The Marsh Hawk by Dawn MacTavish

Author:Dawn MacTavish
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781428503205
Publisher: Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jenna had no idea where she was going, only that she must leave Kevernwood Hall posthaste, and she packed as though her very life depended upon it. She would not take any of the lovely things Simon had given her, only her own frocks and garments; those which her mother had delivered in the portmanteau she had left behind at Moorhaven Manor while fleeing with Simon after the duel.

She stared down at her mud-soaked, sprigged muslin frock. It was one of the lovely creations that Simon had commissioned the dressmaker, Olive Reynolds, to make for her. It took only seconds to wriggle out of it. She rummaged through the pile of rumpled clothing she had heaped on the bed and snaked out her riding habit. For a moment she crushed it close to her breast. She remembered Simon’s strong arms holding her in that habit in the conservatory when he proposed to her, remembered the gentle strength in his hands caressing her through the thin Merino wool, arousing her, leading her to the brink of ecstasy. But it was only a brief reverie. Reliving those steamy memories stirred something awake inside that caused the habit to jump from her hands and join the sprigged muslin at her feet as though it had caught fire and burned her.

She never wanted to see it again.

Choosing instead a dove gray traveling costume that held no memories and invoked no passions, she struggled into it and continued packing.

Her heart was numb. The awful look in Simon’s eyes haunted her—the hurt and the anger in his blue-fire stare. That look had run her through. She would take it to her grave. He hadn’t even tried to defend himself. He hadn’t even made an attempt to deny his guilt. His silence damned him. It had broken her heart, and her grief was so overwhelming that she couldn’t even rejoice in the fact that she hadn’t done murder after all on that dark night which seemed a lifetime ago.

She had never felt so alone. In the space of a few short hours, she had lost both her husband and her confidant. All at once the dimity frock she’d been folding slipped from her hands. She sank down on the edge of the bed beside the overflowing portmanteau and stared through the tall mullioned panes toward the light streaming in through the window. It was golden and warm pressed up against the glass. How dare it shine upon her sorrows? The rampant thoughts banging around in her brain were so hopelessly bizarre a jumble that she groaned aloud under the weight of them—not the least of which were: Where would she go? What was she to do? Though she loved Simon more than life itself, how could she ever live with him now? More poignantly, how could she ever live without him?

When the knock came, she vaulted off the bed as though she’d been launched from a catapult, and stood trembling head to toe, her eyes riveted to the barred door of her chamber.

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