His chest burned like a fire pit. “La tifzaii illa min al naher al hedi,” he said, shaking his head. Fear only the quiet river. “Has it occurred to you, my lady, that since I did plan to take the artifacts, I might have roused their suspicions during their interview anyway?”
“There was a risk,” she conceded. “But they would have asked the clerk about you, too. I imagine you were convincing in your initial surprise.”
Yes, he had been that.
He had no idea how she had accomplished this operation. He simply hated that it had happened. She had deceived him. She had been in his bed, soft and clinging, making him envision a future . . . no, he had envisioned that all by himself, he had needed no encouragement.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “It’s a shame that you have done this.”
She twisted her hands. “I thought it was the most effective—”
“You had no right,” he burst out. “You had no right to take this from me.”
“Take?”
“It was my right to execute that man’s comeuppance. I swore I would have those pieces back, you heard me say it.”
Her eyes were changing, from guilty to realizing the full extent of the damage she had caused.
“Yes,” she stammered, “but you said ‘one way or another’ . . .”
“Why don’t you keep semantics out of this, my dear,” he said so quietly, she fell silent.
Never mind that he had already decided to humble himself and let it all go anyway. His hand on the door was hurting; either the oak or his bones would give. He abruptly released his grip.
She was deathly pale. “I apologize,” she said mechanically. “I hadn’t thought of that. I never intended to offend you.”
“You had this planned from the beginning—it’s why you suggested the transfer in the first place, hm?”
A barely perceptible nod. “I didn’t know how exactly, then. Just that it was a chance.”
He bit his lip. “Your mind is so bright,” he said, “so bright that it’s blinding you to certain realities.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
He took a step into the room. “Why did you do it?”
She wrapped her arms around herself as though his presence brought an icy wind. “It was the right thing to do,” she said. “The pieces don’t belong here, not if they are wanted where they came from.”
“You would have put your name and your father’s name at risk for anyone in my position?”
“I should have,” she said. “I hope that I would have, yes. At least there’s a good chance now that you remain a free man here—free to visit Britain or do business here.”
“Why is that important to you?” Tell me you have done it for us, he thought; tell me you have done it out of mindless love for me and a hope for a future, because then he would dig deep and forgive her.
She looked away. “Why, because it’s the right—”
“How reticent you are,” he said under his breath. “You can’t say it, can you?”
The silence drew out.
“I wouldn’t have taken them,” he finally said. “I was prepared to leave them here, and you know why, don’t you.”
She shook her head, and kept shaking it, eyes frozen, like someone who was losing their mind.
“My train is leaving.” She closed the lid of her valise.
“Where are you going?”
“Applecross.”
“Ah,” he said hotly. “Back to your windy castle . . . What is your plan, Catriona? Becoming Miss Havisham?”
She flinched. “Don’t be cruel, I beg you.”
He gave an ugly laugh. “It’s a waste.”
At that, something sparked in her face. “I know I may be a woman—”
“It’s a waste of love,” he cut her off. “I have seen the things people die for, what they kill for, and this, this is one of the few things worth fighting for, and you are turning away from it without even a struggle.”
Her lips were clamped tight, she was a fragile thing barely held together by misguided, infuriating stubbornness. He could persist and force some admission from her, but he’d be damned before he laid himself at a woman’s feet like a twenty-year-old fool in a warehouse once again. If there had been any truth in their nights in London, then she could own it. If she couldn’t, then her feelings were too weak; they lacked the substance required to weather the storms that would batter them from the outside. Her head was bowed now, but there was some emotion; her poor, ink-stained hands were trembling so badly, her efforts to close the latches on her valise kept failing. The pathetic attempts went on for a minute, so eventually, he went to her, round the bed, and wordlessly took over the latches.