Terrified.
When he stopped in front of me, I could only stare.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading.
I swallowed. “How am I looking at you?”
“As if you don’t know me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
When he reached for my hand, it sent a shock up my arm and my gaze locked on his.
We stared at each other for a moment before he led me to the bench he’d just occupied and we took a seat. I was conscious of his leg pressed against mine, the smell of his cologne, and the way my hand still tingled from his touch.
We were both quiet for a moment, and my breath began to return to its normal rhythm, though my heart was still hammering.
“You came,” I finally whispered, clasping my gloved hands in my lap.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said just as quietly.
He didn’t need to explain what he meant. Something had drawn Austen and me together since we were children. An invisible forcethat neither of us could deny, though he had tried for years. Even when we were not together, I was always conscious of him, wanting to see him, be near him, hear his voice.
It was almost as if...
He turned to me as the truth pressed against my heart, and my mouth parted in surprise again.
The thing that he couldn’t tell me, and I had never allowed myself to acknowledge, was now as obvious as the rising sun, shedding light on every part of my life.
I was in love with Austen Baird.
“Kate—”
I stood, my breath shallow as panic overwhelmed me. I couldn’t love Austen. I wasn’t staying in 1888. And, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Not if I was going to save my sister.
He also stood, and the anguish in his eyes finally made sense. His behavior toward me these past fourteen years wasn’t because he was mourning his parents’ loss. He’d been pushing me away because he was heartbroken. He was in love with me, and I had not returned his affection.
Had not given him a chance.
“Why?” I asked, almost angry.
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Austen stared at me, his emotions raw and intense as they crossed his handsome face. “What did you want me to say? That the day you told me you were leaving this path was the worst day of my life?” He took a step closer to me, years of disappointment tightening his voice. “That I’ve tried to push you away every day since then, and I hate myself because I still yearn for you? That even when I’m in Italy, or India, or France burying myself in work, I can’t forget you?” He put his hands on my cheeks as he lowered his voice. “That my pulse beats faster every time you’re near and my heart longs for a glimpse of you, a touch of your hand, or a whisper of your voice?”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
He stepped closer to me, and my senses were overwhelmed.
“That when you kissed my cheek the other day,” he said as his face lowered to mine, “it took all my willpower not to pull you into my arms and kiss you until this madness inside of me subsided and I could think clearly for the first time in fourteen years?” He stared deeply into my eyes. “Is that what you wanted me to tell you, Kate? That the only reason I returned to London was to try to convince you to love me, too?”
I was trembling, and tears filled my eyes. I was in love with Austen, but knowing he loved me—accepting the truth after years of denial—brought such profound grief, I felt like I might suffocate.
He was breathing hard, but when I didn’t answer him, he pulled back, his emotions retreating behind the wall of anger and indifference he hid behind. His hands fell to his sides in defeat. “That’s what I thought. Those weren’t the things you wanted me to tell you.”
“Pardon me,” said a male voice behind us. “Am I interrupting a tryst?”
