Page 35 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

“When it comes to this, there is no we ,” he snapped. “You are not to put yourself in harm’s way, do you understand? And I do not need your help. I have been handling things on my own for years, and I don’t need anyone else getting in the way.”

“But you’re no longer on your own,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I am just as much on my own as I have ever been. Do you think I have lived without obligations my whole life? I assure you that is not the case.”

She had been prepared to run, to draw Lord Moreton away from Adrian, and he wasn’t prepared to even let her help . Tears stung her eyes, and she backed up against the door.

“Ye daenae mean that.”

“I do.” He turned back to her, the motion too abrupt, the anger in it scorching. “I’ve always survived alone, Isobel. And that’s how it will stay.”

“Even now ye have a wife?”

“ Especially now I have a wife,” he growled. “This is my duty, to keep you safe. And that’s precisely what I intend to do.”

“This isn’t just about my safety,” Isobel insisted, doing her best to keep the quiver from her voice.

The hurt—the hurt overflowed into every part of her body. Just hours ago, he had looked at her as though she had climbed into the heavens and hung the moon. Now, he looked at her as though she was a distraction. An irritation. Another obligation .

The word stung more than she wanted to admit.

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about fighting this together .” She swallowed and held out a hand, silently begging him to accept it. “That’s what marriage means.”

“Our marriage was to protect your reputation, and mine.” He brushed away her hand. “We knew this was coming.”

“So why have you changed your mind, now?” she asked. “We talked about this. We both knew.”

“Because he can dance with you whenever he wants.” Adrian’s nostrils flared. “And because I can’t stop him.”

“Adrian, please. I can handle the danger.”

“If you stay here, all I’ll be thinking about is your safety.”

Isobel froze, the hurt coalescing into a frozen roar. “What are ye saying?”

“You should go to my country estate. There, you’ll be safe while I address the situation with Moreton. You can return when the threat has been eliminated.”

“Ye’re sending me away?” she whispered.

“What else am I to do? You can’t stay here with a man threatening your life living in the same city. I don’t know what I was thinking before.” There was no ounce of kindness in his voice now. “Better you don’t get in my way, Isobel.”

In his way.

The world was made of ice, and she was the only being able to feel in that wasteland; she was a red-hot ball of pain fighting the chill. She felt as though he had struck her. In some ways, she would have preferred that over the cold, remote anger that he beat her with now.

“Ye can’t be serious,” she said, the words choked.

“I assure you I am. I won’t have you getting in the way, and I’m not prepared to risk your life.”

Some part of her knew that he was pushing her away deliberately.

Both for her safety and because he couldn’t fathom being responsible for someone else.

Perhaps even because he cared for her and the thought of her being in danger made him ache, the way thinking of his lifeless body made her want to vomit.

But there was a difference. She would have left everything behind to save his life. Yet he was sending her away, dismissing everything they had shared.

There were no words of comfort, none of respect and affection. He had closed her out as though she had never existed in his world at all.

Once again, he was isolating himself. And there was nothing she could do to persuade him to let her in.

If she insisted on staying—and perhaps she could—then he would shut her out still more.

There was nothing else for it. Nothing more for her to do but accept the inevitable.

“If I leave,” she said, “will ye tell Lord Moreton that ye’ve sent me away?”

“Of course not,” he said immediately. “That would merely mean putting you in danger.”

“And yer own danger?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing will happen to me.”

“Moreton is not a foe to be so easily dismissed,” she said.

“So, you say.”

“Adrian—”

“I won’t hear any more on the subject. It’s time to retire for the night.” He picked up her nightgown from the bed and offered it to her. “Goodnight, Isobel.”

“I’m no longer to share yer bed?”

“I would like to sleep alone tonight.”

More hurt. She hadn’t thought it possible—after all, he was sending her away after everything —but it transpired he could still break her heart further.

She sucked in a deep breath.

“Fine,” she said and gripped her nightgown tightly. “If that’s what ye want. I’m sure I’ll be out of yer hair soon enough.”

Something flickered across his expression, but he merely nodded. “I’ll make all the arrangements.”

“Goodnight, Adrian.”

Not trusting herself to say anything else, she opened the adjoining door to her own cold bedchamber, the air stale from her absence from it, and slammed it.

Then she sank against the wood, pressed the soft cotton against her face, and wept.