Читать книгу In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love - Lorna Gray - Страница 12

Matthew was resting a shoulder against the doorframe from the back room – where it appeared he must have been hiding all along – and his complexion was more ashen than ever.

I turned away to collect the forgotten teacup from the table. Placing it into the sink, I said; “My heart nearly stopped when I got back to find the manhunt lurking on my doorstep – thank heavens you managed to find somewhere to hide! Have you been back there all along?” I was speaking with the far too bright tone of one who had just been caught talking about someone they shouldn’t. “And would you believe that impressively I didn’t actually have to lie once … Was it Freddy that let you in?” This last was as I registered his figure out of the corner of my eye. He had stepped into the room and was now standing about three yards away, across the length of the table. I glanced over my shoulder at him and moved to the stove quickly, mouth already running on to meaningless chatter about chickens, what to prepare for lunch and even, idiotically, the weather.

“Why are you doing this?”

His question stopped me in my tracks.

I hesitated for a moment, mouth suppressed into a tight line. Then I finished filling the teapot with water from the kettle, turned to him and said acidly, “Take a guess.”

I marched into the small larder that shared its space with the dairy and brought out the sourdough I had been proving. I made all our bread; I had been lucky in the autumn and had managed to buy a few sacks of coarse flour; and although it was tough husky stuff, it had since proven itself more than a godsend when the nearest bakery was two miles away and, more often than not, half buried beneath the high drifts that regularly closed the Gloucester road.

He waited silently while I wasted time kneading the loaf into life and then thrust it into the oven. The gas lit on the second attempt. Then I took two fresh cups down from the shelf and poured the tea. It was just unfortunate that I forgot yet again about the broken handle.

I gave a scalded yelp and there was a crash as the teapot fell onto the worktop. It instantly began spreading thick brown liquid everywhere and with a badly suppressed curse, I snatched at a dishcloth. There seemed to be gallons of the stuff, running over the worktop and towards the floor and, distractedly, I set about dabbing at the growing lake only to yelp again as Matthew’s hand appeared beside mine to join in the mopping up.

I whipped round and glared at him. He seemed taller all of a sudden and even more of a stranger than ever but then, hands up and taking a conciliatory step backwards to reclaim his place by the table, he suddenly decided to speak. His eyes were on the floor as he said in a harmlessly conversational tone, “So what’s his beef? He’s taking this search a little personally, isn’t he?”

It took a moment for me to realise who he was talking about. Those eyes lifted and their expression belied the mild pitch to his voice.

“You do realise that he wants you, don’t you? He plans to win you, and I suspect he figures that playing the hero and getting me locked away is his best chance at success.”

Then, leaving me stung and searching for a sneering retort, he went to the door and reached my father’s heavy black woollen coat down from a hook. “May I borrow this?”

I gaped at him, floundering at this sudden change of tack. “What? Why? Where are you going? You can’t just leave!” I cast an anxious glance through the far window to check that the road was still clear. It was.

He didn’t reply and, feeling like a complete fool, I hastily trotted after him to the kitchen door.

“Matthew!” I cried in exasperation, putting a hand on his arm.

He turned then and the contrived air of concentrated detachment dropped from his face. He covered my hand with his and gave me a very small lopsided smile; “I’m sorry, I really don’t have a good way of showing my gratitude, do I? This risk you’re taking on my behalf is rapidly proving very thankless indeed, isn’t it…”

I gaped at him mutely, thrown just as much off-balance by this sudden concession as by his accusation. He smiled at my expression and then continued in a voice that was utterly surprising in its gentleness.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I’m not too keen on making you contribute to a hanging either. It’s just that I’m damned if I’m going to sit about all day while men like him are trying to make it certain. While I’m caught in this hateful net, I can’t even begin to combat … I mean, how can I hope to…?” He stopped, bit back whatever he was going to say and then added instead, “I’d have to be mad to pass up this opportunity; I really do have to go and have a poke about while those fools are busily looking the other way. And you never know, I may actually find something.”

I desperately tried to piece together a more coherent argument than no, no, no! while he gingerly eased his arm into the sleeve. But before I could say a word or even work out where he was going, he lifted his hand in a brief touch to my cheek, turned away and vanished yet again through the kitchen door.