Chapter Sixteen #2
She leaned forward eagerly. He had self-censured, forcing his mouth closed, but he had been about to say something. Was he not about to say he cared for her? Perhaps…more?
“Yet you think me a coward.”
“I would never think that of you—never!” Sarah said vehemently. “It is not—I am afraid for you, Montague! I care about you too much to simply cheer you off to a dangerous part of the world; surely you can understand that!”
She had thought herself well-articulated, finally, in this argument that did not make sense, but he was shaking his head in seeming disbelief.
“You think me unable to survive.”
“I think I would be nothing without you!” Sarah said, truth spilling from her lips as her heart ached. “I want to keep you safe, Montague!”
“Well you can’t,” he snapped.
Everything that had been built between them, every connection, every understanding, seemed to be melting away before Sarah’s eyes and she could not understand how to stop it.
She loved him. Just because she could not bring herself to say the word in a debate did not mean she did not feel it. Yet, if she did not say something, surely he would start to believe the misapprehension he had fallen under—that she did naught but pity him!
Nerves cascading down her spine, Sarah swallowed. “But Montague—I love—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Sarah stepped back, physically recoiling from the bitterness he thrust at her just as she was trying to open her heart to him. “You…you don’t?”
“If you truly meant it, you would have said it before this blasted letter arrived,” Montague snapped, his eyes dropping to it as though unable to hold her gaze.
Perhaps a few months ago, Sarah would have permitted that to pass. She was naturally shy, after all, and it was not in her nature to contradict anyone.
Well. Except her mother.
But the time she had spent in Montague’s company had taught her something about herself. Her opinions, unusual as perhaps they were, mattered.
“Well you have not said it either,” she retorted, hands clasped before her as though that would give her strength. “So you evidently do not feel it at all, so I don’t know why I am so worried about pouring my heart out to you!”
Her glare was met fiercely by one of Montague’s own.
Sarah could not understand how their affection had descended into this.
What was the point of love, she wondered wildly, if it could not be expressed?
If it was forced to the sidelines, to the margins of one’s life merely because one did not want the other to die?
“I don’t—you never gave me—this letter is what I have to concentrate on now,” Montague said bitterly.
Sarah swallowed. She must not lose sight of the fact that they cared about each other.
So when the first few drops of rain started to fall, she paid them no heed. All her attention was fixed on the gentleman before her.
“Montague,” she said quietly.
“I don’t think there is anything to be gained in speaking any longer,” he snapped as rain started to patter on his jacket. “Can you?”
Sarah stepped toward him. The rain was cooling. Perhaps it would cool their tempers. “I want to help you.”
The pain in his eyes was so clear. Could he not understand his fear, the panic he had felt upon receiving that letter, was not cowardice but pragmatism?
“I don’t want your help,” snapped Montague, jerking his hand away as she reached out. “I don’t need you!”
Sarah stifled a sob. This was all going wrong, and she could not see how to fix it!
In her poems, all her characters—in the main—did what she ordered them to do. Fight, die, fall in love, run, jump: they were her puppets.
But Montague was not like that. He was not a character in her poem, willing to do whatever she asked, swift to understand and swift to obey.
He was a man. A gentleman, a duke, a fencer—a soldier.
And she was losing him.
“You…you don’t need me?” Sarah’s voice was quiet. As the rain started to grow heavier, she was not sure whether Montague had heard her.
When he spoke, in a dark voice laced with pain, she knew he had. “I don’t need you.”
Sarah swallowed the pain creeping up her chest. “But do you want me?”
“I don’t need you, Montague. I want you.”
Montague said nothing. It was pouring with rain now, his hair plastered onto his brow, her gown sodden with rain. And Sarah stood there, waiting.
After several minutes in silence, however, her heart knew it was time to leave.
Sarah tried to take a deep breath, but her shoulders shook as she said, “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Sarah—”
“Montague,” she said stiffly. This time, it had been he who had reached out, she who had moved her hand away. “I don’t want to stop you on your journey. You have a war to get to, and I respect that. Even if I fear for you.”
“Sarah, when I said I didn’t need you, I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Sarah said with a tired laugh, rain dripping from her nose as she looked into the dark eyes of the only man she knew she would ever love. “But I shouldn’t be a second thought. I don’t want to be far down the list. I should be your first want. Goodbye.”
“Sarah—”
She did not wait. Whatever Montague wanted to say, it could only hurt her heart.
Turning on her heels and almost certain he would be unable to catch her, Sarah ran.