

Her father-in-law glanced critically at her abdomen.

Clara’s face heated, and she fought the impulse to rest her hand on her stomach. Granted, it wasn’t a flat stomach, but it had never swelled with a child. Clearly, Arthur’s parents still harbored resentment about that—as though Clara had any choice in the matter.

Mrs. Ballantine plucked the small brass bell from a nearby table and rang it sharply. When no one appeared, she rang it again with more force.

“Olive is visiting her family in Shrewsbury,” Clara explained in the tolling silence. “I’ll have to fetch the refreshments myself.”

“Yes, do,” Mrs. Ballantine said crisply. “Tea and sugared cakes and fruit.”

“And cheese,” added Mr. Ballantine, his hands clasped behind his back. “Don’t forget the cheese.”

“I shall see what my larder can provide.” Clara turned and hastened from the parlor.

Exiting the chamber, she ran straight into the solid wall of Desmond’s chest. A yelp leapt from her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What is the fuss about, Clara?” Mrs. Ballantine’s question snapped from the parlor. “We come to the country for peace, not to hear you shrieking like a cat in heat.”

“Apologies, madam.” Clara stared up at Desmond, whose face seemed set in granite. She hissed, “You must hide yourself. All of you. They cannot know you’re here.”

When he opened his mouth to object, she pressed her fingers to his lips. Unexpected heat jolted through her at the feel of his lips against her skin. His eyes went wide, as surely hers did, as well.

At this moment, it was astonishing she could feel anything other than aggravation.

His fingers wrapped around hers, allowing her to touch his lips an instant longer, before he pulled them away.

“They cannot stay,” he insisted.

“The Ballantines do as they please. They always have. And right now, what they please is for me to serve them tea and something to eat.” She shook her head and moved down the hallway, with Desmond keeping pace. “Damn. I have to see to Hugh, as well. Go to the glasshouse and fetch my trug. Meet me in the kitchen.”