The kitchen door opened and Cook appeared, holding a bowl. Steam spiraled off it in a seductive dance. Orlando's stomach growled.
"This is for you." She thrust the bowl out further. "Hendricks is fetching a blanket."
"Thank you." Orlando's bones groaned in protest as he stood. He angled his hat over his eyes but it did little to keep out the sleety needles of rain slicing his already frozen skin. The wind had picked up as darkness fell and the cold he'd felt before was nothing to what he felt now. His jaw ached with the effort to stop his teeth chattering, and his body hurt all over. He was certain he would shatter into thousands of pieces if he were struck.
Soon he wouldn't be able to feel his toes or fingers. He needed the broth then he had to move if he was to survive the night.
Cook gasped when he drew nearer under the small porch. "Look at you!" Deep lines scored her thick brow and if he didn't know better, he would have thought she was in pain too. "Get this into you." She shoved the broth at him. The wooden bowl was hot in his hands and he almost spilled it.
He set it down near his feet. "I'll let it cool a little first. Thank you, Cook."
"If she could see you now, she'd not let you suffer like this." Tears filled her eyes and she sniffed. "Poor thing." She took his hand in between her big ones and rubbed hard. It helped and he smiled his thanks.
"Why did she lock me out?" he asked.
She switched hands. "There was a note telling us...well, saying what you were. An assassin."
"A note? From whom?"
She shrugged. "It didn't say. There now...better?"
"Yes. This note...did she recognize the hand?"
"No, but it was a childish scrawl, so the writer could've been trying to hide themselves."
"And Susanna believed it?"
Another shrug. "Why wouldn't she? You are an assassin, aren't you?" Her gaze held no sympathy anymore. It was direct and accusing. "And someone did hire you to kill her, didn't they?"
He didn't answer and Cook grunted and dropped his hand.
"Go now. Leave Stoneleigh tonight. Your presence upsets her, and you're not doing yourself any good turning into an icicle out here."
Hendricks's long face appeared over Cook's round one. He tossed a blanket at Orlando. "Cook's right. You must leave."
The door widened and Bessie appeared. She cringed as she took in his appearance. "Oh dear lord, this isn't right. Look at him! He's wet through. He'll catch his death."
"Good riddance," Hendricks muttered.
"Mr. Hendricks, where's your Christian charity?"
"Where's his? And don't either of you tell me he deserves my sympathy. He doesn't. He's a killer. Get out, Mr. Holt, and don't come back."
Orlando bent and picked up the bowl. It was a little cooler, but its warmth still burned his frozen fingers. He relished the pain almost as much as he'd welcomed the coldness.
"No. I can't. She's in danger." His gaze locked with Hendricks's and the servant shut his mouth. "Not from me, from the person who wants her dead. I can protect her better inside the house, but if that's not possible, I must remain outside."
"Oh, Mr. Holt." Bessie wiped away a tear. "Please find somewhere dry to go. I can't bear to think of you out here. Nor can she."
"Hush," Hendricks hissed.
But Orlando's heart kicked inside his chest and began beating with a strong, steady rhythm. Perhaps, despite everything, she did care.
But it was almost too much for his weary soul to hope for.