“Only the truth, lass.”
Did her gaze drop to his lips?
Their tingling clearly saidaye.
She studied the two feet of chaperoning space between them, and then on a sigh, she halved the distance, sliding so close that Ethan could see flecks of dark gold in her gray eyes.
He was torn between jumping to standing or closing the small gap entirely.
“I believe I am finished discussing my past for today,” she said.
“Why is that?” he asked, voice suddenly husky.
“Because I have a question of my own.”
“Do ye now?”
She nodded.
“I was merely wondering, you see,” she began, “if this is who you truly are, through and through?” She waved a hand to indicate his person. “Or do you habitually wear the mask of a charming, ever-affable gentleman?”
The question caught Ethan off-guard, like the icy water Malcolm used to flick onto his face to wake him on a frosty morning.
Ethan blinked, sitting upright.
She wasn’t done. “I only ask because you appear adept at playing the persona of Ethan Penn-Leith, as you did with your mob of admirers outside. And given that you seem determined to orbit my sphere, it leaves me wary as to your true self and, hence, your true motives. In short, I find you difficult to trust, Mr. Penn-Leith.”
Well, he had never doubted her forthright manner.
Lady Allegra was not the sort to censor her thoughts out of politeness.
Though the underlying cynicism of her question felt like a lash of nettles against Ethan’s skin. Did she expect everyone she met to betray her in some way?
She continued, “For myself, personally, if this”—here she waved a hand to indicate his face and person—“is a mask, I would prefer to interact with Ethan the Scot rather than the famous Highland Poet.”
Lady Allegra’s words conjured a knot of emotion in Ethan’s torso. The jumbled mass called to mind Leah’s knitting basket—a multitude of snarled threads that were impossible to untangle.
Surprisesurfaced as the most readily recognizable sensation.
He truly could not remember the last person who had intuited the nature of his life. His respect for Lady Allegra’s intellect grew hourly.
And so he met her candor with his own.
“Ye are correct. I am not often merely . . . Ethan,” he began slowly. “Most people read my poetry and assume they know me . . . all of me. I am generally affable. And of a certainty, I do leave wee bits of myself in my writing, but that is notallthat I am. Of course to many, poetryismy most compelling attribute, so why discuss anything else?” He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh.
Lady Allegra frowned at his words. Ethan couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing.
“And I must agree with such opinions,” he continued. “Iammore interesting as the Highland Poet. So . . . I wonder . . . why do ye wish tae know me as mere Ethan?”
7
Allie had made an enormous mistake.
She stared at Ethan Penn-Leith, his head rimmed in golden sunlight and green eyes gazing at her so earnestly.
As if expecting a reply to his question.
A question prompted by her own far too personal one.
