Weariness seeped into his limbs and muffled his brain. It had been an argument between children. Had she really married someone else because of their foolish, angry words? She must have. Her name was Mrs. Hamilton now, after all. And of all things, she was a coffee merchant.
His shoulders felt too heavy as he glanced helplessly around the small, spare room. “You’re married?” he asked.
“I am,” she said quickly and without emotion. Her hands tightened their grip on each other.
“Your husband?”
Her eyes fell to the floor. “He’s not in England at the moment.”
Aidan ignored his unfortunate relief. He studied her, taking in her patent discomfort, her downcast eyes, and he could not identify the emotions scrambling inside him. “Do you really want me to go?”
“Yes.”
“How can I?”
“I have a shop to run,” she said simply.
“The door is shut. Leave it for the day.”
He knew her answer when she met his gaze. When had her eyes ever been so cool? “There are deliveries to be made. I cannot ignore them.”
But stubbornness was new to her, and Aidan had worn stubbornness like a skin since the moment he was born. “Fine. But I’ll come back.”
“But . . . why?” she asked, though resignation was writ clear on her face. Whatever she was feeling, she could not imagine he would leave this be.
“We owe it to ourselves to figure out what happened, don’t we?”
She shook her head. “I don’t see what difference it could possibly make.”
“Don’t you?” Aidan’s hand lifted the barest inch, wanting to reach out to her, to pull her against him and feel the realness of her body. Her eyes flew to that small movement and widened in alarm.
“Tomorrow then,” she blurted, taking a small step back. “There is a strolling park—”
“I’ll come for you.”
Her eyes flew to his before skittering away. “Good afternoon, Mr. York.”
Chapter 4
Kate locked the shop door behind him. Despite her words, she would not reopen today; her shaky knees could barely hold her.
Oh, this was not good. This was not safe and peaceful. This was dangerous.
She pressed a hand hard to the ache in her stomach and wondered whether she would be sick, but a few long minutes later the nausea passed and she made her way up to her rooms, to her bed, crawling beneath the thick blanket to hide under the covers.
Aidan York. My God.
The last time she’d seen him she’d threatened to marry someone else. He’d told her she damn well should. She’d hated him for weeks afterward. But in the end, she’d still thought he would save her. She’d waited for him for so long, wondering every morning if this would be the day he would come for her. . . . But all that time, he’d thought she w
as dead.
It shouldn’t have hurt more than his abandonment, but it did. It broke her heart to think of that terrified girl, holding on to her soul so that she could save something, anything, of herself for him. Knowing that if she just hoped hard enough, he would appear in Ceylon and take her away. In truth, there had never been any hope of rescue at all.
A ragged cry escaped her lips as she tried to stifle her sobs. It was no use. A deep well of emotion was uncapped and she could not close it. The tears overflowed her eyes and streamed down her temples as she finally gave in—just for a moment, she promised herself—and allowed her throat to open. The keening that emerged was a shock and a relief. Sobs wracked her body as she thought of the life she’d lived on the other side of the world.
The rage that rushed over her did not dry her tears but turned them vengeful, and she cried into her pillow until sleep fell over her, a sleep disturbed only by vague dreams of heat and black soil and the incessant sounds of insects.
When she woke, greeted by a headache and gritty, swollen eyes, she squinted at her small clock to find that two hours had passed. Six-thirty, and she felt like she’d lain abed for days. Rain pattered the window in a soothing ruckus. Her legs wanted to refuse service, but she forced herself to rise. The shop needed sweeping, the counters wiping. And she should eat.