For one terrible minute Brianna feared that Sloan meant to draw his sword and slay Robert on the spot; she had never seen such a fire in his eyes. He seemed indomitable as he stood there towering over them all, fierce and bronzed—and beautiful still to her eyes.
“Sloan!” she cried out, stepping forward. “Please, I beg of you! If you care for me—if ever you have loved me—leave me here, in peace.”
He turned away from her, striding back to the mantel—he could not look at her. Her words rang in his ears, an echo of reproach. “If you ever loved me…”
If? He didn’t think that he could walk away, that he was capable of doing such a thing. He wanted to rip to shreds this man who was claiming Brianna. But Robert Powell was aware that Sloan could kill him with little more than a blow—and held quietly to his stance anyway.
And Brianna…
There had been such pleading in her voice. Dear God, he did love her. So much that he couldn’t wrench her away, no matter what his own feelings were. He’d go through hell for her; he would face a thousand Matthews. But he couldn’t fight her. Not now.
He could give her almost anything in the world, but not the most important thing. He could love her with all his heart—but he could not make her his wife.
Neither could he bear being here longer thinking that she would wed another man. And he could not despise Powell, for even though he appeared as gaunt as birch branch, he was not without courage.
Sloan longed to fight for the woman who was his. But he couldn’t. Brianna had begged him to leave her, and because he did love her, he had no choice.
But he made one last protest, his voice so harsh that it was a crude rasp.
“Have you forgotten? Brianna MacCardle is an outlaw here—until William of Orange marches into England. Only then will I be able to clear our names.”
“My Lord Treveryan,” Robert Powell said distinctly. “I am aware of that. I intend to take her far from England. TheLady of Bristolsails in three days for New England. We will be on her.”
Sloan nodded. His heart seemed to be ripped from his chest, and sink bleeding to his feet. He stared at her then, determined to memorize her for a lifetime. The beautiful blue of her eyes, radiant now, dazzled with liquid tears. He must remember her face, her form, her fiery pride and rages; the melody of her laughter, and the parted curve of her lips when she anticipated his kiss.
Sloan took a step forward, dredging up everything he knew of gallantry.
He knelt at her feet, took her hand, and lowered his head over it. Slim and delicate—he would never forget the touch of her fingers.
“Peace and happiness, to you, then, my lady. Godspeed to you both.”
He kissed her hand and rose, bowing sharply to Robert and Ethan Powell.
Then he quit the small cottage, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. Holding back a man’s tears, he jumped upon his horse and sent his heels flying against the beast’s flanks. He rode until he came to a cove in the forest, where he dismounted, finally realizing that the animal did not deserve to be the brunt of his turmoil.
Sloan sank to the grass. For once in his life he had wanted some one thing…someone…more than anything else in the world. And he could not have her, simply because he did love her so much. He ached as though mortally wounded. He did not know what to do, where to turn, and so he thundered his fists against a tree, and when his hands were bloody, he fell to the forest floor.
Morning passed; the sun rose high above him. And suddenly he screamed out—screamed out in rage, in loss, in frustration—and in love.
Finally his voice went hoarse. He stood and patted the neck of the horse he had run so ragged. He found a stream and let the animal drink, next he splashed his face again and again with the cold water and cooled his battered hands.
Then he mounted the horse again and started back toward port. He wanted to reach the sea; she was his mistress, she would heal him; she would give him back his reason and passion for life.
And he would reach Holland. He would be there for William and Mary; he would fight with fury and vengeance, and cast himself into the tumult of battle and fray. He would then go back to Loghaire. Perhaps he could not love his wife, but he would try to be her friend. God, how he pitied her now, for she could never know just what beauty God could give—and take away.
His eyes carefully following the movements of his fingers, Robert Powell knelt beside the chair he had almost completed. His file moved quickly and fluidly in his hands; he touched the hard wood with an almost loving reverence.
Long ago—when he had been a very small child—he had learned that he did not have the strength or energy of other men. While his father labored with heavy hauling and planting, and his brother split logs, and his sister helped with the birthing of the farm animals, he had been sent to help in the kitchen. Even there he had been given the lighter tasks, peeling apples, plucking feathers, washing the family plates.
He had been teased mercilessly by the boys his own age, and because they declared him less than a man, he had determined to prove them wrong. He had struck off for the farmyard with a vengeance, hacking at a full cord of wood with his father’s weighted axe. Barely had he finished the task before it seemed that the blow of an anvil struck against his chest. He heaved with bitter desperation for breath, but could get no air. Ultimately he fainted.
He was very, very sick when he opened his eyes again. His mattress had been dragged before the fire, over which his mother had a kettle boiling, the steam redolent of herbs and precious mint. He could just barely breathe, and knew from the tears in his mother’s eyes that he had come very close to dying.
Getting well had taken a long time; hours and hours in which to brood, in which to wonder why God had cast him such a fate—actually to berate God in his mind, even though he knew and feared the blasphemy of such a thing.
He had also had time to stare out at the beautiful summer mornings, to see the birds flit about the trees, and to watch the way the rising sun played with and glittered over the dew in the fields. He realized that he loved life and that he was grateful to be living. That there was so much to see, so much to be experienced, even if a man were to have his limitations.
Somewhere during that time he came to terms with his God. Having come to peace with himself, he knew he would never again need to prove anything to others. As the years passed, he became an avid scholar and writer.
