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Had to run. Back when I can.
B.
“You again.” The little man glared, but his heart wasn’t in it. Perhaps persistence had begun to wear him down. “Haven’t I told you to clear off? His Lordship’s not home. Mrs. Norris is out, and I’ll not—”
“Tell Miss Fletcher her brother is here.” He shrugged himself deeper into the doorway and out of the misty drizzle.
The man must have thought Daigh was planning on storming the castle. He threw himself into the breech, his height in no way detracting from his bulk or his strength. “Brother? Thought you said your name was MacLir.”
“Half sister.”
“Mm-hm,” the man grunted, clearly unconvinced but allowing him to step out of the weather and into the entry hall. “Wait here. I’ll see if she’s home to”—he raked him with another fearsome glare—“half brothers.”
Daigh would be quick and clear. Ask Sabrina about Brendan. Pass on the information to Roseingrave. Stop St. John before he could carry out his threats. Get Scathach to send him back to the grave.
He would not put forward explanations or apologies for last night. He would not imagine Sabrina as she’d been, glassy-eyed with desire, her flesh like silk, her curves perfect in his hands. Nor dwell on the hazy mirage of an impossible past where he’d enjoyed all that and more.
Didn’t matter. Didn’t happen.
There’d be no regrets to worry
over in the grave.
Sabrina read the note over though she knew the few words by heart. Examined for the hundredth time the front and back as if somehow an invisible message might be hidden there.
Obviously Brendan and Aidan had taken the same course in letter-writing. Be brief and ambiguous as possible. But why now? Why after seven years with no word?
“My lady?”
Mr. Dixon stood at the drawing room door, looking grouchy and flustered. “There’s a gentleman below.”
Brendan had returned. She shoved the note into her apron pocket.
“Says he’s Miss Fletcher’s half brother.”
Daigh.
She flushed crimson. What on earth could he want?
“But she’s out with Mrs. Norris. Should I be sending him on his way?”
“No. Yes. No,” Sabrina stammered. “That is to say, I’ll see him.”
Mr. Dixon’s lips thinned to a disapproving line, but he nodded.
Sabrina had moments to compose herself and then he was there. His giant’s frame filling the door. His dark head ducking beneath the lintel. His face pale and sullen in the gray afternoon twilight.
Her excitement hadn’t subsided. Instead it had increased tenfold alongside her mortification, and she rose to greet him, hoping she didn’t look as discombobulated as she felt.
“I didn’t expect to see you again.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her cheeks burned. “Or did you catch sight of St. John skulking at the corner?”
Her attempt at blasé fell flat. His hands curled to fists and, if possible, his features darkened.
Her throat constricted, nerves making her insides squirm. How did she ever think she could get through this encounter without feeling a fool? She’d begged him—and wasn’t that humiliating enough?—but no, it got worse. He turned her down. What normal male turned down easy sex? None according to what little she knew of the male species. Which said what about her charms? It was a good thing she was destined for a life devoted to the bandraoi. If she couldn’t attract a man by throwing herself at him, how was she ever supposed to attract one with nothing but small talk and coy smiles? Perhaps she was safer from Aidan and Aunt Delia than she thought.
“Please, sit down.” She gestured to a chair.
Daigh glanced at it but made no move to accept.
