Page 50 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

He set the hamper on the floor in front of her and went down on his knee to open it. He pulled out two rolls of bread, an apple, and a hunk of cheese.

“Not very elegant, I’m afraid.” He smiled.

“I don’t care,” Annabeth told him. “I’m starving. Last night I...well, I didn’t eat much dinner.” She left out that she’d been too upset by her talk with Nathan to get any food down. Sloane would find out eventually that she and Nathan were no longer engaged, but there was no reason she had to tell him now. Things were already intense without adding that complication to their journey. Besides, Sloane had kept more than his fair share of secrets from her.

He handed a roll of bread to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it; his skin was hot, and her own fingers tingled. Annabeth was careful to pluck the cheese from his fingers without touching him. She broke the roll and took a bite, watching him. She was glad to see that Sloane looked no better put together than she, his shirt rumpled, his hair mussed, no jacket, waistcoat, or neckcloth, and stubble darkening his jaw. The unfortunate thing was that he looked very good that way.

Annabeth’s mouth went dry, and she looked away. She wished she’d had a chance to comb and pin her hair before he entered the room. Though, it should not matter for Sloane to see her in such disarray. He’d seen her many times before with her hair every which way—tossed by the wind as they sailed or as her hat flew off when they galloped...or when he sank his fingers into her hair as he kissed her, heedlessly dislodging the pins.

But that was the kind of thing she was not going to think about. Annabeth glanced back at Sloane. He was watching her, his own roll in his hand half-eaten, his eyes suddenly heated, as if he had guessed what she had been thinking. Her heart began to beat crazily, memories of his kisses flooding her.

Sloane let out a soft curse and stood up, dropping the rest of the bread back into the basket. He walked over to the small window and looked out, though there was little enough to see through the dirty glass. Annabeth wondered if he, too, had been thinking of the past and the kisses they had shared.

Annabeth cast about for something to say to ease the suddenly charged atmosphere. “You sent a note about our visit to the Haverstocks, then?”

He turned back to her and nodded. “Besides, I have always had an open invitation to visit there. Because of Sprague.” Sorrow showed in his face for a moment before he shut it down.

“I’m very sorry about Sprague. I know you two were very close,” Annabeth said gently, putting a hand on his arm.

Sloane glanced down at her hand, and Annabeth quickly pulled it back and took a step away. “Um. You’ve visited with the Haverstocks since you’ve been home?”

“I’ve been to their house a few times since I got back. But I thought it better not to damage their reputation by meeting in public. There was too much gossip already because of the way Lord Haverstock drank himself half to death after Sprague... They didn’t need to be known as friends to a social pariah as well.”

“You wouldn’t be a pariah if you’d just told everyone why you were smuggling,” Annabeth pointed out.

He shrugged. “I see no reason to justify my actions to the ton. I doubt that they would have believed me, anyway. People believe what they want to. And I make an excellent villain.”

“There were some of us who would have trusted you.”

He cast a sardonic glance at her. “As much as you trusted me when I came to the wedding?”

Annabeth frowned at him. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” Sloane walked away.

*

ANNABETH FINISHED HER BREAKFAST, then washed up as best she could with the bucket of water Sloane brought her. She dressed and twisted her hair into a simple knot at the back of her neck.

When she walked out of the house, she saw Sloane waiting beside his curricle. He was clean-shaven and his hair combed, dressed once again in full gentleman’s attire. And he looked just as desirable as he had unshaven and unkempt. Annabeth pushed the thought away.

She climbed into the curricle as Sloane strapped in her bag on the back. The seat, she noted, was not wide, and when Sloane sat down beside her, she was far too close to him for comfort. She could feel the heat of his body, and her arm accidentally brushed against his several times.

He had put up the collapsible top of the curricle to help hide her from view of any passerby, but it made the enclosed space seem even more intimate. It was going to be a long day. She pulled her hood forward and sank into silence.

Sloane’s team of matched chestnuts was as good as it looked, and the horses pulled up in front of the Haverstocks’ door late in the afternoon. Priscilla Haverstock hurried out to greet them, her face wreathed in smiles and her hands extended. “Sloane. Annabeth. We’re so glad you’re here.”

It had been years since Annabeth had seen Priscilla. They had been close when they were young, but Annabeth had fled to Stonecliffe when Sloane left her, and after that she had spent most of her time in London.

Priscilla had changed little. She had the Haverstock coloring of gray eyes and light reddish-brown hair, with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

Annabeth had feared that Priscilla might be stiff and remote with her, but she greeted them both with obvious pleasure and whisked them back to the sitting room to join her brother Timothy.

A fire roared in the fireplace, and the room was stiflingly hot, no doubt for Timothy, who sat in a bath chair, a blanket over his lap. He looked so frail that it made Annabeth’s heart hurt. He had always been in delicate health, but his health had clearly declined since the last time Annabeth had seen him.

Still, he smiled and shook Sloane’s hand, saying, “Glad you came. And Annabeth—how good to see you. You are as beautiful as ever.”

“Flatterer.” She reached down to take his hand. “It has been far too long since I have come to call.”