She couldn’t read his expression, as though an iron mask had descended over every area softness had begun to creep into. ‘Why, Maeve? Why would you come here?’ his voice cracked thickly. He pressed his lips together. ‘I would have shown you if you just asked. Why did you do it?’
He didn’t give her time to speak, crossing the room to the window and bracing against it like he couldn’t bear the sight of her face. He opened the lock with shaking fingers. A bracingflush of icy air streamed in. His jumper clung to his back, outlining the wings of his shoulders and the shape of his ribs. The scored word there flashed across her vision.
‘Who did it to you?’ Maeve whispered.
She could see little more than the side of his jaw, the quick flutter of his lashes. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, carefully emotionless. ‘There’s a man in many of my memories who is always blurred. The same person who was behind the door in the memory of my final day at the Abbey. My mentor, most likely.’
‘Do you remember anything about him? Was he the one who marked your sainthood?’ Maeve asked, rising back to her feet. His mentor had been behind the door – not a nurse like she’d originally thought. She felt a sick need to keep him talking, as if things would return to normal between them if he continued answering her questions.
She caught a whiff of something unfamiliar as he turned to face her. Sweet, like crushed roses with the undercurrent of fresh-cut wood. At her wince, Jude cocked his head. His mouth parted on the precipice of speech, but he seemed to change his mind at the last second.
She wanted him to ask. Give her the chance to find out the truth about him and Bethan.
‘Why come here without me?’ Jude asked in a low voice.
She raised trembling hands in front of her, palms raised. Jude was a saint, and everything in her screamed to confess. ‘Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want? Me begging you to tell me what you were doing tonight?’
Jude stumbled back as his looming anger was replaced by confusion. ‘What?’
But she’d already started speaking, and it was far, far too late to stop.
‘Bethan. I know you were with her. I don’t begrudge your connection, and she’s lovely, truly, she is, but I wish—’ she hesitated, throat growing thick with unshed tears. Through itall, Jude stared. Maeve ploughed on, ‘I wish you would have told me before you had a lover over.’
Horror washed across his face. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have broken in,’ she wrenched out. ‘But these secrets you’ve kept, Jude. They hurt. I… I’ve come to view this place as somewhat of a home to me, and seeing Bethan with you, how you were with her – so open, when you’re not with me. When every inch of give still feels like a battle.’ She laid both hands over her heart. Felt its pounding rhythm. ‘I thought if I saw some piece of you that you’d kept hidden, it would distract me from whatever was happening in your bedroom. It’s wrong. I know it is. And I’m sorry.’
The silence after her words was deafening.
Jude’s hand twitched at his side, an abortive reach for her. ‘Bethan isn’t my lover.’
It was her turn to stare. ‘She’s… not?’
He barked a hoarse, almost disbelieving laugh. ‘No. Never.’
‘Oh.’ She worried the end of her braid.
The guilt worsened. It wasn’t as if her feelings of rejection were an excuse for breaking in, but they offered some weak form of justification, however misguided. Now, with Jude studying her like he was suddenly privy to a new side of her character, she had nothing. She’d overreacted, grossly so, and fractured something between them that couldn’t be remade.
‘Mm.’ Jude paused. ‘And you were jealous. When you thought we were…’ He palmed the back of his neck and looked down. ‘In bed.’
‘Jealous?’ Heat stole up her neck. ‘I… no. Of course not.’
His lips compressed tighter. ‘Bethan and I have only ever been friends. She’s like a sister.’
‘I see,’ Maeve replied, studying her socked feet. The wool on her right foot had worn thin, a bit of skin peeking through the weave. Guilt and shame banded tightly around her chest, making breathing difficult. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured again. What morecould she say? ‘I… I could hear you in your bedroom, and Iassumed –but that’s not an excuse. Nothing is.’
Jude didn’t reply for a long moment. Maeve met his eyes, seeing only cool detachment in his gaze.
‘I think I need to show you something. Address your concerns about my… openness. You’re right, Maeve.’ As Jude stepped towards her, she realized she’d been wrong to think his anger had abated. Hurt played out cleanly across his face, and she feared it was a deliberate choice to let her see it. ‘I have kept things from you. Perhaps more than you know. And maybe I haven’t trusted you with everything. Maybe I was right not to.’
The air in the library thinned even further. She didn’t have a reply, could only watch as Jude moved across the room to a narrow bookcase tucked into the corner and withdrew a book. He pulled something from between its pages before replacing it on the shelf. When he turned back, something murky lingered in his eyes. Like whatever he held would hurt, like giving it to her wasn’t a kindness.
He took a step closer. Held out an envelope. ‘I’m sorry, Maeve. Truly.’
30
Maeve
