by Sabrina York
Lord, she hated that his lips tightened, his gaze flicked away. “Fine. I trust you slept well…Fia.”
She flinched. Not because it was the first time she’d heard her name on his lips, but because of the harsh tenor in which he spat it. As though it tasted bad.
No doubt he resented her lie, but it had been a necessary one.
But then…had it?
Surely she should have told him earlier. Could have told him. Before he discovered it the way he did. She should have told him when he discovered she wasn’t a boy. But she had not. She wasn’t sure why.
She simply couldn’t blame him for being angry.
When Charles got up to refill his plate, she leaned over the table and whispered, “I’m sorry, Daniel.”
His gaze met hers; his was darkened by a lowered brow. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I should ha’ told you who I was when I realized you knew Graeme.”
She didn’t expect him to growl. Didn’t expect his expression to grow harsh, pained. “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he hissed. “It is I… I’m the one who should ha’…”
“Who should ha’ what?”
“Treated you with honor. I’m mortified. Ashamed of myself.”
“Ashamed?” She didn’t like that in the least. “Are you saying you dinna enjoy…” She made what she hoped was an illustrative gesture. “It?”
He blanched. “Of course I did. That’s hardly the point.”
“It is exactly the point, Daniel. I mean—”
“Your brother was my friend.”
“And?”
“And I… And we… We did…what we did.”
“Aye. We did.” She had to smile. His befuddlement was too adorable.
He scowled at her. “I shouldna ha’ done it.”
“Well,” she said primly. “I am verra glad you did. I enjoyed it verra much.”
“But Graeme…”
“I daresay Graeme would have approved.”
His nostrils flared. “I assure you, he would not!”
She waggled her fingers at him. “Pish.”
“I believe we established pish is no argument at all.”
“Pish. Graeme would have approved.”
“He would not have.”
“And why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
He went red. A tide of it rushed up to the tips of his ears. “Because,” he said in something of a croak. “I’m no’ worthy of you.”
She gaped at him. Couldn’t help it. What utter ballocks. “You are the finest man I know.”
“You must not know many men.”
Well, that was true, but also beside the point. “Daniel Sinclair, I canna think of another soul I would want to spend my time with, be with. In that way. In any way. I hold you in the highest esteem. And if you and Graeme were friends, he would have felt the same way.”
He didn’t respond. Simply stared at her with a sad look in his eye. It sliced her like a blade. She swallowed heavily. Her throat hurt. “Do you even want me?” she asked, hating the desolate wind blowing through the words.
“You know I do, but…”
“But nothing.” She put out a lip. “You want me and I want you. Is that not enough?”
Nothing. No answer at all.
A sudden fury prickled through her. “Do you know what this is, Daniel? Nothing but your pride.” His silly, stupid pride. “And pride goeth before the fall.”
He reared up. His nostrils flared. “Pride?”
“Aye. Pride. That, or apathy.”
“It is not apathy!”
“Pride then. I hope it keeps you warm at night.”
“Fia, you doona understand.”
“Och. I understand. I understand perfectly.” She stood and tossed her napkin onto the table. A cold ball settled in her belly. Frustration raked her. He was letting his guilt over Graeme’s death be an excuse to let her go. To push her away. To end this. And, to an honorable man, as he was, it was excuse enough.
“Fia!”
“Nae. Nae. I willna listen to one more word of this.” She spun away and bumped into Charles, who was returning to the table; he blinked in surprise. “I shall be waiting in the carriage when you are ready to leave,” she snapped, and then she rushed from the room, nearly blinded by the tears in her eyes.
Silly, wasn’t it, to have their first fight over something like this?
Something that could end it all?
Guilt was, indeed, an insidious foe.
They barely spoke again all the way to Borgue. It was the most miserable few days of Daniel’s life. Ah, but then it got worse. When they arrived in Borgue, he asked the innkeeper, a portly man named Potts, to give him the magistrate’s direction because he intended to meet with him at once and see this dismal business finished once and for all.
The response was a rumbly laugh. “At once?” Potts said with a grin.
“Aye.”
The man leaned in and gouged Daniel with an elbow. “Do ye no’ know nothing happens at once in Borgue?”
“What do you mean?”
Potts chuckled. “The magistrate is Laird Dunn and he’s away on a hunting trip in Bower.”
Damn. Damn and blast. “How long will he be gone?”
“Well now. Seems to me that depends on the game, now don’t it?” He winked. “Could be a week. Could be two.”
“Two weeks?” Panic whipped through him. He didn’t know why. Oh hell. He did. It had nothing to do with the magistrate and his ill-timed hunting trip. Somewhere deep in his heart, he’d hoped to have this thing settled today. He’d hoped for confirmation that this was all some big mistake and he was not the Daniel Sinclair who had inherited a house in Dunbeath. That he still had no means. That he was absolutely not the man for her.
That he was right in letting her go.
That there was some honor in letting her go, rather than naught but a toxic mix of guilt and pride.
That would make it so much easier, letting her go.
Or not.
But now he had none of those things. He simply had…letting her go.
And today.
