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Interlude

Weston

Weston stands looking out over the Scottish crag where he and Sadie trysted once before, high above the tumbling sea, his back to her as she approaches. Fog curls around her feet, wreathing the gorse like lace. The wind lashes at her, stealing her voice as she calls out his name. He turns slowly, a fierce glint in his eyes.

“I saw you,” he says, his voice low, menacing. “With him .”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“After all I’ve given up. All I’ve sacrificed for you!”

Sadie cowers under the weight of his rage. “But we ... I ... I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t need to do anything. I saw the way you looked at him.” He turns away from her, his gaze falling on the sea. “Your heart is turning. You’re fickle. Disloyal.”

“No, Weston. I’m not.” She lays a hand on his back. “I’ve tried to come to you several times and you denied me. If you wanted me here, why didn’t you let me in?”

“I was working,” he says stiffly. “Writing.”

“For weeks? You’ve been ignoring me. It hurts. You know what that’s like, Weston. What it was like when Florence did it to you.”

He turns to her, with a cutting, sardonic smile. “Do not say her name again. I’ve forgotten her, for your sake. And this is how you repay me? By flirting with the gardener ?”

“Nothing will happen with Beckett. I promise you.” Sadie gestures at the wild, wide Highland vista. “There’s no comparison. How could he ever give me this? Take me to places and times I’ve never seen?”

“He couldn’t. He can’t give you what I can. Not by half.”

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” she says, resolute. “I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m here because I needed to know that what we have is real. I’ve been doubting whether it was all an illusion. A figment of my imagination.”

“No, darling. I’m real. This is real.”

“Then show me, Weston.”

He closes the distance between them, enveloping her in his arms, lifting her off her feet as he kisses her, his lips brutal and hard. It is only them in this world—in a year she cannot name. Any thought, any consideration of Beckett flees, the foolish temptation she felt fading as Weston pulls her down into the gorse. Overhead, the clouds darken, and cold drops of rain begin to fall as Weston pushes her skirt above her hips to touch her. He smiles wickedly as she arches her back, as she invites him with her body. Some part of her recognizes the danger in his sudden jealousy, in his flare of anger. He could kill her here, if he wanted, close as they are to the edge of this sea-tossed oblivion. But isn’t that part of the thrill? His raw passion, his animus—these things are what make him so intoxicating. So irresistible. Sadie surrenders to her fear. Surrenders to his touch.

“You are mine,” he says hoarsely as he covers her with his body, claiming her. “Only mine. Never forget that.”