. . not exclusively. He wanted a few moments alone as well. He needed the time and space to rein in his temper, sort through his disjointed thoughts, and marshal his flagging determination to do what was right. He would apologize for his behavior, and then he would send Winnefred back to her room. He found his drink in the tavern, where a few patrons sat apart from each other in moody silence. He wanted to join them, to take a seat by the fire and drink himself into oblivion. He purchased a bottle instead and took the first long drink in the stairwell on his way back upstairs. Twice. Twice in one day he had lost himself in the memories of war. And twice in one day he had taken his troubles out on Winnefred. It was a miracle the woman wasn’t headed back to Murdoch House right now, eating his raw heart along the way. He rubbed at his chest where an ache had been nagging since he’d realized how badly he had wounded her feelings by the bridge. She’d made a small, harmless jest about being betrothed and, like an utter bastard, he’d responded by nearly swallowing his tongue in horror.
