Her knees dissolved into clotted cream. She realized suddenly that her hands were shaking, and she returned to the chair and sank into it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” There was a hard, contemptuous edge to his voice.
“For keeping your promise.”
His blue eyes were cold as ice, and his shoulders heaved with barely contained fury. Hepulledthe wig off his head, dropped it lightly to the floor, then walked out of thehallwithout a word.
Chapter Twenty-one
Duncan entered his study, looked around atallthe dusty books androlled-up documents, his telescope in the window, and the portrait of his French mother over the mantel. He slammed the door shut behind him, then turned and rested his forehead against it. Closing his eyes, he fought to suppress his fury.
He had never felt such desire tokilla man. For a few unpredictable seconds, even his passion for Amelia was overshadowed by a blind lust for blood. He hadn’t been certain he could resist the lure of drawing his sword from his scabbard and piercing Richard Bennett straight through his cold, black heart. Even now, when Duncan thought of what Muira had endured in the orchard that day, and what Amelia might have experienced as that man’s wife, he wanted to wrap his hands around Bennett’s throat and squeeze until every last drop of putrid life drained out of his body.
Duncan pounded his fist repeatedly against the door. He felt like he was being ripped in two. What sort of man was he? Was he the diplomatic aristocrat his mother had raised him to be? The educated scholar, who was pledged to marry an English duke’s daughter? Or was he his father’s son? A battle-scarred warrior, conceived in a whore’s bed, seething with darkness and vengeance. A man who solved his problems with an axe.
He turned around, tipped his head back against the door, and tried to make sense of his duality and the savage warrior that existed within.
On the battlefield, he had neverkilledgratuitously. He had long been aware of the consequences of death. One person’s demise had a ripple effect on the world. Others suffered and mourned that loss and were affected in ways only God could understand. Sometimes grief gave rise to compassion and kindness, depth of feeling, and an understanding of the soul.
Other times, it created monsters.
Hewas one such monster.
Richard Bennett was another.
Duncan opened his eyes and wondered suddenly—where had Bennett’s cruelty come from? Did he have a whore for a mother? Or had someone he cared about been sliced without mercy from his life?
A knock at the door startled Duncan. He took a step away from it. Without waiting for an invitation, Amelia pushed her way inside. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, facing him with her hands behind her back. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide.
She was afraid of him. No wonder. She had seen the monster just now. He felt a terrible, crippling shame, which caught him off guard.
“Why didn’t youtellme about your real mother?” she asked. “And that your fatherkilleda bishop? It wouldn’t have mattered—I choose to judge you for yourself—but I wish you had told me.”
He had no answer. His head wasfullof thistles. He couldn’t seem to think.
She did not press him, and he wondered how it was possible that any woman could be so calm in a situation such as this. Why was she even here? He half-expected her to be down in the dungeon, apologizing to Bennett for the way he had been treated and begging him to take her home, away from here.
“That was difficult for you,” she said.
Wordsspilledout before he could stop them. “I wanted to stab him through the heart.”
She stiffened. “I could see that.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, and the silence seemed almost thunderous in his ears. He didn’t want her here, in his private sanctuary. He wanted to push her from the room. But another part of him objected. Part of him needed her. Wanted her. Desired her.
Was this love?
No, that could not be possible. How could he feel so many different things at once? Hatred, anger, restlessness.
Sorrow.
“You resistedkillinghim,” she continued as she moved away from the door, forcing Duncan to back up into the middle of the room. “And you prevented Angus from doing so aswell.”
Duncan let his eyes travel down the front of her gown, then back up again to the lush curve of her breasts, and final y to the gentle light of compassion in her eyes.
“If you hadn’t been there,” he said, “I might not have been so merciful. I’ve said it before, lass—you have a way of tempering my cruelty, ofpullingme back from the brink. I hate you for it sometimes. But other times, I don’t know what to make of it. Or of myself.”
