Faylinn carefully, and wondered how such a miserable man had managed to take such a pretty bride.
"I’m Will then." He quirked an eyebrow remembering their mostly unpleasant encounter of a few minutes earlier. "We were never really introduced." He pulled hard and the swollen shutters closed more tightly, stopping the rain from draining down the wall. "Damn things." He pulled a large, cold torch from its holder and lit it in the fireplace before sliding it back into place. "We don’t have call for many guests, so I don’t come in here often. I didn’t know the wood box was bein’ rained on. I know it’s not what a lady like you is used to—"
Faylinn held up her hand. "Please. It’s more than I could have hoped for." Her eyes strayed to the door. "Thank you," she added absently.
He frowned at the slight brogue that peeked out from beneath her upper-class English accent. "Scottish, are ya?"
"Yes…" She gave her head a little shake. "Well, no, not technically, I suppose. I was born in London." Faylinn’s eyes never left the door.
"Good." He crossed his massive arms over his chest. "They’re drunkards and thieves, the lot of them."
Faylinn pushed damp blonde bangs off her forehead. "No they’re not," she disagreed gently. "I spent most of my childhood in Edinburgh and my—" She was about to say ‘family’ but her mind flooded with images of the son she’d recently lost and she felt a stabbing sensation in her guts. Oh, God.
Will continued to stare at her, wondering if she was going to continue.
After a full minute, Faylinn swallowed and muttered, "My people are Scots, Mr. Benyon."
"Too bad." He unceremoniously yanked the dusty quilt from the narrow bed and stripped the old linens. "I was born in Radnorshire myself, but have been here in the colonies for nearly twenty years. Virginia for the past five, after I worked off my indenture," he said proudly. He debated his words for a moment then pointed a thumb at his chest as he worked. "My life is my own now." He finished tugging on the clean sheets. "It’s a wonderful thing to be free."
Faylinn turned her head very slowly until her eyes locked with his. In an instant she knew that he knew, and the blood drained from her face. Her heart began to thump wildly and she stumbled backwards a step. "I… I…"
He smiled reassuringly. "If you’re running away from Cyril Redding, even though he’s your lawful husband, you’ll get no censure from me. It’s God’s place to judge. Not mine."
Faylinn exhaled shakily. He doesn’t know about Cyril then.
Will’s face darkened. "But what he did to his own kin, to his own sister. " He spat into the fire as though merely talking about Cyril had left a vile taste in his mouth. "The filthy, no good— " He suddenly stopped and realized who he was talking to. A contrite look transformed his features to those of a child about to be scolded. "If you’ll pardon my blunt words, ma’am."
"No need to apologize. It’s not as though I haven’t thought worse myself," she admitted honestly before her attention turned back to the door.
Will wished that his wife was in the room with this girl instead of him. She would be even worse at this than he was. But, then, that would be his wife’s problem, wouldn’t it? "I’ll be back soon."
He took a step to leave but feared the girl would drop dead from fretting and holding her breath as she watched the door. Approaching her slowly, he slid the wet cloak from her shoulders and carefully hung it to dry on a hook near the fireplace. "Sit." He pointed to the stool that stood near to the flames. "And dry off before you catch your death." He softened his normally gruff voice in an attempt to ease the young woman’s worries. "I’ll come for you as soon as I know anything. It’s in God’s hands now."
On his way out of the room, Will grabbed the blood-soaked bandages, grunting his approval of the fact that Faylinn hadn’t burned them. Cloth could be re-used.
Faylinn’s mind was
"I’m Will then." He quirked an eyebrow remembering their mostly unpleasant encounter of a few minutes earlier. "We were never really introduced." He pulled hard and the swollen shutters closed more tightly, stopping the rain from draining down the wall. "Damn things." He pulled a large, cold torch from its holder and lit it in the fireplace before sliding it back into place. "We don’t have call for many guests, so I don’t come in here often. I didn’t know the wood box was bein’ rained on. I know it’s not what a lady like you is used to—"
Faylinn held up her hand. "Please. It’s more than I could have hoped for." Her eyes strayed to the door. "Thank you," she added absently.
He frowned at the slight brogue that peeked out from beneath her upper-class English accent. "Scottish, are ya?"
"Yes…" She gave her head a little shake. "Well, no, not technically, I suppose. I was born in London." Faylinn’s eyes never left the door.
"Good." He crossed his massive arms over his chest. "They’re drunkards and thieves, the lot of them."
Faylinn pushed damp blonde bangs off her forehead. "No they’re not," she disagreed gently. "I spent most of my childhood in Edinburgh and my—" She was about to say ‘family’ but her mind flooded with images of the son she’d recently lost and she felt a stabbing sensation in her guts. Oh, God.
Will continued to stare at her, wondering if she was going to continue.
After a full minute, Faylinn swallowed and muttered, "My people are Scots, Mr. Benyon."
"Too bad." He unceremoniously yanked the dusty quilt from the narrow bed and stripped the old linens. "I was born in Radnorshire myself, but have been here in the colonies for nearly twenty years. Virginia for the past five, after I worked off my indenture," he said proudly. He debated his words for a moment then pointed a thumb at his chest as he worked. "My life is my own now." He finished tugging on the clean sheets. "It’s a wonderful thing to be free."
Faylinn turned her head very slowly until her eyes locked with his. In an instant she knew that he knew, and the blood drained from her face. Her heart began to thump wildly and she stumbled backwards a step. "I… I…"
He smiled reassuringly. "If you’re running away from Cyril Redding, even though he’s your lawful husband, you’ll get no censure from me. It’s God’s place to judge. Not mine."
Faylinn exhaled shakily. He doesn’t know about Cyril then.
Will’s face darkened. "But what he did to his own kin, to his own sister. " He spat into the fire as though merely talking about Cyril had left a vile taste in his mouth. "The filthy, no good— " He suddenly stopped and realized who he was talking to. A contrite look transformed his features to those of a child about to be scolded. "If you’ll pardon my blunt words, ma’am."
"No need to apologize. It’s not as though I haven’t thought worse myself," she admitted honestly before her attention turned back to the door.
Will wished that his wife was in the room with this girl instead of him. She would be even worse at this than he was. But, then, that would be his wife’s problem, wouldn’t it? "I’ll be back soon."
He took a step to leave but feared the girl would drop dead from fretting and holding her breath as she watched the door. Approaching her slowly, he slid the wet cloak from her shoulders and carefully hung it to dry on a hook near the fireplace. "Sit." He pointed to the stool that stood near to the flames. "And dry off before you catch your death." He softened his normally gruff voice in an attempt to ease the young woman’s worries. "I’ll come for you as soon as I know anything. It’s in God’s hands now."
On his way out of the room, Will grabbed the blood-soaked bandages, grunting his approval of the fact that Faylinn hadn’t burned them. Cloth could be re-used.
Faylinn’s mind was
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