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God, this hurt. How did it hurt more than being stabbed?

“No, lass,” he said gently. “I think ye should stay here. In London.”

She shot up so fast she nearly cracked her head against his chin, her eyes wild as she stared at him.

“You’re—you’re leaving?” she stammered. “Without me?”

No,he wanted to say.Never.

“Aye,” he forced out. “I think it’s best.”

She skittered away from him like he’d burst into flames. He ached to draw her back into his arms.

“I see,” she said icily. “And I suppose, what? I should write you if it turns out it hasn’t actually taken?”

He frowned at her. He hated the way her face had closed off, a smooth, if angry mask pasting itself over the tender vulnerability she’d shown only moments before. He also had no bloody idea what she was talking about.

"The arrest?” he asked. “Graham willnae bother ye again, lass—even if I’m away at the estate, yer brother will see to it.”

“What?” she said, her own confusion flickering through that placidity for a moment. “No, no, not the arrest. If I don’t turn out to be pregnant after all, I mean.”

Caleb’s eyes, on instinct, shot to her middle as if he expected to find her suddenly round with his babe.

“You’re pregnant?” he croaked.

The look she gave him was scornful but laced with genuine hurt. “Well, I don’t know yet, do I? But we’ve been married a month, and I’ve not had my courses the entire time we’ve been wed.”

Goodness, he hadn’t thought about that at all. Or if he had, in some abstract part of his mind, he’d assumed she’d bled in the weeks before he’d taken her to his bed.

“And I was sick this morning,” she added. “It’s a common sign—often a good one that the babe will grow strong.”

“Pregnant,” he said again.

“Possibly,” she corrected. “I’ll let you know, I suppose, if your broodmare is bred. If not, I suppose I’ll travel north for you to give it another go, hm? Was that what you were thinking?”

Truthfully, he’d not been thinking of heirs or pregnancies at all. He’d been thinking of the way her tears had soaked through his shirt, of the bright smile on her face when she’d been reunited with her friends. He’d thought of the scream that had come from her when she’d stood, cold on a clifftop and night, and looked down upon the place where she’d been held captive, treated like an animal.

He'd been thinking that she’d had enough time stolen from her.

“I know ye dinnae choose to marry me,” he said, choosing his words with care. “And I know I dinnae treat ye well when ye first came to the estate.”

She snorted out a laugh. “And what? You thought you’d repeat that, since it worked so well last time? Not let me choose again? Toss me aside?”

“No, Grace I—” Christ, he was mucking this up. Why did he always muck things up? He’d never known the right thing to say, not once in all his days, and now, when it was more important than ever, he still couldn’t find anything but the worst.

“I daenae want ye to hurt any more than ye’ve already been hurt,” he tried.

From the unchanged expression on her face, he did not succeed.

“So, you thought…what? You’d get all the hurt out in one go? Very well. I understand. Go.”

She turned to walk away from him, but he couldn’t let her go, even though heshould. Just not like this.

He reached out and seized her wrist. ‘Grace,leannan, please?—”

“Don’tcallme that!” she shouted. “I don’t know what your stupid Gaelic nickname is, and I don’twantto know, but don’t, all right? Justdon’t.”

He blinked. “Sweetheart,” he said.