Icy rivulets of dread trailed down his neck. “What do ye want, then?”
James crossed his arms over his chest. “Radical as it seems, I want you to be happy.”
“Work makes me happy.”
James barked a laugh. “Right. That accounts for your jolly disposition.”
Callum said nothing for a long moment, unable to look his cousin in the eye when he next spoke. “I cannae just…” Guilt couldn’t be so easily tossed aside. It clung to you, changed you. Burrowed in your soul until the rest of your life grew around it, and removing it would gut you. Because if Callum didn’t live to protect James, what did he live for?
The memory of Violet’s sleeping face flashed in his mind. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately after they’d made love, but he laid awake for some time later, watching her. The furrow between her brow had smoothed at last, and her berry lips parted as she slept. The Gaelic phrase he’d heard so often between his aunt and uncle ran through his head, an endless loop that he couldn’t deny.
Tha gaol agom ort.
I love you.
He hated knowing she’d be alone after the party ended, that she’d either find someone else to ruin her reputation or would give up and marry someone she didn’t love. But with guilt came responsibility, and he couldn’t burden himself any longer and still stand.
“Stay in Edinburgh until we get the repairs squared away,” he said, keeping his eyes trained out the window. “Then ye can go to York.”
James’s gaze burned on his profile. “And what about you?”
“I’ll stay behind.”
Chapter 32
“Bishop to rook four.”
Violet furrowed her brows. “Timothy, you just moved a pawn.”
He heaved out a breath, fanning the blond hair that had fallen over his forehead. “But that sounded good, didn’t it?”
Valebrook had set up chess tables in the old library, which at one point several centuries ago had been the sanctuary for the abbey, but now was a monument to the current earl and countess’ eccentricities. Thick rugs, tattered with wear, covered the marble floors. Between the arched stained-glass windows, religious icons featuring martyrs in varying degrees of malaise observed the goings-on as though judging the guests’ piousness. A hodgepodge of furniture—everything from ornate chaise lounges to what looked to be the original wooden pews—were piled high with pillows, knit scarves, and quilts from Bridget’s “crafting phase.” “If you will not try, I’m not going to teach you.” She shifted on thecircular ottoman, melancholy pressing on her heart like tiny, insidious fingers. The previous night with Callum had been—
“Stupendous.” Timothy leaned back in the black lacquered chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not eager to learn.”
She slid her piece forward. “Use your knight to take the rook or you’ll be in check.”
“Being in check is a bad thing?”
“Timothy—”
“I know,” he groaned, “but I can’t concentrate. Remind me why we’re doing this?”
“Because I need to keep myself occupied.” Otherwise, she might jump aboard one of those infernal bicycles and make her way to Edinburgh. And that would be humiliating for a variety of reasons.
Timothy grunted and bumped her rook with his knight. “Because your Scottish plaything has gone home?”
There was no heat in his words, but she balked regardless. “He’s not my plaything, but yes, he left this morning.” She moved her queen. “Check.”
His king retreated. “So, what’s your next move?”
“I’m trying to separate your queen from the king—”
“I mean here, at the party.” He lowered his voice. “You’re not ruined.”
The heavy weight pressed harder on her chest. “I’m not.”
His eyes widened as he looked over her shoulder. “And it seems your time has run out.” He slid back his chair and pushed to his feet. “Sir Phineas, how are you?”
