already discussed this. I will nae ruin ye.”
“But I want to be ruined.”
For a moment, Abigail saw desire burn in Shane’s grey eyes, and then it was gone and he stood.
“I cannae dishonor ye. ’Tis better I am nae tempted.” Picking up his duffle bag, Shane headed toward the door, then stopped and returned to Abigail. Bending down, he swept a kiss to her forehead. “This is the best thing I can do for ye. Trust me,” he said and then walked swiftly out the door.
Abigail listened as his footsteps faded into the distance until all was silent. She would not cry. Resolutely, she moved to the window and watched as Shane mounted his horse. He looked up toward their room and she moved quickly back, lest he see her. As she heard the horse’s hooves clattering across the bailey, steely resolve replaced the numbness she had felt. Leaving her with his relatives was the best thing he could do?
She lifted her chin, recalling a phrase she’d heard but never dared to use.
“Like bloody hell it is,” Abigail said. “Like bloody hell.”
Chapter Ten
The temperature remained just above freezing, keeping both sleet and snow from falling, but the cold, driving rain had Shane’s horse tossing its head and his own plaid nearly soaked. The weather matched his mood though, and he rode like the devil was on his heels, or at least not far behind.
Why in the world was he running from Abigail? And Shane knew that he was. Even though a shipment of kelp was ready and he needed to get back to France, he still could have waited for this storm to pass. Late-season snow, even if blocking the pass at Glen Coe, usually melted quickly enough. The sad, cowardly truth was he had to put distance between himself and his legally wedded wife.
Shane welcomed the stinging slap of his hair whipping about his face. He deserved all the discomfort nature could sling at him. Once more, he had caused Abigail emotional pain. You do not want to take me with you, do you? He had heard the vulnerable note in her voice, the uncertainty that he was attracted to her. Silently, he cursed the foolish English dandies who put more stock into flirtatious dimwits with sausage curls and fancy gowns than they did into women with practical intelligence. How many times had Abigail been shunned? The few London events Shane had been forced to attend had given him enough insight toward the quiet, reserved girls who lined the edges of ballrooms simply because buffoons were more interested in flighty lasses.
“My place is with you.”
Shane swore as his horse slipped on a patch of mud. There was no cause to put the animal in danger because Shane was fleeing like a recreant. He slowed the gelding to a walk. He needed to collect his thoughts, not let them race wild down a treacherous trail like he’d been doing with the horse. “Sorry, boy,” he said as he stroked the animal’s sleek neck. “I had taken leave of my senses for a wee bit.”
The beastie snorted, nodding his head as if in agreement.
If the marriage had not been purely for keeping Abigail from having her reputation forever blighted, Shane would have agreed with her. He had a suspicion she would be an interesting companion—someone who could have an intellectual conversation about literature and appreciate his love of history. Someone who might even understand why the Priory’s mission was so important, if only he could tell her.
But companion wasn’t what was on his mind. Every time Shane was close to Abigail, his cock reminded him his body wanted her for something other than conversation. He craved her physically—an awareness that had hit like an arrow from a crossbow when he’d undone her laces that evening and struck him like a dirk when he’d so causally brushed a kiss across her forehead. His body had turned to fire and it had taken every ounce of disciplined self-control not to taste her lips and let himself linger there.
“I want to be ruined.”
Shane’s groin tightened and he set
“But I want to be ruined.”
For a moment, Abigail saw desire burn in Shane’s grey eyes, and then it was gone and he stood.
“I cannae dishonor ye. ’Tis better I am nae tempted.” Picking up his duffle bag, Shane headed toward the door, then stopped and returned to Abigail. Bending down, he swept a kiss to her forehead. “This is the best thing I can do for ye. Trust me,” he said and then walked swiftly out the door.
Abigail listened as his footsteps faded into the distance until all was silent. She would not cry. Resolutely, she moved to the window and watched as Shane mounted his horse. He looked up toward their room and she moved quickly back, lest he see her. As she heard the horse’s hooves clattering across the bailey, steely resolve replaced the numbness she had felt. Leaving her with his relatives was the best thing he could do?
She lifted her chin, recalling a phrase she’d heard but never dared to use.
“Like bloody hell it is,” Abigail said. “Like bloody hell.”
Chapter Ten
The temperature remained just above freezing, keeping both sleet and snow from falling, but the cold, driving rain had Shane’s horse tossing its head and his own plaid nearly soaked. The weather matched his mood though, and he rode like the devil was on his heels, or at least not far behind.
Why in the world was he running from Abigail? And Shane knew that he was. Even though a shipment of kelp was ready and he needed to get back to France, he still could have waited for this storm to pass. Late-season snow, even if blocking the pass at Glen Coe, usually melted quickly enough. The sad, cowardly truth was he had to put distance between himself and his legally wedded wife.
Shane welcomed the stinging slap of his hair whipping about his face. He deserved all the discomfort nature could sling at him. Once more, he had caused Abigail emotional pain. You do not want to take me with you, do you? He had heard the vulnerable note in her voice, the uncertainty that he was attracted to her. Silently, he cursed the foolish English dandies who put more stock into flirtatious dimwits with sausage curls and fancy gowns than they did into women with practical intelligence. How many times had Abigail been shunned? The few London events Shane had been forced to attend had given him enough insight toward the quiet, reserved girls who lined the edges of ballrooms simply because buffoons were more interested in flighty lasses.
“My place is with you.”
Shane swore as his horse slipped on a patch of mud. There was no cause to put the animal in danger because Shane was fleeing like a recreant. He slowed the gelding to a walk. He needed to collect his thoughts, not let them race wild down a treacherous trail like he’d been doing with the horse. “Sorry, boy,” he said as he stroked the animal’s sleek neck. “I had taken leave of my senses for a wee bit.”
The beastie snorted, nodding his head as if in agreement.
If the marriage had not been purely for keeping Abigail from having her reputation forever blighted, Shane would have agreed with her. He had a suspicion she would be an interesting companion—someone who could have an intellectual conversation about literature and appreciate his love of history. Someone who might even understand why the Priory’s mission was so important, if only he could tell her.
But companion wasn’t what was on his mind. Every time Shane was close to Abigail, his cock reminded him his body wanted her for something other than conversation. He craved her physically—an awareness that had hit like an arrow from a crossbow when he’d undone her laces that evening and struck him like a dirk when he’d so causally brushed a kiss across her forehead. His body had turned to fire and it had taken every ounce of disciplined self-control not to taste her lips and let himself linger there.
“I want to be ruined.”
Shane’s groin tightened and he set
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