I do not know what to say. Our conversation this afternoon has overset me in ways I cannot explain. Had I any senseat all, I would terminate our contract for the excavation. However, I cannot, in good conscience, deprive ye of much-needed income, or myself of long-awaited answers to the ruins on my land. Please continue your work. I shall remain out of your sight, just as I am sure ye wish to remain out of mine.
That certainly spelled out his feelings, did it not?
He had only loved her whenhiswere the deeds to be forgiven.
But forgiveness for herself . . .
Well, she had known, long ago, that it was likely impossible.
She wiped away another fugitive tear as she penned a reply, telling him she agreed with his terms.
Chrissi would remain to finish this excavation and give him the answers he sought. It was the least she could do. Her ankle was healed enough for her to resume work, regardless of what anyone else said. Perhaps if she hurried, she could have it done and dusted close to the summer solstice.
And then, once she had uncovered what she could, she would pack up her trowel and disappear into the ether, bothering him no more.
True to herword, Chrissi worked tirelessly.
And true to his word, she scarcely saw Alis.
Every day, she limped back and forth from the excavation site, her ankle still twinging but on the mend. She took meals inher bedchamber, consolidating her notes from the day’s labors—writings she sent to Alis.
He said nothing in reply.
Ten days after their conversation in the cairn, Chrissi was scraping the floor of a side niche when her trowel hit upon something rather extraordinary.
A few hours of excited exploration later, she sat back on her heels, surveying what she had found.
How . . . unexpected.
She tore a sheet from her notebook, scribbling a message to Alis.
No matter his anger toward her, he would find this discovery thrilling.
Alistair was inhis study, reviewing estate expenditures, when his butler delivered Chris’s note.
Come down to the cairn. I have found something remarkable, unlike anything I have ever excavated. Never fear, I shall make myself scarce so you needn’t see me.
He contemplated her words for a long moment—the most she had written to him directly in over a week and a half. What had she found?
His anger over her deception had faded into a glum sorrow that hung over his mood like adreichrain cloud.
Yes, Chris should have told him about the babe.
But having overcome the initial shock, he couldn’t help but put himself in her shoes—a girl scarcely twenty years of age, alone without her father’s protection, unmarried, and with child. Her babe’s father had betrayed her and hadn’t bothered to write, giving every impression that he had washed his hands of her.
Chris would have known only too well the fate of women bearing a child out of wedlock. It was more than merely shameful. Once her condition became widely known, she would have found herself rejected by Polite Society, unable to find employment or provide for herself and her child. Her father certainly couldn’t have permitted her to remain in his home. In order to salvage his own reputation and career, he would have had to cast her off.
What was she to have done?
Of course she had panicked and taken the first viable solution that offered both her and her unborn bairn respectability and a future—marriage to Stephen Newton.
Alistair could hardly fault her.
But now what was he to do?
Simply forgiving her and accepting her deception felt . . . difficult. Absurd, even.
But letting her exit his life once more also seemed nothing short of impossible.
