“It’s all right,” he says, holding up his palms. “I’m just here to talk.”
I sink back into the window seat, drawing my legs to my chest. I’m in a cotton nightgown and wool socks, my hair loose. I took a bath when we returned from Blicktenner, got some restless sleep, and I’m only just starting to feel like myself again. It has to be around noon, though from the unyielding gray sky, you’d never know it.
Malcom comes to the window, remaining a respectful distance away. For a long time, he’s silent. As he looks down on the estate, the rolling green hills, the distant castle, the ocean, I look at him. He’s as beautiful as ever, dark red curls and those deep pool eyes. But just now, he looks as tired as I feel. I think about everything Jen and Callie and Pete told me. I won’t forgive Malcom, and I certainly don’t understand him. But I can’t help but feel sympathy for the man who lost everything, and seems determined never to be vulnerable again.
“I want to be clear with you,” he says after a while. “You will be staying here, Emma.”
My stomach sinks. I wasn’t expecting anything else, but still. Some silly part of me thought escape really was possible. After last night, I’m realizing it’s not.
“I will succeed Sampson Gladwell. I will rule the Scottish mafia.” He stares dead ahead, his face grave and cold. “This life is all I know. And I owe my father this much.”
I bite my lip, studying him. “What if can’t give you a child?”
“You will.” He says it with a kind of passive confidence that makes my heart hurt. This practical stranger has more faith in me than the man I nearly married. “And you will, soon.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“I told you I won’t touch you without your consent.”
My face burns, and I look quickly to the window. “I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re a guest.”
“Who can’t leave.” I slide my eyes to him. “Malcom.”
He startles at the way I say his name, brow furrowing as he considers me.
“Is this all I am to you?”
He frowns. I don’t mistake the way his posture changes. He stands up straighter, squares his shoulders, schools his expression. “It’s all you can be. I’ll never love, Emma. I’ll never be a proper husband.”
“But you expect me to be a proper wife.”
“I expect you to live here, in luxury and controlled freedom, and bear me a child. With me, you and our child will always be protected. They will always be powerful. I was brought up in this world, Emma. I know it. And we will thrive in it.”
Tears burn in my eyes. It really is futile, isn’t it? I nod, pressing my lips together. Sooner or later I’ll have to surrender myself to Malcom. Will it be anything like it once was? Carefree? Passionate? Full of love?
Could it possibly be, when he doesn’t trust me? When I’m locked away like a princess in a castle?
“I want you to leave this room.”
The words shock me. I look up at him in question, and find him watching me, his face full of intensity.
“I don’t like that you’re in here alone,” he says softly. “Day in and day out. You…”
“I, what?” I hold my legs more tightly to my chest.
“You used to write. Poetry.” His jaw clenches, as though even admitting to remembering this physically pains him. “You can again. I have a library. A garden. You…could be happy here.”
It occurs to me suddenly that he really means this. That somehow, he’s not trying to hurt me. Impossibly, this softens my angry, hardened heart. “Happy.”
“Or an approximation of happy.” He takes a deep breath, then steps back, suddenly withdrawn and cold again. “I’m leaving again. Tomorrow.”
“So soon?” I rise, turning to watch him go.
He stops at the door, touching the handle. “You almost sound like it saddens you.”
My neck burns. For a moment, I don’t trust myself to speak.
