“No,” he said.
She could not pretend she did not know why. She could not admit that she did.
“You changed your mind,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
“Why?” Her voice was low.
He was silent a moment, as if assembling words with care.
“When we left Wexford,” he said at last, “I had a picture in my head. Of you as a problem to be solved. A question to be answered. Deverell’s story was part of that. My mother’s … opinions. It all tangled together.”
He stared out toward the dark line of distant fields.
“I told myself,” he went on, “that if I could just find this Deverell and hear him describe you or the woman he claims was you that I would know. That I could slot you neatly into ‘guilty’ or ‘innocent’ and behave accordingly.”
“And now,” she prompted, heart in her throat.
“And now,” he said, “we have ridden together for two days. I have watched you with Henry, with Elizabeth, with strangers at inns. I have seen you give away bread to a beggar boy without making a show of it. I have heard you speak of Strathmore until your eyes shine. I have seen you curse at a rut in the road with more creativity than half my crew.”
She huffed. “You sound as if you are writing a report.”
“This is how my mind works,” he said, a touch apologetic. “I collect observations. I weigh them. I compare them to statements. Deverell’s letter is one statement. So is my mother’s conviction that you are a sly fortune-hunter. So is Glenmore’s delight in your difficulties.”
“And my brother’s idiocy,” she put in.
“And your brother’s idiocy,” he agreed. “Against those, I set what I have seen. You, worrying over the stable boy’s ill-fitting boots. You, insisting Henry will have work at Strathmore. You, offering to return to Scotland alone rather than be a thorn in my side.”
She swallowed.
“I find,” he said quietly, “that I am more inclined to trust what I have seen than what others tell me they saw when I was not there.”
The simple statement landed with more force than any flowery declaration could have.
Isla looked down at her hands. Her fingers had curled into her sleeves.
“You trust me,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“I am learning to,” he said. “It is not an easy habit to acquire. My father raised me to suspect weakness in myself and in others. Rearden taught me to rely on the men whose lives I could see laid out in front of me. You …” He broke off, shook his head, laughed softly. “You have been inconvenient to every theory I ever had about women.”
“That sounds like a compliment,” she said. “Of a peculiar sort.”
“It is the best I can do,” he said. “For now.”
“Thank you,” she said. It seemed inadequate, but it was true.
He turned to face her fully at last.
“What I see,” he said softly, “is a woman whose company I have begun to crave. Who infuriates me, and challenges me, and makes me laugh when I am determined not to. A woman I find myself looking for when she leaves a room.”
The yard seemed very quiet.
“And,” he added, “a woman I do not wish to be without. Whatever Glenmore, Deverell, or my mother may prefer.”
Her chest felt too small.
“Edward,” she said. There were a dozen things she might have said after that, some sharp, some foolish, some so tender they frightened her. She chose, instead, the most practical.
