The Laird Takes a Bride(87)

The inexorable rejoinder came back. You told him you loved him. And what did he say?

It’s stupid to say such a thing and expect to hear it repeated back to you.

Is it? coolly observed her brain. My, how easily you’re satisfied.

Shut up, shut up! Fiona hoped she didn’t blurt those words out loud, but by then it was too late. It was as if a beautiful symphony had been waylaid by another song being played at the same time, jangly and discordant and distracting.

“Stop,” she said to Alasdair.

He did stop, almost as if he too was aware of the discordance. Fiona made herself pull away from him, and sat, as stiff and straight as a poker, among the rumpled bedclothes. She was just as rumpled, she knew, with her ripped gown and tumbled skirts, and no doubt her hair was a ghastly mess, but to this she was indifferent. Her only remedial act was to pull together the two pieces of her bodice, creating a mockery of modesty. She watched as Alasdair leaned his back against the intricately carved headboard, carelessly pulled up a blanket to his waist. His broad chest was damp with sweat and he smelled so good—

Fiona set aside this tempting fact. Instead she folded her hands in her lap, just as if they were sitting fully clothed in a warm well-lit drawing-room. And she said, in a level tone:

“You don’t love me, do you?”

She saw that tempting chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. “Fiona,” he said, “lass, let’s not do this.”

“There, I suppose, is your answer.”

He reached out to cover her hands with his own big warm one. “I like you,” he said, with unmistakable sincerity. “I like you, lass. And I admire you, I respect you. It’s more than a lot of married people can claim to share.”

“True.”

“Isn’t that enough for you?”

“No.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a problem, for it’s all I have to give to you.”

Fiona pushed his hand away. “It’s not enough.”

“You knew this was to be a marriage not of our choosing.” His voice was a little cooler, a little harder. “Your expectations —they ask too much of me. You’ve no right to be changing the terms as we go along.”

Here again the words tumbled out of her. “Life is about change, don’t you see that? It’s because of you, you wonderful maddening man, that I’ve finally learned it! You taught me how to love, truly love, and I don’t want to give that up!”

He stared at her. And finally he replied: “Can’t we agree to meet in the middle? Each bringing to the table what we have?”

“Oh, Alasdair, don’t you understand?” It was a plea, raw and vulnerable. “It’s not enough for me—not enough after all these years! I’m afraid I’ll dwindle away, until my existence is nothing more than—than a pathetic half-life. I’ll be a machine that gets things done—that’s all. I’ll be a ghost.” Two great fat tears spilled from her eyes and angrily she swiped them away. “I won’t live that way anymore! I want a real, full life! Can’t you understand? Don’t you want that?”

“I have a real life that I enjoy,” he answered, coldly now. “And here’s what I think, for what it’s worth. I think you’re being greedy.”

Greedy.

The word sounded so harsh. Like a reproach, a slap in the face. A confirmation, once again, that she simply wasn’t good enough. Would never be good enough. In that instant Fiona wanted to crumple. Wanted to bury herself under the covers, hide her head as well. But then her pride reasserted itself. She lifted her chin:

“You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”

“I thank you,” Alasdair said, in his tone a certain irony, and he saw Fiona sit up even straighter, if that were possible. Coldness, irony, detachment—all excellent defenses for a man who felt he’d been sent reeling with his back against a wall. Christ in His heaven, he thought with more than a prickle of resentment, but he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all. What was the point of all this yapping? What could possibly be gained from it?

Why, he asked himself, couldn’t she simply leave well enough alone?

There she was, some three feet away from him, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the pale faint glow of the moonlight, her eyes huge and blazing in her slender face, her body lithe and taut, to it clinging a subtle intoxicating scent of wild roses. She was tousled, disheveled, magnificent. Even now, with hostility practically crackling out loud between them, he wanted her.

But when she spoke again, there was nothing in her manner which suggested that any sort of rapprochement was possible. She was as dry and analytical as a lawyer. “You say you have only liking to give me? But not love?”