The previous noise of the night had rendered the tinkling bell hung above the front door, previously indistinguishable, audible now as it announced the late traveler’s arrival.
Exhausted, Lucy somehow found a reserve of energy. Making her best attempt at an innkeeper’s smile, as her da used to call it, Lucy went to greet the…gentleman.
Her breath hitched sharply.
As he brought the door shut behind him, a loud hum filled her ears.
With long, masterful fingers he drew off the fine black leather riding gloves and tucked them inside the front of his cloak.
Lucy remained frozen.
Throughout the day, she’d tried to shove aside thoughts of this man; her efforts were unsuccessful, futile even. She’d alternately wondered if their paths would cross again and then dreaded the anguished possibility of just that. She’d tormented herself over a time when he, the noble gentleman who’d called her a queen, arrived with the woman actually worthy of his name.
With all the pain he’d wrought in Lucy, she’d pathetically yearned for a future day when he did pass across her threshold.
A dusting of snow coated the brim of his high black hat. With every step he took, his long black greatcoat and fur-lined shoulder cape emphasized sleek, graceful strides like a black cat, but far more dangerous. For not only had he stolen Lucy’s soul, he’d gone and taken everything from Lucy—her pride, joy, and heart.
And God save her, Lucy wanted to weep for wanting him still.
There could be no good reason for his being here. At least, not for her.
The moment he reached her, he doffed his hat.
Lucy’s throat worked convulsively.
Arran.
“Hello, Miss LeBeau.” The husky pull of his voice sent her eyes sliding closed. Hearing him speak her name ripped fresh wounds open anew. She wanted to bend and writhe to escape the agony.
Lucy blinked past tear-filled eyes. Needing some space from him, any at all, she hurried farther behind the counter.
She felt Arran’s heated gaze upon her as she walked. Arran’s hooded eyes followed her movements.
It was too much.
Lucy studied a non-existent flaw in his sleeve. “Is there something you require, Captain McQuoid?” A sad smile threatened her lips.
As if there could be any flaw in a man as perfect as Arran McQuoid.
“Aye.” A layer of velvet added a richer, deeper quality to his baritone and gave Lucy pause.
Heart hammering, Lucy peeked up.
Removing his hat, Arran passed the felted beaver fur article between his hands several times.
Lucy stared at that innocuous but troubled movement that didn’t match the Arran she knew, a master of restraint and self-control.
The man she knew?
“…Madam, you are a damned stranger to me…”
Ah, Guid.
Her throat working uncontrollably, Lucy searched blindly about for the nearest pitcher.
Her trembling fingers collided with cool metal.
Warmth settled over the top of her hand. Blankly, Lucy stared at Arran’s hand atop hers. At the feel of his touch, an aura of heat and power rolled from his frame. A kind of strength and confidence that made a lass feel safe and warm.
