him to admit it, but he liked the way she looked at him, as if he were the most powerful man in the world. He liked how she gave a little shiver whenever he accidentally touched her, although he suspected those fleeting moments of contact weren't all that inadvertent on his part. They were more a symptom of his inexplicable attraction to her.
It would not do, of course, the way she unsettled him at every turn. How was she managing to slip under his guard? For he guarded his emotions very closely these days. Life was uncertain, its pleasures tainted by death and betrayal. His experiences had hardened him. Tender feelings for an exasperating young woman who refused to conform had no place in his world. And yet she made him smile.
"Catrio-na!" He cupped his hands and shouted into the air, startling a merlin from a crag.
Nothing else moved. A faint wind stirred the bell-heather, and as he turned, sighing, he saw a woman's figure emerge at the edge of the woods.
* * *
He realized it was not Catriona before he was even halfway to the woods. The woman was taller, her hair a deeper shade of red, her royal-blue riding habit expertly tailored to enhance her generous curves.
"Arabella," he said, his voice unemotional as he dismounted. "What are you doing here?"
She turned awkwardly, a bouquet of bell-heather in her gloved hand. "I have come here every day to work up the courage to visit you and Olivia. Yet every day, when it is dark, I return home, a coward."
What could he say to the woman who had left him for another man when all he felt, after the anger and humiliation, was a deep relief that their lives were no longer entwined? Everyone had expected Knight to marry Arabella—their families, their friends, the local vicar. Their names were carved into the churchyard yew. Perhaps he had taken her for granted, indulged in one flirtation too many while she demanded his total attention. Perhaps he had wanted more from a marriage, the deep love and devotion that his parents had shown each other. His mother and father had fallen in love at first sight and had eloped, never to regret their impulsiveness. He had been dreading the moment when he would meet Arabella again, and now it was upon him and must be dealt with as politely as possible.
"You look well, Arabella."
"So do you." She bit the edge of her lip. "How is Olivia?"
He shrugged. "I worry about her."
"Yes, you must." Another hesitation. "Does she hate me?"
"Olivia? She does not know how to hate. I think she is disappointed."
"And you? Do you hate me?"
He glanced around, distracted by the sense of being observed. Nothing disturbed the serenity of their surroundings, except the merlin circling the crag on the moor. Was it the same bird? No. No. There were two of them now, then a third, a fourth. He did not remember seeing so many birds at the time and wondered what had drawn them.
"Have you seen a young woman anywhere?"
Arabella blinked, taken aback. "A woman?"
"Lionel's cousin. I cannot find her."
"Oh, a cousin." She sounded relieved. He wondered if she hoped he would spend the rest of his life missing her.
"Knight?"
A twig snapped somewhere in the woods. "Did you hear that?" he asked, turning his head.
She frowned. Heavens, he was so handsome, so big and masculine. Couldn't he tell that she still desired him? "It's only my horse. What is the matter with you?"
"Oh, I don't know, Arabella. Am I expected to tremble with joy the first time I see the fiancée who jilted me for a fat old baron?"
She gasped. "Anton isn't fat."
"Put the old porker on a slimming regime, have you?"
"Knight!" Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears; he remembered that she had always been able to cry on command. "You say the most awful things."
"Did I just hear a snort?"
She put her hands on her hips. "I told you it was my horse. Aren't you the least bit glad to see me?"
He looked her up and down. "Is that a pimple on your chin, Arabella?"
"You—"
Another twig popped. He
It would not do, of course, the way she unsettled him at every turn. How was she managing to slip under his guard? For he guarded his emotions very closely these days. Life was uncertain, its pleasures tainted by death and betrayal. His experiences had hardened him. Tender feelings for an exasperating young woman who refused to conform had no place in his world. And yet she made him smile.
"Catrio-na!" He cupped his hands and shouted into the air, startling a merlin from a crag.
Nothing else moved. A faint wind stirred the bell-heather, and as he turned, sighing, he saw a woman's figure emerge at the edge of the woods.
* * *
He realized it was not Catriona before he was even halfway to the woods. The woman was taller, her hair a deeper shade of red, her royal-blue riding habit expertly tailored to enhance her generous curves.
"Arabella," he said, his voice unemotional as he dismounted. "What are you doing here?"
She turned awkwardly, a bouquet of bell-heather in her gloved hand. "I have come here every day to work up the courage to visit you and Olivia. Yet every day, when it is dark, I return home, a coward."
What could he say to the woman who had left him for another man when all he felt, after the anger and humiliation, was a deep relief that their lives were no longer entwined? Everyone had expected Knight to marry Arabella—their families, their friends, the local vicar. Their names were carved into the churchyard yew. Perhaps he had taken her for granted, indulged in one flirtation too many while she demanded his total attention. Perhaps he had wanted more from a marriage, the deep love and devotion that his parents had shown each other. His mother and father had fallen in love at first sight and had eloped, never to regret their impulsiveness. He had been dreading the moment when he would meet Arabella again, and now it was upon him and must be dealt with as politely as possible.
"You look well, Arabella."
"So do you." She bit the edge of her lip. "How is Olivia?"
He shrugged. "I worry about her."
"Yes, you must." Another hesitation. "Does she hate me?"
"Olivia? She does not know how to hate. I think she is disappointed."
"And you? Do you hate me?"
He glanced around, distracted by the sense of being observed. Nothing disturbed the serenity of their surroundings, except the merlin circling the crag on the moor. Was it the same bird? No. No. There were two of them now, then a third, a fourth. He did not remember seeing so many birds at the time and wondered what had drawn them.
"Have you seen a young woman anywhere?"
Arabella blinked, taken aback. "A woman?"
"Lionel's cousin. I cannot find her."
"Oh, a cousin." She sounded relieved. He wondered if she hoped he would spend the rest of his life missing her.
"Knight?"
A twig snapped somewhere in the woods. "Did you hear that?" he asked, turning his head.
She frowned. Heavens, he was so handsome, so big and masculine. Couldn't he tell that she still desired him? "It's only my horse. What is the matter with you?"
"Oh, I don't know, Arabella. Am I expected to tremble with joy the first time I see the fiancée who jilted me for a fat old baron?"
She gasped. "Anton isn't fat."
"Put the old porker on a slimming regime, have you?"
"Knight!" Her blue eyes glistened with unshed tears; he remembered that she had always been able to cry on command. "You say the most awful things."
"Did I just hear a snort?"
She put her hands on her hips. "I told you it was my horse. Aren't you the least bit glad to see me?"
He looked her up and down. "Is that a pimple on your chin, Arabella?"
"You—"
Another twig popped. He
Similar Books
