He was wrong, though, if he thought he could have taken Barrington without her help. A smashed jaw was one thing, but a gun could kill. This anger was unfair—and out of character, besides. Alex could be cruel, but he was never unfairly so.
“He had a gun,” she said.
His indrawn breath audibly shook. “Yes,” he said.
She looked into his face in the mirror, met his eyes, and something in her—her stomach, her heart, God knew what—something turned over.
He’d been frightened for her.
God above. Alex had been frightened.
She’d been clutching his forearm, braced against it. Her grip softened now. She tentatively stroked her hand down to his wrist, then back again. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Alex, I’m fine.”
His arm dropped. He stepped away from her. “I am amazed you have lived this long,” he said in a dead voice. “You have no value for yourself, do you? No value apart from the number assigned to you by your parents’ wealth.” He made a scornful noise. “Miss Three Million Pounds, to be squandered on whichever man deigns to give her attention this month.”
A breath escaped her. He knew so well exactly how to wound her. “I should slap you for that,” she said faintly.
“But you won’t, of course.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. For a moment he looked at it, then he turned back to her, leaning against the wall, tall and elegant in his shirtsleeves. “You won’t because you recognize that it’s true. Poor Gwen. Life would be so much easier for you if all that ailed you was common stupidity.”
“Stop it,” she said. “This is unfair of you, Alex. I was only trying to help—”
“Oh, that’s smashing,” he said. He slid his hands into his pockets, looking down his nose at her, his smile taunting. “Trying to help—out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose? Yes, that must be it; what other reason could there be to risk yourself so carelessly? I thought to have information from him.” It was an unkind imitation of her voice; he made her sound like a whining child. “And what cause for your great bravery, Gwen? Love of the Ramsey lands? But what care have you for some no-name estate? Not even entailed, you noted. Was it a concern for Lord Weston’s name, then? A chemist’s daughter would appreciate the importance, no doubt.”
The boor. “I have told you my opinion of sarcasm,” she said hoarsely.
“No matter,” he said. “It’s a trick question, anyway. I’ve already told you the answer: you have no notion of your own worth. And so you trade on other people’s idea of what matters.”
She stepped back from him. “You are a boor!”
He laughed. “Your curses are pathetic. Call me a bastard. That would serve.”
“Very well, you bastard, if we’re talking of worth, what about your own opinion of yourself? Why are you here? A man pulled a gun on you, very well might have killed you, and for what? For your brother’s sake?” Her own laughter scraped her throat. “Lord Weston does nothing but complain and disown you. If he sold the lands, let him deal with your sisters. Or let them buy back the land, if they love it so! Why must you solve the problem for them?”
His face went blank. An indecipherable emotion passed over his face. Slowly he sat onto the bed.
“Oh, Alex.” All the fight went out of her. Everything—fear and adrenaline and anger—seemed to coalesce and transform into a great rush of agonized tenderness that made her knees fold, leaving her sitting, trembling, on the bed beside him. Wanting to touch him. Not daring. “I do not mean it, of course. You help Gerry and the twins because you love them. Exactly as you should.”
The moment the words were out, she felt a curious chill—as though some strand of ice in her gut had been delicately plucked, sounding a premonitory note whose vibrations spread through her whole flesh.
She could not love Alex. She had known him too long. She knew all his faults. She even knew what he would say next—some dismissive, cynical remark that would shame her for introducing the idea that love might provide any motivation for him whatsoever.
Instead, he stared fixedly at the blank white wall and said, “I never wanted any of this.”
She hesitated. “Yes, I know.”
“I should have turned back for Lima at Gibraltar.”
“Probably.”
“England has never given me any reason to stay.”
At that, she snorted. “You love your family. You do. Just because your brother may have made a mistake . . .”
He fixed her with a long, strange look, during which time his chest rose and fell on a deep breath—once, twice, like a man gearing himself up for a long, breathless dive.