Faith stared at the sun rising outside her bedroom window, contemplating what to do with her restless feet.
Outside, the rosy light of dawn crept over the horizon, chasing away the mists that gathered at the wild edges of the lawn, where the grass met the scraggly forest. Now that the rain had ceased, she couldn't afford to pass up the chance to inspect the river.
As she dressed quickly in her breeches and shirt, she avoided looking at the wretched engagement portrait. One day, she'd work up the nerve to sell it. God knew she needed the funds.
Instead, she stared at Sinclair's cape draped over the chair.
When she returned to her room after their ordeal, she hadn't been able to surrender his cloak. Beneath the damp and the smoke, other scents lingered: soap and leather and some other unspoken ingredient that belonged solely to Jonah Sinclair.
The way he'd drawn her into his arms was as natural as rain falling. She'd surrendered her defenses, and Sinclair had played the advantage by demanding an explanation for her husband's abandonment.
She wished for a scenario where she could confess everything to him and still protect them both.
Shaking off her troubled thoughts, she left a hurried note for Lawless in the kitchen and set off toward the barn to saddle her horse. While the chill in the air was enough to catch her breath, the rising sun warmed her cheeks, and she turned toward it, closing her eyes for an indulgent moment, before entering the barn.
A soft tap, tap, thud echoed from the far stall.
Faith froze.
When they'd extinguished the fire last night, she and Sinclair had combed the grounds and house and found no signs of the intruders who lit the flames, but she hadn't shaken off the fear that the arsonists might have concealed themselves somewhere else.
The rhythm continued. Tap, tap, thud. Then, shuffle, tap, tap, thud.
Her drumming heartbeat clashed against the tempo. Seizing a horseshoe hammer she crept toward the end of the barn.
Tap, tap, shuffle, shuffle, tap, thud.
She detected panting, punctuated by heaving gasps that reverberated in the cavernous stable.
Marshaling her own breath, she peered around the corner of the stall.
Sinclair stood with his back to her. He wore a faded linen shirt untucked over a trim pair of trousers that clung to his powerful legs. Above him, a twenty-pound bag of oats hung from a wooden beam.
With a tap, tap, his powerful arms jabbed at the bag.
As it swung back toward him, his feet expertly dodged its impact.
Shuffle, shuffle.
It was an elegant dance, a demonstration of strength. What power he'd contained in the confines of his simple black suit.
Abruptly, Sinclair went on the attack.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, THUD.
He punctuated the final thrust of his rippling shoulders with a low growl, primal and proud, like the snarl of a predatory cat.
The hammer tumbled from Faith's grip.
Sinclair spun around, chest pumping, eyes ablaze. His shirt was undone; rivulets of sweat ran from his neck down to abdomen.
"Forgive me--"
"I am sorry, I didn't think--"
The competing apologies were stunted by the fact that their gazes had collided and seemed unwilling to surrender to each other.
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