Dove's Way Read Online Free PDF Page B

another.
    “Is that true, Miss Winslet?” Grace asked, her voice a mix of disgust and fascination. “Do the heathen cannibals really eat people?”
    “I don’t know if it’s true or not,” Finnea said tightly, her head beginning to throb, “but I do know that their manners would no doubt keep them from discussing it at the dinner table.”
    This time it was the men who blanched and the women who gasped, outraged and embarrassed at the same time.
    “You are so right,” Emmaline Hawthorne interjected smoothly. “We have forgotten our manners.”
    Adwina harrumphed. Grace barely stifled her sigh of disappointment that she wasn’t going to get a firsthand account of the sordid tale that had made its way around the globe.
    Finnea was baffled by these people, not understanding the dictates they expressed, though seemed to forget when it suited them. It was like trying to learn the rules to a club of which she wasn’t a member. Secret handshakes and unvoiced sentiments that everyone in society understood but her. It made Finnea’s head spin.
    But when she looked up, she caught sight of Matthew. He looked at her, his blue eyes boring into her, and somehow her thoughts calmed.
    “We especially wanted our son to be here,” Emmaline explained, “because he has recently returned from traveling in Africa.”
    Matthew’s expression turned dangerous, and he reached for a tall-stemmed goblet filled with red wine. But somehow he stumbled, his hand banging into china and crystal, almost spilling the wine. The group looked on, startled.
    His eyes flashed with sudden rage before he covered it by sitting back with a casual grace and self-deprecating smile. “My apologies for my clumsiness,” he said, though he made no other move to reach for his glass. “You were saying, Mother?” he prompted, his face a study in calmness, unless someone looked very close.
    Bradford looked at his son, his eyes filled with disdain. Emmaline appeared uncomfortable and worried.
    “Well,” his mother began, seeming to search for her train of thought. “We invited both you and Miss Winslet because we were certain you would have much to discuss.”
    “Invited, Mother?” Matthew’s tone was clipped and wry. “As I recall, I wasn’t given a choice.”
    Emmaline blanched, then forced a laugh. “We thought you might have traveled to some of the same places,” she persevered awkwardly.
    “Actually,” he said, glancing across the table to meet Finnea’s eye, “I met Miss Winslet in the Congo. On a train.”
    Finnea looked at him, her heart suddenly pounding.
    “I have to touch you, Finnea.”
    “You’ve met?” Emmaline gasped, surprised. “Matthew, you didn’t tell us you had already met Miss Winslet.”
    “There is nothing to tell,” Finnea interjected quickly. Nothing but hours of frantic struggle. Hours of fighting to survive. Then hours longer as they waited through the night, hours of him holding her close and talking. Of her telling him her secrets. Of her telling him her dreams, the jungle and the trauma lending the night an intimacy she wished she could forget. No, she wasn’t interested in sharing that. She wanted nothing to do with Africa any longer. Or Matthew Hawthorne.
    Matthew raised a brow. She could read the sarcastic tilt as if it were a page in a book, and she turned away, thankful this time when Grace interrupted.
    “Ah, look at this!” the woman exclaimed. “Turtle soup. How divine.”
    Stiffly uniformed footmen appeared at the table, their steps muffled by the thick Aubusson rug. They carried ornate tureens of soup, silver platters of bread, and dishes of herbed butters shaped like tiny shells. A footman came up to Finnea’s side, and stopped abruptly, his whole body seeming to stiffen as he stood next to her.
    Finnea glanced to her side, her eyes going wide. “Are you all right?”
    Then silence, people startled and confused.
    “Of course he is all right,” Adwina stated with a twist of lips that was