He grinned. “That’s very good, love.” His accent was thick, as often happened when they were naked together. He stroked along her jaw. “But you don’t think that’s love?”
She shrugged. “Is it? I feel more for you than any other man, but that doesn’t mean its love, Liam. And you deserve someone who loves you more than the sun and the moon.”
His expression turned wry. “You leave what I deserve to me. Tell me more about what you don’t feel.”
“If you locked me away and took away my books, I would hate you. I’d despise you!”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking away your books.” He sounded shocked that she’d even thought of it.
“That’s because you’re wise. But doesn’t that mean I love my books more than you?”
“Ah. We’re measuring feelings then. You could despise me, so you can’t love me?”
She nodded. “That’s it exactly.”
“What if I swore to never take away your books? Write it on a paper, and I’ll sign it.”
She chuckled at the absurd thought. “I’m serious, Liam. I don’t think I’m capable of love. Not the kind of love you deserve.” Her expression fell. “Which means I should leave soon. I should let you find a woman who worships you as you want.”
“Worship! Good lord, woman, if I wanted worship, I would have become a priest.”
She blew out a breath. Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn’t want that mindless doe-eyed adoration that young girls gave, but that was a far cry from the blandness of her feelings. “I’m milquetoast, and you deserve haggis.”
He chuckled. “I have no idea what that means.”
She dropped her head back, letting her body go limp as she steeped in her misery. “I want to love you,” she said. “I want to feel everything for you, but…” She raised her hands then let them splash back into the water. “I’m milquetoast.” She winced. “A bland, spiritless Sassenach.”
“Where have you gotten these ideas? Have you not run me ragged all through England and Scotland? Wasn’t it you who paid a man to throw knives at me?”
“That was the ghost of your grandmother.”
“That was a fake séance done badly by carnival folk.”
It was.
“And wasn’t it you who pretended to be the ghostly bride of Bride of MacDhubhthaich in little more than your underthings?”
“Beitidh insisted on the dress.”
“You were right convincing with your,Ooooh, aie, where’s me husband?”
She smiled at the memory. “I was rather good at that, wasn’t I?”
“You took my breath away.”
When she didn’t respond, he tugged on her arm, pulling her into his lap. His cock stood hard and proud between them, but he made no move to use it. Instead, he tucked her against his shoulder and spoke in a gentle tone.
“You have spirit, Clara. You have fire and a brain that thinks and thinks, until I near scream at the workings of it.”
“It makes me want to scream sometimes, too.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “So if it’s not your spirit or your mind that’s the problem, then it must be your heart.”
Her breath caught. That’s exactly what she’d been thinking. She had no heart. Or at least not one that could love as normal people did.
“Liam—”
“Clara, it’s not that it can’t love. You’ve got plenty of love for Dierdre and her kin. Rhona’s caught your heart as well, plus all the little ones.”
