Page 105 of Their Master

Smith smiled. “I hope he tries.”

Chapter 24

Moira had just seen her sister off—a tearful parting, with Moira promising to visit Sandrine and her family within the next few weeks—when Luke brought a message to her sitting room.

“The master would see you now. He’s in his study.”

She looked at his impassive face, her heart pounding. “Did he just return?”

“No, Miss. He came home during the night.”

Why had he not summoned her last night?

You know why.

Moira swallowed down her pain and nodded. “Thank you, Luke.”

Once he left, she looked at her reflection; she was pale and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.

At least her hair, freshly cut only a few nights ago, was neat and tidy. She smoothed the front of the soft, primrose skirt—yet another color she would have not dared to wear if not for Smith—and made her way downstairs, dread making each step heavier than the last.

“Come in,” he said immediately after she knocked.

He stood up from the chair behind his desk—where he must have been working, although the surface was pristine—clear of even so much as a sheet of paper.

“Your poor face,” Moira blurted when he looked up at her.

He smiled faintly. “It looks far worse than it feels.”Hegestured to the seating area in front of the crackling fire. Moira sat and he lowered himself into the chair across from her. “Would you like tea?”

“No thank you.”

You killed my father.

The thought assaulted her like a brutal north wind, chilling her to the bone. What chilled her even more was that although she was deeply shocked, she felt no sadness, only a vague regret.

Moira dropped her gaze to his feet, fixating blindly on his glossy black boots as her emotions roiled and pitched inside her.

“How are you feeling today, Moira?” He asked, seemingly unaware of the turmoil inside her.

Moira forced herself to lift her eyes to his. He was looking at her with an expression of kind concern, not as if she were a traitor who’d betrayed his trust. Not as if he were the same man who’d cold bloodedly killed her father.

“I’m tired. I stayed up late to talk with Sandrine both nights.”

The smile that curved his lips was fond. “Yes, she said you did a great deal of catching up.”

“You talked to her?”

“She joined me for an early breakfast.”

Suddenly it hurt to breathe; he had invited her sister to breakfast.

Sandrine hadn’t mentioned it, no doubt thinking to spare her feelings.

She swallowed convulsively, but the gritty envy or jealousy or whatever it was called stuck in her throat like a burr.

How can you care for his regard—in any way—after what he has done to your father?

Even though Marie was probably back in Paris by now, her voice was as loud as it had been when they’d stood in the same room. Not that her mother had said so much as a single word to her. Nothing.

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