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Chapter Twenty-Four
I'm chasing another wife away. That seems to be what I'm best at, because no matter how hard I try to make women happy, they end up frustrated and miserable. Though I will never love Emery, I don't like knowing I've ruined her cheerful disposition and brought her nothing but pain. How did I expect this arrangement would go? That she'd be grateful to have a husband who ignores her? A bod ceann who creeps into her bedroom at night, then runs away?
I never wanted to become this man. But here I am, destroying another marriage.
After a few more minutes of brooding while slumped in my office chair, I consider getting drunk. That bottle of Ben Nevis is still inside the desk drawer. But no, that won't solve a bloody thing. I get up and shuffle over to the windows. The sun has come out again, as if even Scotland can't bear to see Emery languishing under cloudy skies. She belongs in the sun.
A figure emerges from the vestibule doorway.
Emery exits the house and heads straight for the garden, disappearing through the entrance into the walled space.
I can't see her anymore, though I crane my neck hoping to catch a glimpse, just to know she isn't crying or…something. Should I go out there and apologize? We might not have a normal marriage, but that's no excuse for me to treat her with disrespect. My mother would have my hide if she knew what I've done to my wife. Yes, that's the reason I hurry downstairs and outside to the garden. My upbringing pushes me to do it.
When I find my wife, she's lying on the grass under the arbor with her eyes closed, seeming more relaxed than I've ever felt. A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. She's so bonnie, lying there under the rose vines while the sunlight that filters through the foliage casts a subdued glow on her skin. She starts to hum softly, a tune I know well.
On our second night in New Orleans, when she hadn't been able to sleep, I'd soothed her the only way I could think of. Will that work again? I need to try, if only to show her I'm not a heartless bastard.
And so I sing, "Alas, my love, you do me wrong—"
Her eyes fly open, those beautiful eyes aimed straight at me.
I keep singing until I've finished the song, though she's stopped humming. Then I ask, "What are you doing?"
"Don't you get tired of asking me that? It should be fairly obvious, anyway. I'm lying in the grass."
"I can see that." I drop into a crouch. "If you were trying to get away from me, I can go."
"Hiding isn't my thing. I wanted some fresh air, that's all."
For a moment, I just look at her, uncertain of how she'll react to my next question. "May I join you?"
"You want to lie in the grass?"
"I want to lie beside you, wherever that might be."
My wife shimmies sideways to make room for me and pats the grass.
And I stretch out beside her, our shoulders brushing. We glance at each other at the same instant, and something in her tender gaze brings on that pain in my chest again, the one that's not entirely unpleasant. I gaze up at the mesh of roses and leaves above our heads and slip my hand into hers. The warmth of her palm pressed to mine feels good, and I can't resist threading our fingers.
I don't lie in the grass. It's a frivolous thing to do. But Emery needs kindness from me, and I can't make myself remind her of the rules. Not right now. She has a light inside her that I'd seen that night in the piano bar, a warm and sweet glow that burns within her every moment of every day. At least, it did until she married me. I don't want to be the one who extinguishes that light.
She seems to be admiring the rose-covered lattice above us.
"That's a sad song," I murmur, "the one you were humming. Greensleeves."
"Guess it is."
"The song and the look on your face earlier, they mean you weren't angry. You were hurt. It's worse, isn't it? Worse than if you'd shouted at me."
"I hate being angry. I hate being miserable too."
With my thumb, I knead the back of her hand. "I've never done well with upset women. No idea how to respond to it."
"Congratulations. You're a typical man in at least one way."
"I have behaved like a bastard." I raise our hands to my face, laying her palm on my cheek. "I trust you, m'eudail, and I will make this up to you."
"Why did you have to point out I'd get nothing if I left you today?"
