Chapter Fifteen
Mary kept her head bent and her gaze fixed on the rose while she found her pocket handkerchief and wiped her eyes. When at last she did look up she saw Randall standing before her, regarding her solemnly. A rush of emotions battered her: joy, pain, fierce desire, misery. She knew she would have to make him leave, quickly, before her resolve disappeared. She pushed herself to her feet, keeping her fingertips on the desk to support her trembling body. She must remember how he had treated her at the night of the ball. The injustice of it. As she had hoped, anger lent an edge to her voice when she addressed him.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have come to see you.’
‘That much is evident,’ she retorted. ‘I, however, do not want to see you. You may have forgotten what you said to me at the ball, sir, but I have not.’
‘No, I have not forgotten anything.’
‘You should go, now.’
When he did not move she went to the door and turned the handle. It did not open.
‘It is locked.’ She turned to glare at him. ‘Where is the key?’
‘It is in my pocket.’
His cool tone infuriated her.
‘How dare you. Jacques!’
‘It is useless to shout. I told your manservant we were not to be disturbed. He has gone off to attend to something at the other end of the house.’
‘You have been giving orders to my servants?’ She gasped with indignation at his effrontery. ‘That is outrageous!’
‘It is an advantage of the rank and privilege you so despise.’
She almost stamped her foot at that.
‘How dare you tease me? Unlock this door immediately and leave my house.’
‘Not until I have said what I came to say.’
She crossed her arms and glared at him.
‘I do not want to hear it.’
‘But I am afraid you must.’ He waved towards a chair. ‘Will you not sit down? No? Very well.’
Mary watched him as he stripped off his gloves and laid them with his hat on the table. He had done that before, she remembered how he had stared at the bouquet Bertrand had given her and said then that he would never bring her flowers. Her eyes strayed to the rose lying on the desk. It was a potent sign of how he had changed.
‘Pray say what you must, then be gone,’ she told him, shrugging off the thought and concentrating upon her anger.
‘Did you know that it was my brother Gideon who took the sword?’
‘Yes. Robbins told me. He also told me how the story has been corrupted. It is said you gave him the Latymor sword to carry in his first engagement.’
Randall nodded. ‘It has already passed into the Rogues’ folklore. They say because he was carrying the sword he was able to prevent the French capturing the guns and thus save the company’s honour. An action that cost him his life.’
‘I heard that, too.’
She looked at the carpet, keeping her lips firmly closed. She would not sympathise with him over the loss of his brother, she dare not allow him any hope that she was weakening. She heard the little cough; the one Randall gave when he was nervous.
‘I wanted you to know how very sorry I am for the way I treated you. I humbly beg your pardon.’
An apology? Randall never apologised.