Alec’s gaze slid down her body. “You do realize there now exists the possibility that you may soon carry my heir?”
“Your heir! Need I remind you we are not wed?”
“Precisely the reason we should be.” His tone was clipped and abrupt. “Or does Toothless Nan have a potion for that, too?”
Maura caught her breath. Oh, but that was cruel of him. “Then my heir will grow up in the land you so fondly call that soggy bog of an isle.”
He looked at her. “Has it occurred to you that I have every right to pitch you out this very day?”
A jolt went through her. She felt herself pale.
“Yes, Irish, I see that you do.”
Her anger eroded. Her lungs burned, yet it was as if she were frozen in place. She could only watch numbly as he shoved his legs into his trousers, then reached for his shirt.
Despair shattered her. “Alec.” His name was half strangled. “Alec, please do not! Aye, I deceived you. Aye, I lied! But I beg you, please let me stay and find the Circle. Help me find the Circle. Then I will be gone. Out of your life forever.”
He shoved his feet into his boots, stood and started toward the door.
“Alec. Alec, what are you doing? Where are you going?”
His features were grim, his voice clipped and distinct. “Since you are not my wife, I certainly don’t expect that you care where I go—or what I do.”
The door slammed, and then he was gone.
Maura erupted into tears.
Alec planted his hands on the back of the chair in his study. Lowering his head, he squeezed hard, struggling to control the heat that still swirled in his body. He inhaled deeply, but it did little to quell the upheaval inside him.
Maura was right. He told himself he should be glad she wasn’t his bride. She had schemed. Lied. With no qualms whatsoever. It was just as he’d said. He had every right to cast her out.
But it gave him no satisfaction knowing that he’d been right after all. That his so-called marriage to the lovely Maura happened because she wanted something from him—the chance to search for some mythical object that no doubt had ever existed!
But his fury vied with a heart in torment.
I belong in Ireland.
No. She belonged here. With him.
But she had refused his proposal. Refused it! Refused him!
He was stung to the marrow of his bones. His mind—his very soul—was in turmoil.
He could almost believe she was an Irish witch. He was bewitched. Bedazzled. Beguiled.
As if she’d cast some spell over him!
It would also account for her belief in such nonsense as the Circle of Light, he decided with black humor.
Just when he’d begun to trust her, he learned the truth.
It wasn’t him she wanted, but this damned Circle of Light. How she could believe in something so absurd, he had no idea.
But she had trembled against him. Burned for him in passionate surrender.
The thought nearly brought his rod rising once again.
With an impatient exclamation, he headed outside to the stable. He needed a good long ride to clear his head.
