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Impulsively, Olivia closed her hand around his, trapping the pencil. “I’ll be beside you, Alistair. I swear it. You won’t need this.” She could talk for him. He could stand there and glare ominously—he was good at that—and needn’t ever open himself up to ridicule.

Perhaps it would be easier for him if people thought the Duke of Effinghell was aloof and rude, rather than speechless.

Gently, he shook off her hand, and opened the notebook.

Thank you. As the host, it is my duty to greet the guests.

“Well, yes,” she huffed. “But you can do it silently.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. Catching his gaze, she ducked her chin to hold it.

“Alistair?”

She watched as he winced, then touched his throat in what almost seemed an unconscious manner. Unconscious because he had been in pain so long. Unable to stop herself, she lunged to grab his hand, knocking the cheese tray to the floor.

It didn’t matter.

The gouda doesn’t matter? Do you realize what you just said?

Alistair—and the pain in his eyes—was more important.

She enclosed his large hand in both of hers and squeezed, refusing to release him, willing him to take her strength.

Are you mad? The man is so tall, so broad, he has to duck through doors. He spends his nights prowling around the worst parts of town, just looking for fights. He doesn’t need your strength.

Except, maybe, he did.

She pressed her lips to his knuckles.

Watched him swallow.

Watched his lips part. Watched him struggle.

“Have to…speak.”

Oh God. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it?

Olivia felt tears pricking the backs of her eyes but refused to let them fall. Refused to allow him to see pity.

“You’re talking to me,” she reminded him, lips still pressed against his skin.

Alistair’s mouth twitched ruefully, as if to tell her this was different. She was seated on his lap, caressing him, after all.

“You spoke to Auld Gus,” she pointed out, then winced, suspecting it was likely a bad idea to bring up last night’s folly again. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss it yet. Lovemaking had rather got in the way.

But to her surprise, he sighed. “Different,” he rasped.

Speaking in front of the barkeep was different? “How?” she demanded. “You’d never spoken in front of him before—he hadn’t even realized you could speak, like so many others. But you were willing to speak to him.”

His gaze flicked to his notebook, but she tightened her hold on his hand, unwilling to release him.

“Alistair. Why didn’t Auld Gus matter?”

His eyes fluttered closed. “Cannae…hurt…” His lips formed the word me as his words trailed off, but he didn’t say the word.

He didn’t have to.

Her heart had clenched just the same.