Alistair stared at the trunk sitting just inside the door of her bedchamber, neatly bundled and ready for the carter’s wagon. The upstairs maid had alerted him to the fact—Mrs. Newton had ordered her effects packed and then, while Alistair was stillbletheringwith Miss Rollins and her mother, had slipped out the front door.
Running away without a word of goodbye. Just as she had in Fiesole all those years ago.
It astonished him that it hurt . . . her leaving.
He scrubbed a tired hand down his face.
Wouldn’t it be best to simply let her go? They had destroyed each other, he and Chris.
In truth, her death would have been easier to overcome than her abandonment. Ironic, perhaps, but accurate, nonetheless. Because in death, she would have remained his.
Instead, he had spent the intervening years imagining her married to another—loving him, sharing a life with him. Another man reveling in the crackling spark of her wit, enjoying the touch of her soft hands, the husky whisper of her voice in his ear. Another man giving her the renown and academic credit that Alistair had not provided.
And now, after so many years, he had come to peace with it all. There was Miss Rollins with her bright smiles and easymanner—never demanding, never pushing. Willing to be content with what he could share of himself and not insist upon more.
Not like Chris.
No. Chris had wanted to know everything—his hopes, dreams, the very dregs of his soul. And in his naive foolishness, he had let her in, eager to splay his heart at her feet. Heady with the euphoria of being so known.
It had made the crush of his failures and her subsequent rejection all the more devastating.
And yet now, he stared helplessly at her packed trunk sitting isolated between the foot of the bed and the hearth. The spare starkness of it—three battered leather straps reaching across the lid to brass clasps, one of which dangled broken—dents and scratches testifying to the drubbing that life had delivered.
Somehow, he knew the trunk contained her entire world—every treasured book and notebook, every presentable skirt and bodice.
The image of her too-thin wrist surfaced.
Nine years ago, brokenhearted and angry, he had let her go.
But now, he simply . . . couldn’t. Not like this.
His feet pivoted for the stairs before any conscious thought surfaced.
ALISTAIR HAD THOUGHT to find Chris trudging on foot down the rutted road, attempting to reach Dinnet before everything was shut tight for the evening.
But as he crossed the road, he caught the flash of skirts whipping from behind the central monolith in the stone circle below the castle.
He found Chris there, her shoulder blades pressed to the ancient granite slab, shawl tucked tight to her chest, eyes staring out over the bog and the lone stone standing in the middle. As the solstice was only four weeks away, the sun still hung in the sky, bathing the marsh grass and rolling hills beyond in golden light.
Hearing him approach, she startled and swiped at her eyes with the corner of her shawl, fingers shaking.
Not saying a word, he dug into his pocket and extended a white handkerchief to her.
With a hiccup, Chris took it, dabbing the tears off her cheeks.
She had always been an elegant crier; he would give her that. Her eyes did not become red-rimmed, nor did her skin turn splotchy. She rarely made noise. Instead, the tears flowed soundlessly before she wiped them away.
Alistair rested his shoulders beside her own, content to dwell in silence with her and listen to a pair of cuckoos quarrel in the bushes.
The ever-restless wind soon wrapped Chris’s skirts around his knees and whipped the ends of her bonnet ribbons across his chest.
He heard her swallow.
“Thank you,” she whispered, twisting the handkerchief around her fingers.
“There is nothing to thank.”
More silence.
