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He could barely form coherent sentences, he was so exhausted. This wasn’t the state in which to hold a conversation with an accusatory Alice. “No, that’s not what I said.”
. “I understand that perhaps your methods of communication are somewhat less, well, communicative than mine, but you cannot shut me out. There is a girl upstairs with haunted violet eyes and red marks that will soon be scars around her wrists. I want to know why.”
“I don’t possess all of the particulars of Jane’s situation yet. Until I do, I don’t want to put you in danger by divulging too much.”
“Don’t protect me and don’t patronize me, Nick. I have a right to know what’s happened to her.”
Nick wasn’t accustomed to having to answer for himself.
He was good in bed—not good with serious conversations.
But he could see that Alice was shaking with hurt and anger and it tore at his heart to be the cause.
He’d give her a brief explanation. But then he was going to bed.
“The Yellow House is a lunatic asylum, Alice,” he said wearily. “Lear rescued Jane from almost certain death. I spent the night wading through a muddy canal, planting false evidence of her death by suicide.”
He gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Hardly a sybaritic night on the town. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He made a curt bow. “I’m in desperate need of a bath and a bed.”
He spun on his heel and left her standing there.
Because she made him weak with wanting.
He longed to bury his head against her fragrant skin and sleep upon her soft breasts. Beg her forgiveness, tell her he’d never keep secrets from her again.
But she’d immediately assumed the worst about him.
Well, what did you expect, Nick? She didn’t marry you because of your fine, upstanding moral character.
He’d never cared before what anyone thought of him.
And he couldn’t afford to start now.
