veins, as well as the burden of unhappiness it carried with it.
Feeling the need to destroy something besides her hopes, she tore at the buttons at her throat and searched for the gold medallion around her neck. When her hand closed around it, she gave the fragile chain a hard yank and hurled it into the fountain, as if that one act could change who she was, and what she was running from.
She gathered up her skirts and ran the rest of the way back to the lodge, not stopping when she reached the staircase, but continuing up as fast as her legs would carry her.
Once she was back in her room, she stood with her back to the door, her eyes closed, gasping for breath.
As he walked toward the fountain, Jamie watched her run the entire distance to the lodge, having decided to let her go. He could not allow her disobedience, and knew she had to sort through all of this by herself.
She would not welcome his intervention now. She was too angry at him, and her feelings were too raw.
No, he would not chase her.
Not this time.
That did not mean he did not want to go after her. He wanted her too much, and he thought of little else than making love to her. No matter what he did, he could never erase the memory of her slender nakedness, the yielding alabaster of her breast, the little panting cries that came from deep in her throat.
She was an enigma, a distraction, a mystery, a headache, and as stubborn a lass as he had ever encountered.
And she sure as hell was not a lady's maid.
She could have been a courtesan, save for the fact that he knew somehow that she was untouched.
She ought to be married...
But not to him.
She would probably be a good wife...
To someone else.
He should let her go...
But not just yet.
Desire for her pierced him like an arrow, and the shaft had driven deep into his heart. Her image was always before him, shining and bright as a candle in the dark, until the looming shadow of distrust doused it.
He could not love a 1- woman he did not believe.
Restlessness seized him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He laid his head back and inhaled deeply, needing the return of orderly control. He felt out of balance. He would probably stay that way until he knew what she was hiding. He wanted to help her, but she had to trust him enough to let him into her life.
He could not correct the wrongs if he did not know what they were.
Never in his life could he remember being in a situation like this, where he had no answers, or worse, did not even know what the questions were.
He would have continued ambling along, lost in his own musings, if he had not noticed something shining from the bottom of the fountain.
When he fished it out, he saw the fleur-de-lis on the chain. He knew it had to be the same one Sophie wore around her neck. His first thought was it might have slipped off her neck due to a broken clasp, but when he saw it was broken in the middle of the chain, he knew it must have come off by force.
But how?
And why?
He could think of no apparent reason for her to rip her necklace from her own neck and toss it into the fountain. Yet, there was no one else here who could have done it.
He dropped it into his pocket, curious as to why she had thrown it in the fountain instead of taking it with her, for he was certain it had to hold some special memory for her, otherwise she would not wear it.
Damn puzzling, infuriating woman that she was.
Nine
Quarrels would not last so long if the fault were on only one side. —Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680), French writer. Reflections, or Sentences and Moral Maxims (1665)
Sophie locked the door and then, for good measure, she kicked it.
He was the most infuriating man she ever had the displeasure of meeting. She hoped she never saw him again, and to prove her point, she pushed the trunk away from the foot of the bed and shoved it against the door.
"There," she said as she dusted her hands, and wished that she could dismiss him
Feeling the need to destroy something besides her hopes, she tore at the buttons at her throat and searched for the gold medallion around her neck. When her hand closed around it, she gave the fragile chain a hard yank and hurled it into the fountain, as if that one act could change who she was, and what she was running from.
She gathered up her skirts and ran the rest of the way back to the lodge, not stopping when she reached the staircase, but continuing up as fast as her legs would carry her.
Once she was back in her room, she stood with her back to the door, her eyes closed, gasping for breath.
As he walked toward the fountain, Jamie watched her run the entire distance to the lodge, having decided to let her go. He could not allow her disobedience, and knew she had to sort through all of this by herself.
She would not welcome his intervention now. She was too angry at him, and her feelings were too raw.
No, he would not chase her.
Not this time.
That did not mean he did not want to go after her. He wanted her too much, and he thought of little else than making love to her. No matter what he did, he could never erase the memory of her slender nakedness, the yielding alabaster of her breast, the little panting cries that came from deep in her throat.
She was an enigma, a distraction, a mystery, a headache, and as stubborn a lass as he had ever encountered.
And she sure as hell was not a lady's maid.
She could have been a courtesan, save for the fact that he knew somehow that she was untouched.
She ought to be married...
But not to him.
She would probably be a good wife...
To someone else.
He should let her go...
But not just yet.
Desire for her pierced him like an arrow, and the shaft had driven deep into his heart. Her image was always before him, shining and bright as a candle in the dark, until the looming shadow of distrust doused it.
He could not love a 1- woman he did not believe.
Restlessness seized him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He laid his head back and inhaled deeply, needing the return of orderly control. He felt out of balance. He would probably stay that way until he knew what she was hiding. He wanted to help her, but she had to trust him enough to let him into her life.
He could not correct the wrongs if he did not know what they were.
Never in his life could he remember being in a situation like this, where he had no answers, or worse, did not even know what the questions were.
He would have continued ambling along, lost in his own musings, if he had not noticed something shining from the bottom of the fountain.
When he fished it out, he saw the fleur-de-lis on the chain. He knew it had to be the same one Sophie wore around her neck. His first thought was it might have slipped off her neck due to a broken clasp, but when he saw it was broken in the middle of the chain, he knew it must have come off by force.
But how?
And why?
He could think of no apparent reason for her to rip her necklace from her own neck and toss it into the fountain. Yet, there was no one else here who could have done it.
He dropped it into his pocket, curious as to why she had thrown it in the fountain instead of taking it with her, for he was certain it had to hold some special memory for her, otherwise she would not wear it.
Damn puzzling, infuriating woman that she was.
Nine
Quarrels would not last so long if the fault were on only one side. —Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680), French writer. Reflections, or Sentences and Moral Maxims (1665)
Sophie locked the door and then, for good measure, she kicked it.
He was the most infuriating man she ever had the displeasure of meeting. She hoped she never saw him again, and to prove her point, she pushed the trunk away from the foot of the bed and shoved it against the door.
"There," she said as she dusted her hands, and wished that she could dismiss him
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