“I thought to prevent you from slapping me again.”
“Why, are you going to kiss me?”
“If you like,” he murmured, his brow pressed to hers, his breath upon her cheek. She both longed for and resisted a kiss from him. His lips brushed her cheek. Her legs felt so weak that she needed his support.
He drew back. “I just want to talk.”
“We have nothing to say.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“Too late for that.”
“Allow me to apologize for the kiss when we were on the machair. It was not the time.”
“It was not.” She crabbed her fingers on his shirt, grabbing, wanting to push him, run, never look back. Yet even more, she wanted to stay, listen, know more about that night. His fingers were strong on her wrist, and he slipped his free hand to the small of her back.
“Let me speak before you claw me to bits.”
She tightened her fingers, pressed skin through cloth. “Seven years,” she hissed. “You come back here after seven years and want to apologize!”
“Seven years, I searched for you, lass. I did not think I could find you. And now you reject me soundly. Fair enough. I understand.” His tone was as wry as it was gentle.
“Did you expect a happy reunion?” She wished she had a hand free to slap him again—even though part of her wanted him to pull her into his arms, kiss away the hurt, help dissolve the bitterness. She wanted to be free of resentment. But she did not know how to express that.
“Once I saw you and realized who you were, I wanted to make up for what I had done. I thought you did not remember me. So I hoped a kiss would remind you. I suppose it was ill done.”
“I suppose,” she said. “Let me go. I am not going to slap you.”
He dropped his hands away, though he still stood close. “As for that night, I do not know why you were there, or quite what happened. My memory of it is very dim.”
“I remember it,” she said frostily. Truthfully, she had felt foggy that night too, having taken the potion Mother Elga had prepared.
He pursed his mouth, nodded. “That was a fearsome storm, and in the dark and the rain, I was not sure—I thought—” He paused. “You will think me mad if I tell you.”
“I thought you were a brutal cad.” She stepped back. “You should leave this rock and the island. And me.”
“I will stay until the work is done. But I will leave you be, if that is what you want. First, please hear me out.” He pulled her back gently but firmly. “This is not pleasant thing to revisit, I know, but best we get through it and be done. What, exactly, did I do?”
“You do not know?”
“I have an idea.” He watched her steadily. “It is not clear.”
Her recollection had never been all that clear either. But she knew one thing for certain. “You had your way with me and leftme in a boorish manner.” She leaned toward him, anger rising again, fueled by years.
“Left you! My dear lass, you are the one left me. I awoke to find you gone.”
“I was still there. I saw the boat that you took. I saw men come to fetch you, no doubt the men who left you there to have your fun. You had a scheme.”
His brow puckered. “Scheme! Just what have you believed all this time?”
Meg saw true bewilderment in his eyes. He held her wrist, and she did not fight that. “I know what I saw. Men came to get you. So they must have left you on the rock the night before, guessing I might be there. The storm stranded us, and we stayed. And you left at dawn. I was in the boat withSeanair. He had come to fetch me.”
“I had no idea that I would end up on that rock. I swear to you. Those were fishermen who saw me standing there. I thought you had gone.”
“I watched you and saw that I had been used. Betrayed.”
He swore softly, shook his head. “Not the case. But—why were you there?”
