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No hint of his mood in the tone of his voice. Weary, but nothing more.
She tried relaxing, but it was as if a steel band pressed her ribs. She couldn’t breathe, waiting for the explosion. “I never meant for you to be hurt. I only wanted—”
“It didn’t work, did it?”
The gentleness of the question pained her more than any harsh accusation. Burnt, broken leather and melted binding crackled as her fingers dug into the diary’s velvet wrapping. “You knew it wouldn’t burn?”
His shoulder dipped in a vague shrug. “More a feeling than a certainty. My father intended this diary to last beyond him. His wards were created to be sure it did just that.”
“But why did my attempt to destroy it affect you and not me?”
He stood, reaching a hand out. A hand she chose to ignore. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to box her way free of this stranglehold he had on her.
Seeing her reluctance, he dropped his hand to his side. Again came the half shrug. A long, unreadable stare into the dark. “I’m bound to that book by blood. By family. By failed hopes and unrealized dreams. It’s a part of me. As I’m a part of it. Father knew I’d find it eventually. And knew once I did I’d have no choice but to translate it.”
It was her turn to wince. Not a good time to tell him what she’d discovered. But it was now or never. “I can’t read it any more.”
“But you said—” he put a hand out again. This time she acquiesced. Handed him the book.
“Something happened when I burned it. The words themselves, they’re like a poison in my head.”
Laying the diary in his lap, Aidan folded back the velvet. The cover had withered to a bubbled warped mess, the gold leaf of the Douglas family crest burned away. But when he opened the broken binding, the pages remained unaffected by the flames. The writing’s slippery curves and slicing lines as vibrant as if they’d been penned yesterday.
Immediately, the steel band tightened, cutting off her breath while her head exploded in a sunburst of pain. Shredding her thoughts. Blinding her. A voice snaked up her spine. Coiled into the base of her brain.
She snatched the diary back. Slammed it closed, ignoring the crumbling sooty mess coming away on her fingers. “I can’t—”
His features held the same waxen pallor, spasms jerking his shoulders as he fought back sickness. His eyes black with despair. “Did you hear him?”
“A voice. Nothing more.”
“It was him. I’ve failed. Again.” He lay back against the embrasure, his fist rolling the knotted muscles of his thigh. His gaze unseeing into the night beyond the window.
“It wasn’t your fault, Aidan. I burned the book. I ruined your chance to find the tapestry and the stone. Not you.”
“It makes no difference.” He fell silent, his stare trained on a past invisible to her. “How do I separate the father I loved from the Other I fear? It’s impossible. I try, and it all comes apart in my grasp. Leaves me holding nothing but death.”
Curses she’d expected. Fury that would pierce with hate-filled scorn. Not the quiet misery of a man brought to despair by a ghost he could never satisfy. How to answer such a tangled question?
She bit her lip. Fumbled to find the words hidden among the confusion of her thoughts. Tried to offer him back the same precious wisdom he’d given her. “My son signified a loss of everything I’d known. Everything I’d been. But he was also a treasure beyond price. It was up to me to come to grips with the weaving of good and bad.” She paused, but he said nothing. And she blazoned on. “In the same way, your father isn’t wholly the saint or the sinner. It may take years, but you’ll one day look upon him as the real man—warts and all. And be proud of who you are. Where you come from. And know he loved you.”
As if wrenching himself back to the present, he turned his gold-flecked stare upon her, the depth enough to drown in. His hand found hers. Callused. Strong. Warm. A glimmer of amusement in the curve of his mouth. “Philosophy from a thief?”
“No,” she answered, a sweet honeyed heat running through her. Hope fluttering like a caged bird in her chest. “Truth from a lover.”
He rose, drawing her into his arms. Slanted his mouth on hers, threading his fingers through her hair. His actions needful. Desperate. As if her surety might pass to him in the melding of their bodies.
She clung, loving the taste of him. The feel of his carved, muscled body. The thunderous pounding of his heart matching her own. His chained emotion like a vibration beneath his skin.
It took all her will to ease out of his reach and away from the need engulfing her.
He frowned. His gaze troubled, his hands open and reaching. “Why?”
She gave him a brave smile. “Because you and I are a dream. But it’s time to wake from that
dream. And time for me to surrender the field to Miss Osborne.”
His brows drew into a heavy frown, the line of his jaw sharp as a blade. “Isn’t that for me to decide?”
