Page 37 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Shock got in line behind frustration. Which wasthe greater crime? Anne coldly selling herself for gold? Or taking him to her dead husband’s bed? Lips curling against his teeth, he couldn’t say.

“Forgive me. I misunderstood your intentions.” Her mouth pursed. “Most men wouldn’t find my offer difficult to swallow.”

“I’m no’ most men.”I wanted to marry you.

Anne flinched as if he’d spoken his fierce thoughts aloud. The curse of intimacy came in understanding someone yet remaining far apart in accord. Why couldn’t they breach this wedge between them?

He raised frustrated fists to fight it, asking a furious, exasperated, “What happened to you?”

Silence crashed the entry hall. Anne’s eyes were hollow. Black holes in midnight forest trees held more light. She was far from reach, and he didn’t know how to get her back.

Door hinges whined on the floor above their heads. Footsteps pattered, bringing Aunt Flora’s voice with them. “Is something amiss?”

Anne smoothed her palms down her skirts. “It’s me and Will.”

“Oh?” Floors creaked. More footsteps.

“Go back to bed, Aunt Flora. All is well.” Anne recovered enough to sound commanding.

The barest pause and, “As ye say, dear.”

They waited until a door clicked shut. It was enough time for tempers to cool and for him to see Anne in a new light. The line of her mouth was stalwart, but her eyes were shaded with emptiness. Twin candle stubs were guttering their last. Soon they’d be in the dark, and Anne would have an excuse to slip away, the same as she’d slippedaway eight summers ago. Years of hardship had battered him into the man he was today. Prison’s solace had chiseled his mind. Shipyard labor had molded his body. He’d gained a new trade and put war and rebellion behind him. Anne had not.

She had one thing right. His help came with a price—her answer to the question which had racked him all these years. A question which stirred the beast of pain and rejection inside, a question that waited eight years for an answer.

“Why didna you come to me at Castle Tioram?”

Chapter Eleven

Her knees buckled. Insults, threats, and arguments with those most dear had never stopped her. Neither did greedy men and ham-fisted rogues. Nothing could sway her from a goal once the seed was planted. But, Will’s question...

She slumped against the entry table and clutched her stomacher from cruel, phantom pain behind the cloth she gripped.

“Of all the things to ask me.” She hardly recognized her paper-thin voice.

Will took a half step forward. “Are you going to be ill?”

She was, but not the kind he could heal.

Why did that day matter anymore? A lifetime had passed.

Hadn’t it?

Wounds of the soul were treacherous things. They scarred. They toughened. They generally made a body wiser. Until one day, a letter, a memory, or in this case, a pointed question ripped them wide open. What she was satisfied to bury, Will sought to unbury. Their natures couldn’t bemore different. But the wretched war had taken more than her young love. It had stolen from Will too. He deserved to know what had happened; telling it was her challenge despite the spinning hurt climbing higher inside her.

A secret wanted out.

Her tongue was heavy with it. “This is what you bargained for. To know why I didn’t run away with you.”

“Yes.”

She looked beyond Will, dragging in a ragged breath that cut her insides. It hurt, how good and different he was from other men. Will’s ambitions swam in deeper waters: he preferred truth over gold. His patience in seeking an answer was equally astounding when all this time she’d thought he didn’t care.

At the moment, impatience clouded his brow and banked rage lit his eyes. Will was done waiting.

“Do you remember the day I was supposed to meet you?” she asked.

“It’s branded on me.”