“No. We’re not. But…” I can’t help myself. I gently tip her chin, forcing her eyes to mine. They’re inscrutable, full of something I can’t name. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for…your well-being.”
“My well-being.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s all you care for?”
I’ve angered her. But would admitting that her presence warms me make her any happier here? Would my growing affection for her make her any safer? Or would I only be complicating an already impossible partnership?
“I’m not the man I was,” I say, and when she pulls away, I let her. She wraps her arms around herself, facing the garden, her back to me. “I’m not a good man, Emma. You know that. All I’ll ever do is disappoint you. I told you—I’ll never be a full or proper husband. I can’t be.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “You can’t.”
“But I can be warmer to you.”
“To what end, Malcom?” She faces me, her eyes bright with tears. “You’re right. This is nothing but obligation and duty. It’s nothing. So treat me like nothing, Malcom. God knows it’s all I am.”
With that, she turns and flees, rushing down toward the green hills below. Pete follows her at a distance. Callie, hovering at the edge of the garden, looks at me with unbridled disappointment before following as well.
I hate myself then. I can’t control my emotions, but look at how they hurt her. I run my hands through my hair. I’m a monster, and this is evidence that I’ll never be anything else. That even when I try, all I do is cause the only person I truly care about pain.
A blunt shelf of thunderheads approaches from the hills. I go in before I have to watch the sun disappear.
13
Emma
Iknock once, very softly. Maybe hoping that he won’t hear, and I can pad away into the dark, and lose my fleeting courage.
But the moment I turn to go, Malcom’s bedroom door opens. He’s shirtless, shadows and light dancing on his body, cast by the fire roaring in his hearth. Rain pounds against the windows.
“Emma,” he says, puzzled.
“It’s late,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I can wait until tomorrow—”
“No,” he says, stepping back. “Come in. Please.”
I hesitate, cheeks warming as I enter his room. He closes the door behind me. His room is much like mine, sprawling and furnished with beautiful antiques. It looks almost medieval, very little from this century to testify otherwise. His bed is made, a book facedown on the nightstand beside a glass of whiskey.
“Drink?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure.” I could use a little liquid courage. Since he spoke to me in the garden today, all I’ve done is agonize. Even as he made it clear that our relationship—if it can be called that—is purely transactional, I felt nothing but horrible guilt. Malcom may, in so many ways, be my enemy. But he was also once a friend, and lover, and he’s been careful and kind with me since he brought me here. I owe it to him—and honestly, to myself—to be truthful. “Thank you.”
He gestures, and I gratefully sit on the side of the bed. My knees are shaking. I quickly down the whiskey, bleakly amused that Malcom thinks, like I do, that our one consummation can’t be enough to take.
“I have to tell you something,” I finally manage.
“You’re shaking.”
Sitting is only making me more agitated. I get up, pacing, arms wrapped tightly around myself. I’m in my nightgown again, a cotton one that much less inspires sudden sexual encounters. I thought it best to approach him this way. Contrite. Mundane. Fallible.
“I’m…I was engaged.”
“I know.” Malcom hovers a few paces away, arms crossed over his broad chest. The firelight paints vivid shadows over his face, his furrowed brow and tense jaw. “But you’re not anymore.”
“No.” I chew my lip, the pit in my stomach deepening. I need to just tell him. I need to get this off of my chest. “Malcom.” Tears burn my eyes. I stop abruptly and fix my gaze on a pattern in the beautiful, rich rug underfoot. “I can’t bear you a child.”
“Emma. We’ve already—”
