Page 130 of The Scot Beds His Wife

Especiallythatman.

She could add her heart to the legions of those he’d broken.

The difference was, she’d deserved it.

She didn’t believe it arrogant to assume she’d left a sizable wound on his heart, as well.

And would do anything to take it back.

She was glad, in a way, that she’d never see him again. It would kill her to confront the accusation in his eyes, or worse, indifference. To occupy the same space with his beauty and be treated as a stranger. As an enemy.

She could survive so much, but not that.

It occurred to Samantha as the steam engine crawled over the wintry border of Gelderland to Brabant that she ought to consider avoiding trains in the foreseeable future. They made her anxious, unsettled, and with good reason.

A private compartment had been an extravagance, but grieving in a car packed with people was more than she could bear at the moment.

She was glad she’d decided against settling in another hot, arid climate. The Mediterranean seemed like the loveliest place, but Samantha realized she’d grown fond of green land and crisp, cool sea air.

If she couldn’t stay in the Scottish Highlands, she could at least find a comparable climate on the Continent.

The Dutch seemed like lovely people, and were famous equestrians. It shouldn’t at all be hard for her to find work among them.

Looking down, she poised her quill and ink over the vellum paper and applied herself to the letter she promised to Mena.

She could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t completely dishonor her. She wanted to ask how Gavin fared now that he’d been released from prison. She wanted to follow the post back to the shores of the only place that had ever truly felt like home. Wester Ross. Inverthorne. The happiest days of her life had been spent in a gray stone castle lording over a Highland forest that crawled down to a tempestuous sea. She’d lost her identity there.

And then she’d lost her heart.

A mist of tears stung her eyes, and blurred the plush golden felt of the seat opposite her. Would this ever stop hurting? Would she ever not be haunted by a gorgeous ghost with green eyes and a devastating smile?

The unmistakable clicks of a pistol’s cylinder drove her to her feet, upsetting her lap desk and inkwell. She blinked the gather of tears from her lashes, and they coalesced into enough moisture to spill down her cheek.

“Ye forgot something important, bonny.”

Her knees buckled and little spots of darkness gathered at her periphery as she half gasped, half sobbed his name.

Gavin.

He filled the doorway of her compartment with his beautiful broad shoulders, bedecked in a fine wool traveling suit that matched the darker tones in his thick, perfect hair.

For an absurd moment, she feared the pistol.

But then he’d dumped it, along with the wooden box containing the other, onto the empty seat, and went to her in three long strides.

There was nowhere for Samantha to retreat, so she justwhimpered when he pulled her against him, effectively helping her to avoid an uncharacteristic swoon.

He smelled glorious, like a cedar forest and soap. She tried not to notice. Tried not to process the bliss coursing through her at being in the circle of his arms once more.

Was this happening? Or had she fallen asleep, only to wake later from this dream, her grief fresh and crushing.

“Why?” she managed through a chest and throat flooded with too many emotions to safely allow the passage of air. “What are you doing here?

He cupped her face with gentle hands and pulled her back enough to look into his eyes. What she saw glimmering in the green irises, branching into the laugh lines, and furrowed in the brow, caused more tears to chase the others down her cheeks. That wasn’t what forgiveness looked like, was it?

“I lied to ye, as well.” The tender earnestness in his voice threatened to unstitch her, and Samantha held on to his wrists, ready for anything. “I kept from ye the fact that I was a smuggler.”

“Your sin doesn’t touch mine,” she interjected quickly. “I kept from you the fact I was married, and a murderer. Also, my name and my—”