With no warning.
Oh, he’d known this day was coming, he’d seen it creeping ever closer, but he was still not prepared.
“Will you stay with me while I wait?” he asked Grant, even though he knew it was a stupid, pointless, anguished plea.
Grant grimaced. “I canna. I need to get to Grantham and make arrangements to bring Chelsea home at once.” He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “If Fia and I leave now, we can make it to Lybster by dark and then it’s a short ride to Wick.”
“Of course. Of course.” Daniel tried to make his voice casual, but he was sure no one missed the break in it. He swallowed heavily and turned to Fia. Too soon, too quickly, it was time to say good-bye. “I…” Dear God. He couldn’t think what to say. I love you? I want you? I need you? “I have enjoyed traveling with you.” He cringed. Even to his own ears the words sounded hollow and patronizing.
She didn’t seem to notice. Her lashes fluttered. Her lips worked. “And I…you.”
“I wish you…the verra best, Fia.”
“And I you.” Their gazes met. Heat sloughed through him. A desperate hope, a hopeless wish rang through his soul. This couldn’t be good-bye. It could not be.
But it was.
“Will you come and see me?” she asked in a whisper. Her eyes were wide, round, damp.
“I shall.” A tender lie.
Grant, barely able to contain his impatience now that he was so close to home, handed Fia into the coach. It clawed at Daniel’s soul, clawed out a chunk of it, watching her step into that carriage.
“You will see him in June,” Grant said in a cheerful voice that held only a tinge of impatience. “He’s coming to the reunion. Are you not?” They’d talked of it often, but Daniel didn’t think he would, even if he found himself living in Dunbeath. He didn’t think he
could bear it. Seeing her again.
“I shall try.”
Though Grant seemed to sense the prevarication, he didn’t push. He closed the carriage door, but Daniel’s gaze stayed locked on Fia. She sat stock-still, stiff as a board, staring ahead sightlessly. The vision scored his soul. He tore his gaze away and walked Grant to his mount. His friend thrust out a hand. “Well, it was good seeing you again, Sinclair. Good traveling with you. I wish you well with your inheritance.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome at Grantham any time.”
“Thank you. And Grant?”
“Aye?”
“Take care of her?”
Grant’s smile faded. His grip tightened. “I will.”
“She deserves a husband. A good man. A better man than I.”
His friend snorted and shot a look at the carriage. “I doona think she wants another man.”
The observation sent shards of pain through him. “She’ll forget me. In time.”
Another snort.
“Just see what you can do to help her find happiness.”
“You know I will. It could have been any of us who died that day. Any of us watching from the other side, hoping someone we trusted took care of those we loved.”
Well fuck. He didn’t need to rub it in. Daniel was already miserable enough. With his heart like a stone in his throat, he watched as Grant snapped his reins and sprang forward, with the carriage carrying Daniel’s heart and soul following in his wake.
Fia trembled from holding herself still, from forcing her muscles not to wrench open the door, from holding back her agonized sobs as the carriage lurched. This was it. This was good-bye. This was the last time she would see him. Ever.
She was certain of it.
Damn him and damn his pride. Damn his honor.
Why could she not have fallen in love with a dishonorable man? One who was not bound by such stringent convictions about right and wrong?
Because he wouldn’t have been Daniel then, a voice whispered in her heart.
She told it to shut up.
“Wait!”
Her pulse skittered as his voice cried out, halting the coach. Joy, absolute joy, pure elation gushed through her. She poked her head out of the window and shot him a glowing smile. Daniel. Her Daniel.
He ran to her as the carriage slowed, stopped. “Fia…” he said, as he set his hand on hers.
“Aye?” she said on a soft breath. For heavens, he had changed his—
“Here.” Expression harsh, brows lowered, he thrust something at her and, without another word, turned and walked away. He did not look back.
Her elation staggered, then fell.
As the coach pitched forward once more, she glanced at the item he’d given her, the exquisitely carved knight her brother had made her. The one Daniel had been holding. The one he’d promised to deliver to her. The one that completed her set.
But she was not completed. She was not completed in the slightest. She, in fact, was bereft.
It was a full two weeks before the magistrate returned from his hunting trip, though, apparently, it had been a successful trip. He was in a brilliant mood when he found Daniel having breakfast in the common room of the Borgue inn. A tall, robust man with ginger hair and a ruddy face, he greeted Daniel with a hearty handshake and a slap on the shoulder. “Well, Sinclair. It took you long enough,” he said, by way of greeting. He took his seat and lifted a finger for a tankard of ale.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Laird of Dunbeath has been dead for months now. Well, both of them. The father and the son.” He chuckled as though this were amusing.
“I, ah, had to come from London.”
“Well, I must say, I’m relieved to see you.”
“Are you?”
“Ach aye. For one thing, I’m damn tired of managing your estate.”
“My…what?”
“Beyond that, I wasna sure what kind of man the new baron would be. A sniveling popinjay or some such.” He pinned Daniel with a sharp study. “Are you a popinjay?”
“I doona believe so.”
