Chapter 27 #2
It was easy to presume infatuation. She could tell he had developed a tendre for her when he smiled, when she caught him watching her, even when he helped her cross off the items in a list she had made on a whim.
Love, on the other hand, required a delicate sleuthing, a recording and composition just to prove that it might exist in another person.
When he looked at her injury with that fire in his eyes, was it because he loved her? Was it worry that quaked his shoulders, casual or the burning feeling?
“I am alright.” She palmed his cheek. “I barely bled.”
“But ye did.”
She pulled her arm away from him, and he looked at her. That breathless feeling returned, but she managed to contain it.
“It was my fault. I was slipshod with my management, and Keira almost got hurt because of it. You should be mad at me.”
“Keira told me ye protected her. I have nay reason to be mad at ye.” He took her hand again. “If I were there, this wouldnae have happened. I should have protected ye. I am sorry.”
“You insult me, Ruaridh. I am competent enough to protect myself.”
“But ye’re under me care. Ye are me responsibility. If I cannae protect ye from this, what can I do?”
“It was an accident. No one could have predicted it.”
As she watched him, she felt there was something more she had not realized before.
He shook his head and stepped away from her. “I am never able to protect the people I care about.”
She was torn. He inadvertently admitted to caring for her, which sparked a flame of elation within her.
But his tone, his eyes—they were dejected.
She reached out to stroke his arm, but he flinched away.
He hadn’t even been looking at her, but had predicted it, anticipated it, and still he flinched.
His rejection stung, not her pride but her heart. It broke in two pieces for him. He was drowning, head completely submerged in his self-made pool of abhorrence, and she could not reach out and pull him out.
If she couldn’t help him, then who could?
By the time her father heard about the accident, Violet had retired to her chambers, jaded by the eventful day.
He announced himself before stepping inside, his lone candle lighting up the room.
Her movements were languid when she rose from her pillow. “Father, can we postpone your concern to tomorrow morning? As you see, I have tucked myself in.” Her words slurred as her head fell left and right.
Silently, Horace placed his candle on her dresser and then sat on the edge of the bed. “I have to make sure you are fine.”
She retrieved her robe from her left and pushed her arms through the sleeves, leaving it untied.
When he looked at her, she showed him her bandaged hand. “As you can see, I am fine.” Then she rested her head.
“That’s good to hear,” he said, but his worry did not abate, and neither did he make a move to rise.
He picked his fingers, a habit of his when he was overwrought with nerves, then Violet heard the muted tapping of his feet. She sat up, instantly sober.
Anxiety was writ on his face, momentarily silhouetted by the orange flame of the candle, but when she properly looked at him, she noticed he was trembling.
“Father, what’s wrong?”
He let out a sound that resembled a choked cry. “Violet, I do not expect you to ever forgive me for this.” Then he told her about Lord Westall.
Violet jumped out of bed, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.
“You wanted to marry me off to that man even after I told you what I wanted?” Her voice was shaky, but not as much as her hands.
Her fingers trembled as she covered her mouth, wanting to muffle the cry clogging her throat.
Horace rose. “I am so sorry.” His cowardly nature shone as he shrank away from her, as if he expected her to hit him.
Disgust filled her. She wanted to hit him, then grab him by the collar and throw him out of her room.
“Does Ruaridh know that you’ve betrayed him?”
She felt the air leave her lungs when he nodded. “He found out last night when he followed me.”
He relayed the details of the night.
“I can’t be here now.”
She burst into the hallway. She needed to see Ruaridh.
She needed to apologize to him so he would not hate her.
He had taken her into his home out of his own goodwill.
He had not rid himself of her when Lord Westall did and fixed a betrothal when many men would have wanted nothing to do with her.
And how had she repaid him? By vouching for a traitorous father who had sold his secrets to the enemy.
She found him in his chambers, hunched over a vellum by his desk. His pen hovered over the paper as he twisted in his chair towards the commotion.
“Violet, what is the matter?” His eyes were cold. Even the candle next to him could not give them warmth.
She felt self-conscious under his scrutiny. She was still in her undergarments, her robe untied, her hair in disarray from being squished by a pillow, and at some point on the way to his room, her face had become wet, then dry and blotchy. She was also barefoot, and her chest heaved from the run.
She looked like a madwoman.
If she were in his place and he were to burst into her room looking like she did, she would have feared for the worst, even taken him into her arms before the situation was explained. But he did not appear the least bit concerned.
Had he not run around the castle in search of her just hours ago?
She faltered. Did he already hate her?
With hesitant steps, she crossed the threshold. “My father informed me—”
“I asked him to apologize to ye. Has he?”
She was briefly stunned by the interruption.
“Why would you, when you are the one who was wronged?”
He fell quiet. The flame either flickered at that moment or a brief emotion flashed across his face.
“I understand if you do not intend to forgive him.” She drew nearer to him, and he angled his head to meet her gaze. “I also know apologizing changes nothing, but I am sorry. It’s my fault for trusting him.”
“There’s nothing for ye to apologize for.” He did not rise from the desk. “Ye shouldnae bear yer faither’s sins.” He casually shrugged, as though her sincerity was a paltry show he regarded as unnecessary. “If it’s any consolation, yer faither was very brave when he faced Westall’s man.”
He looked up at her, and she down at him, yet she felt small and insignificant.
What had changed between them over the span of a couple of hours? It couldn’t be her father’s betrayal, because Ruaridh had embraced. Was it the accident he blamed himself for? Could he be so withdrawn by it?
Was it her inviting him into her bed? Lord Westall had called her a harlot, and the way she had behaved was the wont of a wanton woman. Did Ruaridh now see her as Lord Westall had?
She swallowed and tied the belt of her robe. She tried to make herself more presentable, but she only managed to make herself seem foolish. Pulling together sheer garments would not erase memories of her naked body or the sound of her voice when she had begged him to touch her.
She could not look at him. She could only stare at her ruddy toes through teary eyes. “If you do not wish to marry me anymore, I’ll understand.”
She heard his chair swivel. Only then did she muster the confidence to look up at him. He was back to his writing.
“Our engagement has always been about duty and responsibility, and nae about what I wish.” He enunciated the latter word as if she had trapped him in a situation he did not want.
She clutched her chest. It was all too much for her. The walls were closing in, forcing her to her knees. She had made a mistake, chosen another Lord Westall, and it was too late.
How could she have ever believed that he loved her?