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He must have sensed her torment. When she opened her eyes, she found him shaking his head. “Please don’t regret that, Kate.”
“Aidan. I can’t—”
“No. We don’t need to talk about it now. Just promise you won’t regret it.”
She looked into the beauty of his green eyes, stared hard into the depths. There was hunger there, and tenderness, and the icy glint of deep pain as well. Pain she had caused.
Fine. She didn’t wish to talk about it anyway, to push her lies deeper. “Yes,” she said. “All right.”
Nodding, he stood and paced several feet beyond the table to stare at the flickering light of the stove. She stared with him, savoring this lull before the coming storm. They would have to talk sometime, after all.
Anxiety took hold of Kate’s shoulders, tightening the muscles like drying rope. They would have to talk about it, it was inevitable. They could only be friends. He must know that. She should say it aloud, but not now. Not when she still tasted him on her tongue.
He cleared his throat and turned back to her, his hands clasped tight behind him. “Mr. Penrose insists I must return to London soon.”
“Oh?” She tried not to sound relieved.
“No weeping? No gnashing of teeth?”
She tried to think of something tactful to say.
He smiled briefly, as if to reassure her, but it did not hold. Within seconds, his mouth went straight and grim. “Kate . . . Is your husband really coming to England?” Despite the question, there was no curiosity in his eyes. No doubt. He knew. Knew there was no true marriage, even if he didn’t know the reason. “He’s not, is he?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. Another statement poised as a question.
“Of course it does.”
“No,” she countered. “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .”
He didn’t say a word, but his gaze never wavered from hers.
In the end, she said, “I’m sorry,” and he looked away.
“It’s very late. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Her mind was muddled, slow, and she only stared up at him for a long moment, marveling at his tall grace. They had fit together perfectly once—his lips just reaching the bridge of her nose, her own mouth always searching out the line of his jaw.
Dazed, she watched him frown and open his mouth to speak, but he hesitated before he finally said, “I’ll return again before I leave for London.”
A few minutes after the door closed behind him, she rose unsteadily from the table and put herself
to bed, thoughts of his mouth swirling madly through her dreams.
Chapter 12
Aidan eyed the Valiant’s new mast as it was hoisted into place. The smooth wood reached toward the gray clouds that hung above them, threatening snow. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
“Are you married, Penrose?” Aidan’s words floated toward the sky on white wisps.
“Pardon, sir?” Penrose asked.
“Do you have a wife? I assume not.”
Penrose looked shocked to have been asked a personal question. “No, sir.”
Ropes creaked as men heaved the lines taut. They were watching from the dock for safety’s sake, but if the mast fell, it would fall much farther than this. Aidan observed with a narrowed eye. “And have you ever been in love?” Silence greeted his words and he turned to his secretary. “It’s a simple question, Penrose.”
Penrose’s face was slack with shock. “Sir, I don’t . . . that is to say . . .”