“I’ve heard tell you were in the Greys?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Good. No popinjay. Tell me, Sinclair, do you hunt?”
“Do I…what?”
“Hunt? Your uncle dinna. It would be fine indeed to have another local laird to hunt with.”
Daniel’s impatience sizzled. “I beg your pardon, Lord Dunn. But I have some questions about this inheritance.”
Dunn sat back and blinked. “Questions?”
“Aye. Mordecai and Fisk were…not forthcoming on the details.”
“Bah. Those old codgers. They never are. But there’s not much to tell. Through a series of unfortunate incidents, you are the heir of Dunbeath. The title, the estate, the house…”
“The horse.”
“Aye.” Dunn chuckled again. “Magnificent filly, that one. Fergus should never have abused her. But she got her own back, I daresay.”
“Indeed. But… Are you sure it is I? There is not some other heir?” Some other cousin? Some other Daniel Sinclair? For some reason, he still couldn’t accept the fact that this had happened to him.
“Are you William’s nephew? From his fourth-born brother?”
“Aye.”
“Then it is indeed you.” Dunn sobered. “I know this is a lot to take in. Would you care to see the house?”
Excitement, and fear, coiled in his gut. He swallowed heavily and nodded.
No matter what happened now, his life would never be the same.
Somehow, miraculously, he was a laird. With an estate. And a house in Dunbeath.
A house in Dunbeath, the hell.
It was a fucking castle. Or near enough to one. Even now, weeks after taking up residence, taking up the reins of his estate—his fucking estate, for God’s sake—Daniel still got lost on the way to the privy.
He’d been confused at first, when Dunn had shown him the house. It wasn’t anything like the dilapidated wreck he remembered as a child. But Dunn explained that after William had won this manor, and the fortune that came with it, in a card game, he’d had the old house demolished. The estate included vast lands, a herd of sheep, a shipping concern and a village.
A village.
In a heartbeat, Daniel had gone from being a pauper to a man wealthier than he ever could have imagined. Funny how difficult the transition turned out to be. He had so much to learn. Not the least of which were the names of his servants.
There was an army of them.
Maids and footmen and cooks and pastry chefs. He thought it a trifle ostentatious to have so many people at his beck and call, but Dunn had explained—when Daniel had wanted to thin the herd—that these people needed the work, and Daniel could certainly afford them.
Aside from that, the estate was vast. It even had an apple orchard. Too often, he found himself there, drawing in the spicy scent and staring wistfully up into the boughs. But he couldn’t allow himself to think of Fia. If he thought of her, he might weaken. He might start believing that his new circumstances made him a better man. Wiped away his sins, his failures, the spot on his soul.
Nothing changed who a man was at his core. Not wealth. Certainly not a castle.
“My lord.”
Another thing that was difficult getting used to.
Daniel turned to Grayson, his butler.
He had a butler.
“Aye?”
“A letter for you, my lord.” He held out a silver tray—one that would feed a family for a year.
“Thank you, Grayson.” Daniel took the parchment and studied it. Good God. It was from Grant. He didn’t know why his heart slammed in his chest.
Oh hell. He did.
“Will you be riding today, my lord?”
“Riding?” He picked up his letter opener, one fashioned after a cavalry sword, and sliced open the seal.
“Yes, my lord. Will you be riding today
?”
Was the letter about Fia? Was she well? Was she happy?
Had she found that better man?
A cold fist gripped his chest. Sweat prickled on his brow. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t.
Did it really matter that he was a terrible person? That it was his fault her brother had died? That he had seduced her mercilessly? A number of times? In various positions?
And it had been glorious?
Did it?
Of course it did.
He set his teeth and quickly scanned the missive for her name and nearly crumpled it into a ball when he didn’t see it, only some falderal about the coming reunion and a query as to whether or not Daniel would attend. Blast.
He’d wanted…he’d wanted so badly to hear about her. Something. Anything.
Wick wasn’t so very far away—
“My lord?”
“What?” There was no call to snap. Grayson reared back and Daniel cringed. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Shall we prepare your horse?”
“My horse? Yes. Please.” Damn it all to hell, he needed a ride. Something wild and taxing. Something that would exhaust him and clear his mind. Something that could make him forget he’d ever held her, kissed her, met her.
Well, not that. He didn’t want to forget that.
God, he missed her. It was an ache in his soul.
But at least she was safe. At least she was with Grant.
At least she was free to find a man who could make her happy.
It couldn’t be him.
It shouldn’t.
Chapter Twelve
Oh. Holy. God. It was torture.
Fia had had no idea it would be so horrific, or she never would have come to Wick. She would have refused Chelsea’s invitation and thrown herself on the mercy of the court. Surely Newgate was better than this.
This was awful. Beyond belief.
She hunched lower beneath the bower and held her breath. Her heart thudded. God help her if he found her…
“Fia? Fia? Where are you?”
She winced as his voice wafted through the garden. Damn. He was here.
“Fia?” Coming closer.
It was Dingle. He was the worst. She hunched lower still.
Still he spotted her. His eyes glimmered. He stepped toward her. “There you are.”
