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She swung back to face him, the momentary weakness shuttered behind a stony façade. “Should never have occurred.” She took a deep breath. “You have a future waiting. You belong to Miss Osborne. I knew that and ignored it at my own risk.”
“What if it’s a future I don’t want anymore? What then?”
She offered him a humorless smile. “I’d say you’re hallucinating again.”
The kitchen lay wreathed in dim shadows, the flickering light from the banked stove and the single taper upon the table her only illumination. She’d retreated here for a quick restorative cup of tea and a slice of cake, but had remained lost in the jumbled round-and-round that was her twisted relationship with Aidan.
He’d called her Miss Osborne.
He may have been out of his head. Fevered and delirious. Pumped full to the brim with Daz’s medicinal concoctions, but the truth had been revealed like a crack across the face, reminding her he’d a future she couldn’t be a part of no matter how much she pleasured him. A woman waiting for him who hadn’t made the monumental mistake of trusting the slick whispers of a fly-by-night lover.
Aidan had fooled her into believing.
No. Take that back.
She’d fooled herself. Aidan had never once promised anything more than he’d given. It had been her with the wild fantasies and a body heart-led by images of a life together. She’d known better even as she’d delighted in the amazing flash fire of their joining.
But to call her Miss Osborne? She tightened her hand around the mug as if it were the lily white neck of that society harpy.
That was just plain mean.
Aidan heard her before he saw her. A soft voice, low and sultry as a tropical sea. Words were lost amid the thick soup of his pain, but the voice never faltered. Always there. Like an anchor, holding him fast when the effort of each breath seemed not worth the trouble. Easier to let go. Let the enveloping black swallow him.
So it was the silence waking him. Making him crack his eyes against the glare. The room tipped and spun. Pinwheels and spots of color burst in front of him, and every sense seemed heightened. The scratch of the sheets. The weight of the blankets. The perfume in the air.
He glanced around, nausea clawing at his throat even at that little bit of movement.
Cat sat beside him, her head resting on her crooked arm, her eyes closed. Against the curve of her jaw, her hair was a shimmering raven black. A sweep of long, sooty lashes shadowed her cheeks.
How had this woman twined herself into his life and his heart? How had he allowed it? Lovers had come and gone with nary a backward glance. None had touched him. None had seen him in anything less than noble invincibility. Detached arrogance perfected over long years of practice. None but Cat. She’d peeked behind the curtain. Witnessed a breakdown of quantum proportions. And hadn’t gone screaming into the night.
Cold logic tried convincing him that ending things was for the best. He couldn’t marry Cat. It was impossible for a thousand different reasons. He’d be a fool to even contemplate such a move.
Cat stirred, lips parted on a whisper of breath, the faint scent of lavender hanging in the air.
He hated cold logic.
Cat stalked the corridors and chambers like a restless shade until Maude chivied her outside under the threat of bodily harm.
“Go, child. Get some air and leave me to my work.”
With no excuses left, she ventured out. Followed a narrow lane up into the hills, through groves of trees where deer froze in nervous groups and she stumbled across a hedgehog, scuttling nose to the ground. The wind blustered and tugged at her skirts. Shook her hair free of its pins. A falcon rode the updrafts, its mournful call only adding to her loneliness.
The lane wound off to the north, looping across the hills and uplands before being lost in a purple horizon haze. That way lay civilization. Villages and people. Coaching inns and tollgates. She could follow it to Portumna, score a few guineas off some easy mark, and book herself a seat on the mail coach. Be back in Dublin by week’s end at the latest. Lose herself in the Liberties. And this time, remain unfound.
With that thought half-formed in her mind, she wandered farther and farther from the house. A fast-moving stream curved down to meet the track. Trees and scrub crowded close to its banks. Thick brush sheltering the moorland creatures as they paused to drink.
Thirsty, she followed suit. Bending to scoop a mouthful to her lips.
A snap of twig froze her immobile, the icy water sliding forgotten between her fingers. Something else had come to this spot to drink.
Something large.
Without moving, she let her eyes slide to the right. Caught a glimpse of a dirt-encrusted hand. Bloody, broken nails. A stained, muddy sleeve. The fingers trailed unmoving within the stream, the current sluicing around them.
Too frightened to breathe, she rose slowly. Tried backing away without making a sound. Praying the noise of the stream would mask her departure.
“Water? Please. Thirsty.”
