Chapter 17 #2
His legs moved, but in the opposite direction. The further he went, the harder he fought himself. His heart pounded hard, as if it wanted to explode, but his body obeyed the command of his brain and propelled him onward.
By the time he burst into the courtyard, he had convinced himself that he was doing what was best for her. He did not deserve her, and he never would.
Two days too late, Darragh found himself staring at where she had stood, a glass of rich whiskey in hand as he tried to steady himself against the memory of Talia. The shadow of her remained, a dark lavender scented mist. Honey that did not sour had rotten and become a curse, clawing at him.
Even though he knew he wouldn’t have found her waiting, he had opted not to enter the study. Her list had caused his spiral, and he was scared to find it where he had left it. It was gone now, but it had left a dark residue as proof of its existence.
He watched it now, wanting to wipe it. In the dark room, the rectangular spot appeared darker than the shadows. He wondered if his eyes had deceived him, and it was actually waiting to jump out at him.
To test his theory, he reached for it. His drink sloshed and stained his hand. The warm liquid seeped into his kilt and rolled down his leg, disappearing into his boot. He watched it intently as if he could see it.
The ominous thing must have caused it, he decided, and let his hand drop to his side.
He only saw her, the will-o’-the-wisp version of her.
Her red hair bounced around her face, her green eyes darkened by shadows, and she stood as she had stood, away from him.
Her mouth moved, forming the same words over and over.
Whatever she said was in silence or a light voice that did not carry to him.
When she drifted near, he realized that it did not have a voice.
He should have been terrified then, but he welcomed every version of Talia, even a spirit that could have come to seize his soul.
She knelt in front of him. The faint light from the open door lit half of her face, and he could read the word her lips formed.
“Darragh, Darragh, Darragh!”
Until a hand squeezed his thigh, he did not realize the mirage was actually a real person.
He jerked away.
She watched him with curious eyes. It could have been the dim light, but she looked slightly worried. When she lifted her hand, it reflected a peeking ray of sunlight, then he remembered the dampness on his kilt.
Her nose scrunched up, and she pulled her hand away from her nose. Darragh made to hide the glass under the desk, but he was too drunk, and it was too dark. The cup shattered loudly against the edge.
“Ye should leave it for tomorrow,” she said and stood up.
His hand hovered over the shadow of a wet carpet.
He wondered what she was doing in his study, or if she had known to find him here. He did not wonder for long; a piece of paper was placed in front of him.
“I did what ye asked.” She threw open the curtains behind him, letting in the afternoon light. “I removed Ewen’s name from the list.”
He was torn between two emotions. The first was jealousy, for she had used the man’s first name. They were obviously close. The second was elation, for Ewen Brodie was finally out of her life, and therefore his dreams and nightmares.
“Why?” His voice was hoarse.
Drinking always made his voice hoarse. She was to blame this time. Her presence had sucked him dry. His dignity, resolve, and the moisture in his throat.
“He was fun.”
He flinched, knowing what fun meant.
“But he would make a better friend than a husband.”
As long as he was alive, Ewen Brodie would never come near her as a friend.
Impelled by the alcohol coursing through his veins, he asked, “What makes a man a good husband?”
“Decisiveness.”
“Decisiveness?” he echoed, with more belligerence than he had intended.
“Maturity.”
“Maturity?” He laughed ruefully.
“Responsibility.”
“Renspon—”
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“I am doing what ye want me to do. Why do ye sound so upset?”
He looked away and reached for the bottle on his desk, choosing to drink from it instead. “Ye daenae ken anything about what I want.”
Her steps were heavy and pointed in his direction.
“Please daenae come close,” he said, but found himself turning towards her.
She slammed a fist on his shoulder. “I daenae ken anything because ye never tell me anything.” He flinched. “Ye daenae consider me or me feelings, and treat me however ye please.”
“Quite the contrary. Ye haunt me, Talia. I cannae get ye out of me head.”
He dropped his gaze. He was tempted to look at her when her hands dropped to his thigh. He could see her skirt pooling around her knees.
“What else?”
“What else do ye want me to say? I cannae tell ye that I hate seeing ye with other men or how I want ye. What’s the point when I cannae have ye?”
“Why can ye nae have me?” Her hands cupped his face, and she forced his gaze back to her.
He grabbed her wrist, ready to push her away, but she was unyielding, and that touch was enough to freeze him in place. Her chest heaved, and he noticed how the mounds strained against her bodice.
“I am right here, between yer legs, begging ye to tell me how ye feel because me heart feels as if it would burst.”
“I am nae a good man,” he said in a low voice. “I just cannae.”