He could escort her up the side of the cliff now and send Phillip and Denny down to retrieve the doomed picnic offerings tomorrow. Bugs would find most of it, though. Or some other creatures.
But it would be a shame for all of this to go to waste.
“Have you eaten yet?” He stopped her.
She didn’t look at him but hesitated. “No,” she finally answered.
“Come sit down,” he managed. “Share this with me. Then I’ll walk up with you.”
She hugged her arms in front of her, and he could tell that she’d been crying.
Because of him, because of the trial he’d put her through.
What kind of cad was he?
She wasn’t an enemy. Neither, really, was Malum.
All the more frustrating when one’s enemy was already dead. The vague thought that Malum had found a way around that sorry fact taunted him.
Hunt gestured to the blanket. “Please, let’s have a truce.” He’d be gracious in his defeat.
She must have heard the genuine remorse in his voice and, relenting, cautiously stepped inside to the picnic. Paying deliberate attention to her coat and shoes and gown and the sand, she lowered herself onto her knees and then back onto her heels.
“We can be friends, eh?” He kept his voice light.
When he’d envisioned the two of them sharing this picnic, he’d imagined he might make love to her. Instead, she sat shrouded in layers of clothing opposite him. Her coat was the same one she’d been wearing the first time he saw her.
Fate possessed a warped sense of irony.
“I had hoped to have something to celebrate,” he admitted.
Rather than offer any sort of comfort, his words drew an almost soundless cry from her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
How many times had she apologized for not wanting to marry him? Too many. She had nothing for which to be sorry.
“Not your fault.” It wasn’t. She’d merely been the innocent victim in all of this, placed there by her father.
And by himself.
He leaned forward and poured champagne into a glass. “Here.” He held it out. “It’s Veuve Clicquot. Finest in my cellar.”
Barely glancing up from beneath her lashes, she reached out a gloved hand and took it from him.
“I’ve never been one to gamble.” With nothing to lose now, he poured a second glass for himself, tucked the bottle back into the basket, and then reclined against the wall again, stretching his legs out before him.
“Is that what you were doing?” She took a sip, watching him over the rim. Despite everything, he was momentarily caught by her eyes.
“In a way, yes,” he answered, staring at her mouth now.
He’d gambled on her. Or had he been betting on himself? Either way, he’d gone all-in and lost.
“Why do you want so much money?” Her question surprised him. “There are other means of getting it. Other girls to marry.”
Hunt chortled a rueful laugh and contemplated how much to tell her.
He wouldn’t divulge the full extent of his circumstances. It was humiliating. And truth be told, he didn’t want Allison Meadowbrook’s pity.
