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She shrugged off the coat Cal had lent her in the entrance hall and entered the darkened sitting room.
Her steps halted and fear lanced through her at the sight of the fire flickering in the hearth.
‘Hello, Madeleine. You took your time.’
Her head whipped round as her heart punched her ribcage. The ball of agony grew in her chest, pressing against the unshed tears that had been scalding her throat since yesterday.
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, watching as he levered himself out of the armchair.
He looked tall and indomitable, his head skimming the ceiling beams as he made his way towards her, the light from the fire casting his face into shadow. The purpose in his stride wasn’t diminished in the least by the slight hitch in his gait.
Panic came first, followed swiftly by shock as he spoke. ‘I’ve come to tell you I love you.’ His voice sounded husky, rough with emotion.
But as her heart leapt wildly into her throat, her head registered the truth.
‘Don’t say that.’ She wanted to flee again. But she could barely stand, her legs weak, her knees shaking. And, anyway, where could she flee to? He was in her home, would always be in her heart. This time she had to stand and fight. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ she finished.
She shoved him as hard as she could, but still he stepped forward and took her arm to pull her close. ‘I’m not lying.’
Her hands clenched into fists as the tears she’d been fighting back so valiantly coursed down her cheeks. ‘I don’t believe you.’ Her fists pummelled his chest as she hit out to halt the humiliation, to stop the agony.
‘Stop it, Maddy.’ His voice cracked as he stifled the last of the futile struggle against his chest.
Gulping sobs racked her body. ‘Why did it have to be you?’ she whispered through jerky sobs, his arms holding her as her body quaked. ‘I didn’t even believe in love.’ The last of the anger drained away to leave only the agony.
‘Don’t cry.’ His voice seemed to come from a million miles away, his hand stroking her hair. For a brief moment she felt comforted and secure, but then reality froze her.
She struggled out of his arms, swiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I want you to leave now.’ She’d felt the evidence of his arousal against her belly—and her own traitorous response. ‘I know why you’re here,’ she said, rigidly polite. ‘And it won’t work. I know you can’t love me and I know why. And saying you do won’t get me back into your bed, so there’s no reason for you to pretend.’
The slashing pain came first, slicing cleanly through the last of Rye’s defences. He wanted to grab her, to shake her, to yell at her that he couldn’t control his response to her, that he’d never been able to control it. And that he’d been to hell and back in the last twenty-four hours. But he knew every last second of agony he’d suffered had been his own fault, not hers.
The cruel humiliation of seeing her run away from him, his lame leg making it impossible to catch her. The frantic phone calls to discover her whereabouts. The desolation of turning up at the cottage to find the place empty. The knowledge that he’d thrown away the only thing he’d ever needed in his life because of his own cowardice. And now the accusation that he would lie about his feelings for the sake of sex.
Had he really believed that simply telling her he loved her would make up for all the mistakes he’d made? For the way he’d used her and continued to use her and refused even once to confront the truth about how he felt about her?
He deserved her scorn. He deserved her contempt. But, however guilty he felt, it didn’t mean he was going to give up without a fight. He’d been waiting for close to six hours in the cottage, alone, trying to figure out a way to make amends for what he’d done. Everything from kidnap to blackmail to throwing himself on her mercy and hoping for the best had been considered. The only strategy that hadn’t was letting her go.
She’d said she loved him. And he was going to hold her to that, no matter what. One huge advantage he had in his favour, and which he clung to now like a life raft in a storm-tossed sea, was that Maddy had more compassion than any person he knew. It was probably why she’d been foolish enough to fall for him in the first place, and he was banking on it being her downfall now.
She’d have to forgive him. Because she was too good a person not to.
‘What makes you think I can’t love you?’ he asked.
Her lip trembled but she held painfully still. Guilt churned in his stomach but he refused to relinquish eye contact, to let her off the hook.
‘It’s not that you can’t; it’s that you won’t let yourself.’
He nodded. ‘And what makes you think that?’
‘I don’t think that. I know it.’ Her shoulders slumped and he noticed the dark smudges under her eyes, the pallor of her skin in the flicker of firelight. He wanted to gather her in his arms, to take her to bed and burn away her distress. But he couldn’t take the easy way out. Not again.
He needed to listen to her this time. And then tell her the truth. And hope like hell she still loved him once she realised how wrong she’d been.
He nudged up her chin, brought her gaze to his. ‘What do you know, Maddy?’
‘That you never recovered from losing your parents. That the loss still haunts you. And that you’ve never let anyone get close enough to mean that much to you again.’
As she said the words, Maddy saw the flash of raw grief on Rye’s face and understood something she’d been trying really hard not to admit. She’d wanted to believe this mess was his fault as well as hers. But was it really? He’d never asked for anything from her except physical pleasure, something he’d given back tenfold. She was the one who had insisted on moving the goalposts—on wanting more from him than he had ever been willing to give. And by not telling him how she felt, by not giving him the chance to set her straight, she’d brought all this misery on herself.
