“It was my fault. I was slipshod with my management, and Keira almost got hurt because of it. You should be mad at me.”
“Keira told me ye protected her. I have nay reason to be mad at ye.” He took her hand again. “If I were there, this wouldnae have happened. I should have protected ye. I am sorry.”
“You insult me, Ruaridh. I am competent enough to protect myself.”
“But ye’re under me care. Ye are me responsibility. If I cannae protect ye from this, what can I do?”
“It was an accident. No one could have predicted it.”
As she watched him, she felt there was something more she had not realized before.
He shook his head and stepped away from her. “I am never able to protect the people I care about.”
She was torn. He inadvertently admitted to caring for her, which sparked a flame of elation within her. But his tone, his eyes—they were dejected. She reached out to stroke his arm, but he flinched away. He hadn’t even been looking at her, but had predicted it, anticipated it, and still he flinched.
His rejection stung, not her pride but her heart. It broke in two pieces for him. He was drowning, head completely submerged in his self-made pool of abhorrence, and she could not reach out and pull him out.
If she couldn’t help him, then who could?
By the time her father heard about the accident, Violet had retired to her chambers, jaded by the eventful day.
He announced himself before stepping inside, his lone candle lighting up the room.
Her movements were languid when she rose from her pillow. “Father, can we postpone your concern to tomorrow morning? As you see, I have tucked myself in.” Her words slurred as her head fell left and right.
Silently, Horace placed his candle on her dresser and then sat on the edge of the bed. “I have to make sure you are fine.”
She retrieved her robe from her left and pushed her arms through the sleeves, leaving it untied.
When he looked at her, she showed him her bandaged hand. “As you can see, I am fine.” Then she rested her head.
“That’s good to hear,” he said, but his worry did not abate, and neither did he make a move to rise.
He picked his fingers, a habit of his when he was overwrought with nerves, then Violet heard the muted tapping of his feet. She sat up, instantly sober.
Anxiety was writ on his face, momentarily silhouetted by the orange flame of the candle, but when she properly looked at him, she noticed he was trembling.
“Father, what’s wrong?”
He let out a sound that resembled a choked cry. “Violet, I do not expect you to ever forgive me for this.” Then he told her about Lord Westall.
Violet jumped out of bed, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. “You wanted to marry me off to that man even after I told you what I wanted?” Her voice was shaky, but not as much as her hands. Her fingers trembled as she covered her mouth, wanting to muffle the cry clogging her throat.
Horace rose. “I am so sorry.” His cowardly nature shone as he shrank away from her, as if he expected her to hit him.
Disgust filled her. She wanted to hit him, then grab him by the collar and throw him out of her room.
“Does Ruaridh know that you’ve betrayed him?”
She felt the air leave her lungs when he nodded. “He found out last night when he followed me.”
He relayed the details of the night.
“I can’t be here now.”
She burst into the hallway. She needed to see Ruaridh. She needed to apologize to him so he would not hate her. He had taken her into his home out of his own goodwill. He had not rid himself of her when Lord Westall did and fixed a betrothal when many men would have wanted nothing to do with her. And how had she repaid him? By vouching for a traitorous father who had sold his secrets to the enemy.
She found him in his chambers, hunched over a vellum by his desk. His pen hovered over the paper as he twisted in his chair towards the commotion.
