Verity’s hand curled over the back of the settle to stop herself from running after him. She didn’t think she’d ever loved him so much.
Chapter 22
The glen had never looked as beautiful as it did the next morning. The trees had just begun to change color, and on the open hillside, heather glowed rich purple. The breeze blew fresh and strong as the boat slid smoothly through the clear waters of the loch.
Kylemore looked around at the splendor and wished it all to hell.
A few feet away, Verity stood at the rail. She was pale and silent, and she appeared not to have managed much more sleep than he had.
Last night, for the first time since she’d come to him and offered herself so sweetly…
He wrenched the thought to a screaming halt.
Remembering the transcendent splendors of that night only made him want to smash something.
Last night, they had slept separately.
Or, to be more accurate, he’d stretched out on his mean little cot and stared into space, cursing her, loving her, yearning for her. And knowing he couldn’t do one damned thing about any of it.
No persuasion he could muster canceled her right to freedom. So he’d suffered alone and silent as he’d suffered so many times before.
He should be conditioned to lonely torment. Except this time, he’d been raised from hell to paradise, then just as abruptly flung back into hell.
He’d endure. He always had.
Although right now, the point of it all escaped him.
He reached up to soothe a restless Tannasg, who had never liked water travel. While he rubbed the huge gray’s nose, his eyes sharpened on Verity. For a woman who had done everything in her power to leave this glen, she didn’t look happy.
In fact, she looked downright tragic.
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
Yesterday, they’d been together. Today, quite clearly, they weren’t. And he had no idea why.
The last three weeks had been the happiest of his life. He’d even begun, unwisely, to make plans.
Because of that asinine proposal in London—no wonder she’d sent him away with a flea in his ear; he’d been an overweening blockhead—he’d been loath to speak of marriage. His scheme had been to integrate her into his life, accustom her to the idea of staying with him, and coax her into accepting him as her husband.
It was too late for him to change the past, much as he longed to. After the way he’d treated her, he could never hope she’d love him as he loved her. But they shared desire and friendship. He could be satisfied with that. If he must.
A child would be a blessed addition to the life he planned.
A child born legitimately, of course.
He had no great wish to perpetuate the poisoned blood of the Kinmurries, but a miniature Verity—now, that would be a glorious gift to the world.
How proud he’d be to know she nurtured his seed within her. If she didn’t, it wasn’t for want of trying on his part. His pleasure at the thought of her bearing his child evaporated when he realized he’d never make love to her again.
His pointless dream of a life with her faded like the morning fog that had shrouded their departure. The brutal fact was she didn’t love him.
He could survive on the sops of desire and friendship if he had to. Clearly and rightly, she wasn’t prepared to settle for such a paltry bargain.
His fist bunched against Tannasg’s glossy hide and the horse whickered softly, as if sensing his distress and anger.
By God, he wouldn’t let this happen. He’d bloody well make her stay. When they reached Kylemore, he’d lock her up in the highest tower until she saw sense. Until she promised to marry him and be his duchess and keep the ghosts away forever.