Free Blooming: Veronica by Louisa Trent Page A

thoughts were twisted and tangled, knotted up inside her, and try as she would, they would not come unraveled. Her inability to write frustrated her so.
    In her irritation at herself, she snapped at him, “Drop your defensiveness—”
    “Me? Defensive?” He rolled his very nearly black eyes.
    She was not the most dexterous of individuals, but his lashes were so incredibly long and thick, she would have no problem whatsoever plucking each one out individually and setting them on fire. Puff! There they went. Up in flames. Leaving his naked eyes not nearly so seductive.
    Vindictive?
    Yes, and she reveled in her flight of dark fantasy. Lovely castrating thoughts bounced around inside her head, and she gave them license, as they gave her the necessary fortitude to hold her ground.
    “Yes, sir. You . You are as defended as a medieval fortress. Hear me, sir. I know you. You were present at the book reading given in my honor by the mystery writer, Mr. Roger Rogers.”
    “A red herring if I ever I heard one,” he quipped. “Not significant in and of itself, but when used along with the clichéd medieval-fortress analogy, I must ask myself if this is a tactic to avoid being found out.”
    “Found out. About what? My life is literally an open book.”
    “Found about your uncooperativeness. You do not wish to strip for your husband, Mrs. Bowdoin. Such a small thing to ask, too, on a wedding night…”
    “If anyone is using evasion, it is you, sir. Papa told me you read my book but never mentioned that you and I, that we, had met at the reading.”
    “Hardly met. Passed by one another like ghost ships on the sea, more like.”
    “Admit to standing at the rear of the room that evening staring at me. You and your beardless cheeks and your conservative dark clothes and your red cane…”
    “Walking stick,” he corrected, rising from his chair at the table, and standing before her. Staring, always staring at her. “Ruby detests the other name.”
    She could easily take his present walking stick , the crown a shade of sparkling blue, and break it over his dark head. Her thoughts toward him were murderous at best.
    “By the way, this walking stick is called Sapphire,” her husband said. “I have an entire wardrobe full of ’em. I am lame, you see.”
    She smirked, said bitingly, “I am a fallen woman, you see. Why harp on the obvious?”
    Veronica blinked as another once dim memory flickered in her mind, a faltering candle at first and then a bright flame. “Why, it all comes back to me now. You were there, waiting in the hallway of my father’s house, the night I lost…I lost… Oh, never mind! I now understand what this is all about, the marriage, your efforts to get me medical attention, all of it. Yes, I do remember now. All of it is still a bit fuzzy, but I recall you stepping in and taking charge before I could bleed to death. And I understand what you are doing now.”
    “I know where this is leading, madam, so let me interrupt. I shall be brief and well mannered. Here goes. Please do not say I have a savior complex. I can assure you, I do not.”
    “Nothing of the sort. You simply enjoy manipulating people.”
    “Wrong. I enjoy nothing whatsoever about people.” He stuck both thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers at her. “Nananana,” he said in singsong fashion before dropping his hands back down to his sides. “So there. And none of my motives are as simple as you betray. I am a complicated man with eccentric foibles. And have no fear, I shall continue to remind you of my complexity from time to time, lest you forget and underestimate me once again. Now, enough about me. As conceited as I am, I would prefer this to be about you.”
    “How so?”
    “Tell me a little something about yourself, something that has yet to appear in the mud press. Now, there is a stellar evasion tactic. Conversation! I recommend you try it sometime. Far superior to hurling nebulous accusations at me as if I had some