Lucy’s body shook on silent sobs. Hot tears of misery left tracks upon her cheeks.
Arran’s eyes went so wide the entire whites of his eyes were exposed. “Donot, Lucy,” he hissed.
His disgust of Lucy and her weakness made Lucy only cry harder. Gasping between sobs, Lucy hugged herself in a small embrace.
Arran jerked. Grief ravaged his beloved face.
Grief? That was impossible. For that to be so, he would have to care about her. But he didn’t. He abhorred her.
“Stop this bloody instant!” Arran came up on her so fast, she reflexively drew tight against herself and angled away from him.
He recoiled. Shock, coupled with outrage, blazed from his eyes—along with an emotion that looked very much like hurt. “Do you believe I’d hurt you, madam?”
You already have… Lucy bit the inside of her cheek to keep those words inside. She managed a watery smile. “As you said, Arran,” she said, her voice husky with tears, “we are strangers.”
His cheeks tanned from years on sunny seas faded white.
Arran found his voice. “Oh, no. You do not get to turn this around.” His sneer returned. “You donotget to play the role of wounded party, madam.”
No, he was right.
Lucy jerked her head sideways against his scorn. “I-I’m s-sorry.” For so much. For everything.
Arran’s flinty, unfeeling gaze slashed her soul in two; the force of his loathing robbed her of breath. Lucy’s chest heaved, and she fought to drag air into her aching lungs.
She’d always known he’d be enraged. That this ended with him hating her. She’d refused, however, to let herself imagine this moment or how it’d take her apart inside.
Only Campbell had forced some hope into her like some magical elixir. In the end, it’d proved to be a charlatan’s brew.
A fool through and through.
He didn’t want to hear her out, but Lucy needed to explain so that when he tossed her out, and erased her from his memory, she’d not forever wonder if telling him would have made a difference.
“Let me explain,” she begged again.
“You think to explain your treachery?” he chuckled. “As if I might somehow forgive you or forget that you, madam, enteredthis household and wound your way into my family’s graces and affections on a bloody lie?”
The downward sweep he did of her person contained enough disgust that grief tore her open and hammered her all over again.
“You have five minutes of my time,” he said icily. “And these are the last minutes you’ll ever have with me. Is that clear?”
“I’ve fancied Campbell half my life,” she said, her voice breaking.
So why did Arran’s body jerk?
Lucy wandered to the gilded frame painting. She stared at the blissful couple frozen in a happy tableau; two adoring lovers under a great sycamore. “He always visited,” she said softly, her eyes on the young, bewigged man who pushed a flaxen-curled maiden on a broad white swing. “He made me smile. I did not lie when I told you his kindness made me care for him.” She drew her gaze from the painting and glanced over her shoulder. “The night he came to be injured, I convinced him to come have some of my gingerbread.” She tried to smile. “He does enjoy it.”
Lucy searched for a sign of a forged connection between she and Arran. He’d baked biscuits with her.
A visible vein at his temple bulged.
Nothing. Lucy cleared her throat and continued. “I brought him here with Nettie and Tasgall.” She paused. “They aren’t servants.”
“They are your aunt and uncle. Yes.” He flicked his hand dismissively. “I’m aware.Fourminutes.”
Fresh sorrow blossomed. It was futile. He’d neither understand nor forgive.
And so she reentered her telling with a soft wistfulness. “On occasion, your family did visit and I saw you all then. When I escorted Campbell home…”
