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I bite my lips, nodding. He deserves that.

But he goes on. “You left.” His voice turns husky. He clears his throat before continuing. “And for all I knew, you were dead. That’s what I told myself, year after year, when you didn’t come back. I could forgive you that, as much as it hurt.”

I move toward him instinctively, reaching out to comfort him. I take his hands in mine, gripping them so he can’t escape. “I’m sorry, Quint. I’m so sorry.” I draw his hands to my face, leaning my cheek against his palm. Haltingly, he moves his hands to cup both my cheeks, drawing me toward him so our foreheads rest together. I breathe him in, letting his touch heal everything. For the first time in months, no note of fear accompanies my thoughts.

I’m complete with him. I just didn’t understand that before.

He sighs my name, “Clara,” before he slowly, reluctantly draws his hands away, but still hovers near. “It wouldn’t be fair. I have finally reassembled the pieces and built a life. I want—I need—a wife and a family. It’s asking too much to risk allowing you to take my heart again. It would not be fair to Kitty. Or to me.” His voice is thick and barely controlled.

My heart breaks all over. Why did I have to come here? “I know. I’m sorry.” Tears pool in my eyes. I feel horrible for them. I can see the way ache pulls at Quint’s expression over them, making him lean closer again.

“Clara, please,” he rasps, his voice utterly broken.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears, and reach up to wipe them away. His hand catches mine, and suddenly his lips brush my forehead, and his arms find my waist, encircling me and drawing me roughly closer. The dam he’s used to protect himself has crumbled.

I throw my arms around his chest, burying myself there. His lips work their way through my hair, to my forehead, and then down to my lips. The intensity reminds me of my first kiss from Quint, but with a slight desperate note to it—aching, instead of demanding.

Then Quint pulls away. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low. “I can’t—” He cuts himself off, turning, swiping up his pistol from the table, and disappearing down the hall.

I plop down onto the floor, arms around my knees and my face pressed into them, holding my breath and trying to stop from sobbing. The memories that come at me punch me in the gut. For the first time, a little girl with golden eyes dances through them.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ben isn’t at lunch the next afternoon—the first time I make an appearance that day. It took me hours to fall asleep as I cautiously picked over memories that were too sharp considering Quint’s behavior toward me. The little girl was enchanting, and the urge to tell him about her is overwhelming.

“Have you seen Ben?” I ask instead and swallow back unhappiness at the hurt that flashes through Quint at my question.

“He left earlier to do some more detective work.”

“He should have at least taken you—as a precaution.” I press my lips together in frustration. Perhaps he still feels like I’m only driving the getaway car, but Ben can’t stop Gibbons on his own.

“He asked me to stay behind in case Gibbons got any ideas about trying to find you here.” Quint hardly looks up from his plate as he speaks, but the difficulty behind his restraint is easier to see now. It feels selfish to find hope in that.

Her hair is more dirty blonde, like mine, but she has your eyes, and she’s perfect in every way. I stare at him, fighting back the words, until he looks up. “Then he should have taken us both.” My voice is shaky and unsure, full of things I wish I could say.

“He would have never allowed you in the part of the city he’s going to.” Quint sounds like he agrees.

Frustration at that line of thinking boils over and spills in poorly thought-out words. “Had I stayed, would you have treated me like this my whole life? Too fragile, too feminine for anything difficult or unsavory?”

Shame for digging around in his open wound shoots through me the second his jaw tenses and hurt explodes in his expression. “We’ll never know,” he says, setting down his fork.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I close my eyes and begin eating.

Mrs. Barrow steps into the room. “Miss Pratt and Miss Catherine are here, Mr. Quinten. I’ve shown them to the library.”

“Thank you.” He stands and follows her out, dipping his head to me before he leaves the room, his expression still filled with ache. It had been childish to use that against him, no matter my frustration.

I would much rather escape to the grounds to sit by the pond than keep company with Kitty and her sister, but ignoring his guests would be rude, and probably incite suspicion between the sisters about why I, simply an old family friend, am avoiding them. So I square my shoulders and head for the library.

Florence has taken a seat when I come in, and Kitty greets Quint with a kiss on the cheek before she sits down in a chair next to him. “How do you do, Miss Mitchell?” she asks when she looks up and sees me.

I sit down on a chair away from them, picking up a book from the end table next to it to place in my lap—just in case. “Well. Thank you. How do you do, Miss Pratt?”

“Quite well.” Kitty looks around. “Where is Mr. Mitchell?”

“He’s been kept away by business. I’m not sure when to expect him back.”

“I find it so interesting that you and your brother travel the world. Have you left a beau behind anywhere?” Kitty stares at me innocently, but I suspect the woman would very much like to hear that I’m taken. Mrs. Barrow had been obvious about Quint’s supposed affection for me, so how much does Kitty suspect about my connection with Quint?