Page 61 of Wolfhaven

Evaine pulled the red hood down over her face so that she didn’t have to see anything beyond her own bent knees. A sniffle caught her off guard. She hoped Gareth hadn’t heard that.

From the periphery of her vision, she watched the crowd recede into the distance as they headed back home.

Home. Hah. Wolfhaven would never be her home.

Their return trip was soon made even more miserable by a light drizzle that began to fall. The horse had tired. His brisk walk interspersed with trots on the way out had become a plod of resentful resignation. He wanted his oats. He had more than earned them. But he could not have them until they were home.

By the time they reached the long promenade between enormous oak trees, the sky had darkened and the drizzle was turning into a proper rain shower. Gareth let them off be beneath the shelter of the porte-cochere.

“I’ll put the horse away,” he bit out, glaring at her. Evaine felt as if they had returned to the animosity that had marked their initial encounters. She still didn’t understand why. There had been even less conversation between the three of them on the way home than there had been during the journey out. Everyone was cold, wet, hungry, and miserable.

“I’ll help you,” she blurted out.

“Help your grandmother. Not me.” Gareth turned his back to her.

“We need to talk.” Lord, that sounded awful. She hadn’t meant it like that. He recoiled. A chill rolled through her that had nothing to do with the awful weather. “The three of us should stick together. We don’t know what what’s going on here. None of us should go off alone. It’s not safe.”

“This is my house. I am perfectly safe,” he snapped.

They stared one another down.

“Evie, could you come help me with the latch? It’s stuck,” Hazel called out. Evaine inhaled. Her hands balled at her sides, hidden from view by her cloak. Gareth was already leading the horse off in the direction of the stable.

Do you really want to be alone with a murderer? She shook head trying to free herself from the thought. She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. Yet now that the seed of doubt had cracked open, it was taking root in her heart and mind, and she didn’t know how to weed it out.

Except by talking to him. Which he apparently didn’t want.

“Evie!”

“Coming, Gran.” With a huff, Evaine mounted the steps and went to help her grandmother.

Forty minutes later Gareth stomped in, his face a thundercloud. His hair was slicked to his skull. Water dripped into his collar. Evaine flinched when he glared at her.

“Give me five minutes to change out of these wet clothes. I’ll be right down.” His cane thudded on the stone floor as he strode away, his gait more laborious than it had been a few hours ago.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Hazel called after him, rather unhelpfully. She sighed. “Poor man. He’s been out in this weather taking care of everyone except himself.”

Poor man.

It stung, the way her grandmother had sympathy for the duke but apparently none for her.

What had she been doing all this time but trying to hold things together for the two of them? Failing miserably every step of the way?

Yet all Gran had done was go and ruin the one nice memory she might have had from this place.

It’s not fair to blame her. Hazel hadn’t done it to hurt Evaine. She had been surprised and spoken thoughtlessly.

The damage was done.

Gareth—the possibly murderous duke—had apparently decided she had been scheming after his title by coming to his bed. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was offended and indignant—but maybe his suspicions weren’t entirely wrong.

She cared so deeply about people. She desperately wanted to be someone of consequence. The kind of woman who was erudite and could carry on a conversation about art or music, have informed opinions about the state of the world and the dizzying changes taking place.

You can’t even keep a roof over your own head or food in your own belly. You are powerless to protect the one person you love. Everything you try to do ends in disaster.

Caring about Gareth had been a mistake. The villagers said as much. He was one more example of her terrible judgment.

She inhaled, fighting a sob. This must be why she kept falling for aristocratic men. Their proximity to power, their education, the authority they wore so effortlessly—she wanted that kind of polish and influence to rub off on her.