A long pause followed. Faith anticipated a loud shouting match, but he spoke quietly after what felt like days.
“Was everything a lie?”
Her head snapped up, and she saw the bitter pain in his face.
“No,” she said desperately. “I do have feelings for you, but I’ve deceived you—and all for…” She shook her head. “You don’t know what it’s like, to have a painting that displays every bit of your insecurities. It displays a time in life when I was at my most vulnerable. I was so sure of myself when it was painted, so glaringly unaware of the mistakes I was making. I’ve only myself to blame for the broken heart I had at the end, but I could not simply move on, the way other people do after heartbreak. No, there is a massive shrine to my idiocy—”
Instantly, she was in the strong bands of Logan’s arms as he squeezed.
“You’re not an idiot, Faith,” he said softly, savagely. “You just…”
She nodded as a tear fell down her cheek. She knew she had wounded him. She had lied and hurt him because she had been lied to and hurt, and it wasn’t fair.
To her surprise, Logan let out a strangled breath and released her. Turning, he walked out of the room, leaving her alone.
Convinced that she had finally ruined her chances with him, Faith turned and followed him out, watching as he headed to the front door without a single look back. She stared at the door for a long time after it closed behind him, wondering how long the ache in her heart might last this time.
Chapter Seventeen
Asearch partyto find the shooter had been organized by Graham and the McTavishes, but no one in the search party could find hide nor hair of him. It would seem that a ghost had shot Logan, if not for the stitches in his calf that proved otherwise. Much to his displeasure, he promptly passed out upon his return to Harris House later that same day and did not take part in the search party.
His father and Arabella were shocked to hear about the shooting when they returned from Glasgow the following day. Arabella, in particular, was emotional about the entire thing. She even insisted on inspecting his injury but promptly turned away after just a glimpse of it.
His father had remained quiet. Guessing that the man didn’t know what to say, Logan concluded that his father wasn’t particularly interested until later that night when Logan found him in the family parlor.
Arabella had long since gone off to bed, but their father was seemingly wide awake, pacing before the marble fireplace. Logan hadn’t seen him walk like that in ages. While Arabella had said that their visit to Dr. Hall had been successful, he doubted that his father could have made such a quick recovery.
When the old man noticed he was no longer alone, he paused and looked up at Logan. The two stared at one another for a moment before his father broke the silence.
“You are well?” he asked, his voice shaken.
Logan frowned, unnerved by his tone.
“Of course. I have suffered far worse than this.” He kicked out his leg. “It’s barely a scratch, really.”
His father shook his head and focused on the floor before him. Logan assumed their meeting was concluded when his father spoke again.
“You know, I worried about you in Burma,” he confessed, startling Logan. “Every day, I prayed for your safe return.”
“I know, Father.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” the old man said. “Every day when the mail came, I was petrified to open it. I always made sure to leave before it was delivered so that on the off chance that there was word of your death, I could live a few more hours believing that you were alive.”
Logan stared, almost dumbstruck. Why was he confessing all this now? Unsure how to answer, Logan came to sit partially on the arm of the sofa that faced the fireplace.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t. I never told you.”
“What I mean to say is, Arabella never told me that.”
“She didn’t know either. Or at least, if she suspected it, she never betrayed my confidence,” he said, looking into the fire. “She is the spitting image of her mother, you know. But at the same time, she is nothing like her.”
Logan shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t broached the topic of Logan’s mother in years. If he had been feeling combative, he might have disparaged her, but his father seemed thoughtful at the moment, and Logan wanted to see where their conversation might lead.
“I remember Mother’s face,” Logan said. “Arabella’s cheeks are rounder.”
“Your mother’s were the same, in her youth.”
