Chapter 14 - Dead Ends
A piece of paper was furiously crumpled between Aidan’s hands. He threw it away. It had to be his fourth attempt at writing a letter to his bride, yet one seemed worse than the other.
The small chamber the inn had provided was lit by a single candle that had burned low during the night, wax spilling over the narrow writing desk. Three other sheets already lay discarded beside it, the ink still glistening on one where he had pressed too hard with the quill.
Arriving home after the ball he had been furious.
She accused him of having played her all along — when she had been the one kissing strangers in backyards. She’d liked kissing him as the thief. She had cheated on him and enjoyed it, while kissing her fiancé had caused a war between them. He wasn’t the one being unreasonable.
On reread of his first letter he’d decided that words like: “I have proved utmost generosity in my dismissal of your outrageous behaviour and believe I am not the one deserving contempt!” might not contribute to his cause.
He stared at the line again, the arrogance of it making him grimace before he crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside with the others.
While he knew he was right about her feelings for the man she’d believed to be a criminal, she had ultimately chosen him. Her betrothed. She had gifted him her trust.
That had to mean something.
Unfortunately he couldn’t deny she was right. He had asked improprieties of her — while their wedding date had already been set. He had never meant to ask her to meet with his secret identity. He had been fed up pretending he didn’t care about her. He’d even told her so.
Or tried to, at least.
But back then he couldn’t trust her with his identities yet. It had been impossible to reveal himself back in that yard. So as much as he tried upholding his own anger at her utterly unreasonable behaviour, he had to admit that he understood her.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the low ceiling of the rented chamber. The candle sputtered faintly beside him.
Slowly, reluctantly, the truth forced itself through the mess of anger.
Her anger was justified.
She’d stood there, shaking with fear, trying to do the right thing — afraid she’d hurt or insult him — while still standing up for the man she had already rejected in favour of the cool fiancé he’d been forced to play.
Just that he had never meant to manipulate her. Or make fun of her. She had meant too much, she still meant too much, and he wanted to make it up.
Letter five followed the last.
He did want to make it up. She wouldn’t buy him begging her forgiveness anyway. She’d only think he was trying to save his neck from the rope. Maybe he had to accept that what he hoped they might have once they were married was broken already.
Marrying her was always supposed to be a sacrifice for his cause. For his agenda. He could go back to that. He’d never expected his English bride to like him and had been willing to trade the advantages a marriage with a Butler provided for a cold, purely strategic marriage.
Maybe it was time to accept he’d have just that.
The bruise her heel had left earlier throbbed faintly when he shifted his weight. The memory of her saccharine smile flashed through his mind.
He snorted despite himself — and reached for another piece of paper.
----
Catherine,
you weren’t supposed to mean anything. I didn’t want to manipulate you — I was swept away with a brave, stubborn, utterly unreasonable, hard-headed sasunnach. I knew it was wrong to ask you to meet me. I never intended to use it against you. I was tired of pretending I didn’t care.
That’s my crime.
And I cannot regret it either.
Take it or leave it.
Just know that my deeds were motivated by fascination. I never meant to cause hurt.
----
He waited just long enough not to smear the ink before folding the letter. Unsigned. There was no name he could use that wouldn’t enrage her further anyway.
The candle had nearly burned itself out by the time he left the inn.
Dawn was already kissing Kilkenny with the first pale rays of sunshine when he returned to the Butler estate. Walking, like any commoner.
The streets were quiet at that hour. A cart rattled somewhere in the distance, and the smell of damp stone and early hearth fires drifted through the cool morning air as the city slowly began to wake.
Thankfully the person he had been intent to find proved easy to approach.
A pair of knowing eyes regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and strictness when he handed Mistress Murphy the letter.
“Lucky lad you are, little Lord.”
“I don’t feel very lucky right now, Mistress,” he replied.
“Two days ahead you’d have been too late,” she merrily informed him.
“Oh? Why would that be so, Mamó?”
His question was met with a dry chuckle.
“Somebody needs to make sure nobody’s making a fool of themselves. I’m accompanying m’Lady’s dowry to your lands, m’Lord.”
Her eyes had narrowed at him.
“I’ll have an eye out for your wife, little Lord.”