She glowered at him defiantly. “I have known fine men. Good men. Better men than ye.”
“Where are these better men, Helen, when you need them, eh? It looks like Jack Pike is the only one around.”
Her shoulders hunched. In front of him, she visibly shrank. She looked defeated. But then she rallied and raised her chin.
“I think ye would take advantage, Jack Pike, because ye can. Ye could.”
Yes, he could. He knew he could. He probably had, when he was younger. Wasn’t that why he had designed his life in London the way he had? So that his bed would only be occupied by women who were married to other men. Women he could seduce solely with his charm, his looks, and his sexual prowess. Women who had no hope of his money. No hope of his providing for them in the future. No hope of even a piece of ostentatious jewelry, because how could they hide that from their husbands?
He had built a life where he could not use his money to take advantage. And where he would not be responsible for anything, except his own pleasure and the pleasure of the women he bedded.
He shrugged. “You’re right. I could. But I won’t.”
His agreement with her, his tone of surrender changed her. Her face shifted. Now, all Jack could see was the portrait of her grandfather. She was a MacNaughton, through and through, more than he was, despite his last name and his title.
“So far, ye have only been good to me, to Mags, and to Kinmarloch. I am a spiteful bitch to think ill of ye and to accuse ye of such a thing. I hope ye know my words came from despair. And. Naething. Else.” Her jaw jutted.
“Don’t despair, Helen.”
“I willnae. I dinnae.”
He bowed. “I accept your apology.”
“I do have something to sell.” Helen pulled up her skirts.
Wait, what? Was she going to offer herself to him for money, here and now? Whore herself? Surely, not Helen Boyd. And hadn’t she just accepted his word that he would not take advantage?
He was relieved when her skirts were arrested halfway up her thin thighs and her hand went to the dirk she had strapped there. He never thought he would be relieved to see a knife in the hand of someone who hated him, but he was. He hadn’t wanted to lose his picture of Helen as an uncompromising countess, a woman above besmirching herself that way.
“’Tis very old. Carried by the Earl of Kinmarloch for centuries. Used against the English and others in battle. But I have the right to sell it.”
She held it toward him, handle first. He took it carefully. Jewels glinted in the hilt.
“I’ll buy it,” he said abruptly. “It will more than cover the cost of what is needed to be done here.”
Silently, she unstrapped the sheath from her thigh and handed it to him. As her skirts fell back down her legs again, Jack felt an odd pang. He had liked seeing the pale skin of her legs, the muscle from walking the hills, her knobby knees. But it was more than that. He liked that she had shown something of herself to him. Something private. Something that was more than her legs.
“So,” he said, sheathing the dirk. “Which is it to be? Cottage or keep?”
Some deep war was being fought within her, Jack knew. But he was proud of her answer. Because it was both the right one and the one she didn’t like.
“Cottage.”
“Good.”
“Aye.”
“When your fortunes are better, you can get the keep fixed.”
“It has stood for five centuries, Jack Pike. I suppose it can wait a dozen years or more for a new roof.”
“Your children will live there, Helen.”
He had meant it to be comforting. A sop to her pride. But it had been the wrong thing to say. She whirled and strode away from him.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
A muffled answer came back to him. “Walking. Back. Now.”
