by Anna Durand
No response.
I ached to touch him, but I had no idea how he'd react to that. Instead, I chewed the inside of my lip while I debated how much to say. "Do you want me? Or would you rather get rid of your annoying American wife? I'm in breach of that morality clause in our contract, for sure, what with naked pictures of me —" I choked on the last word but gulped in a breath and kept going. "Naked pictures of me in a newspaper, for everyone to see. The contract says if I shame you in any way, then you can end this, and I won't get your money. Not that I want it, I never did, but I'm not sure if you really believe that, if you want me around anymore or what."
Rory pivoted on his heels and paced to the fireplace, his back to me. He rested a hand on the mantle, but otherwise, his posture remained unchanged.
I regarded him from a distance, unsure whether he was listening to me or tuning me out. Unsure if this was his way of telling me to go away. I'd thought I knew him, but ever since he confronted Graham I'd lost any sense of connection to him.
Except when he'd carried me into our bedroom last night. How could he treat me with such tenderness and then turn away? How could he hold me while he slept and then shut me out like I didn't matter at all?
Tears pooled in my eyes, a stinging tide desperate to flow. I blinked back the tears.
My gaze landed on the papers on the floor.
I crouched to collect them, my hands shaking as I swept the pages into a stack. I glimpsed the contents of the papers, and a coldness flooded through me. Though the pages were out of order, I recognized the text on the top sheet. This was our marriage contract. I flipped through the pages until I found what should've been the last page, where I'd signed it. Beneath my signature, where Rory would've signed, I saw only a blank line.
Stunned, I couldn't move or look away from the page.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice weak and almost pleading.
Rory turned his head in my direction. Something flashed on his face — shock or fear or anger, I couldn't say for sure — but it evaporated in an instant.
"You didn't sign the contract?" I said, the words part question, part accusation. Heat bloomed in my chest, searing its way outward.
Rory took three halting steps toward me, one hand outstretched as if to rip away the papers I held.
I flapped them in the air between us. "How could you not sign it? You said you would. You let me believe you had. The contract was a promise, you said that. A one-sided promise, turns out."
He lowered his hand.
My fingers crooked into the papers, crumpling them. "Was this a big joke? Trick the stupid, silly American into marrying you. Is this your way of getting revenge on the gold digger? Except I don't give a damn about your money. I give a damn about you. The joke's on me, I guess."
His fingers twitched, curled toward his palms, then flexed straight.
A few minutes ago, I might've tried to puzzle out the meaning of the movements or find a sign in his eyes. None of that mattered now.
"You promised to be honest with me," I said. "But you lied. You know how I feel about secrets, and still you betrayed me. I poured everything I have into helping you because I believed you wanted my help, but you were just… What? Playing me? Using me? I don't understand what you hoped to gain from lying about the contract, I really don't."
I thought his shoulders bunched, though the movement was so slight I couldn't be sure. Tears flowed down my face, my cheeks burned with what must've been a crimson flush, and I couldn't seem to take a whole breath.
Words kept tumbling out of me. "You don't love me, do you? I pushed you to do things you never wanted. I swore I didn't mean to change you, actually believed it too. But that's what I did, isn't it? I tried to turn you into something you're not. Maybe I deserved to be lied to and treated like a trophy wife."
Did I believe that? I had no clue anymore. The anger emanated from pain, and the pain had stemmed from Rory's betrayal. Was I overreacting? I couldn't think anymore. Reason had fled the scene, leaving me with the carnage. If only he would speak, to explain, to tell me I was wrong.
I mopped at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. "I never cared about the stupid contract, but you should've told me you didn't want to sign it. We could've talked about it and… God, I don't know. You should've told me why you didn't want to sign. Tell me now, please, you owe me that much."
His amber eyes told me nothing, and I held out little hope he'd answer me. He'd shut down and shut me out.
"At least tell me one thing," I said, uncaring whether I sounded pathetic and needy. "What was Skye about? The things you told me there. We got closer, a hell of a lot closer, and I don't think that was all in my head. It meant something, didn't it?"
Silence, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.
His unblinking gaze was riveted to me.
Did I imagine the pain in those eyes? How could I know anything? I'd trusted him, and he lied.
I covered my eyes with the heels of my hands, my breaths hiccupping. When I let my hands fall away, I shook my head slowly. "You don't trust me. Nothing I say will change that. I spent so long trying to help you, to give you what you need, that I stopped thinking about what I need."
His lips compressed.
"Say something," I demanded. When he didn't, I shook my head again as tears streamed down my cheeks. "I'm exhausted. Fighting to get you to let me in, even a little bit, it's like trying to drill through a mountain with a plastic spoon. I can't do this anymore, I can't."
His fingers twitched.
I smacked my hands on his chest. "Say something, dammit, I'm begging you. Talk to me."
Nothing.
My lips quivered, my hands trembled, my eyes blurred with tears. "I can't do this anymore."
At last, he spoke. "You're leaving."
No hint of emotion in his voice. The only clue came from his fingers bent into his palms, but I had no energy left to decipher the gesture.
"I don't want to leave," I said, "but we can't go on like this. I need time to think. Time away from you."
Saying it made my gut wrench and my throat burn, but I had no choice. Maybe I'd turned into a desperate idiot, but I prayed my leaving would force him to reconsider his actions. And then, if he felt anything for me at all, maybe he'd explain why he'd never signed the contract.
This was about so much more than the contract, though. So much more.
I was taking the biggest risk of my life. Either he'd wake up and be the man I'd believed he was, or he'd prove me wrong and I'd lose everything.
Please, God, let me be right about him.
Rory took one step backward. "Leave, then."
I wrapped my arms around myself, overcome by a sadness so intense it gripped my soul. "If that's all you have to say… You've left me no choice, Rory. I'm sorry."
My feet felt heavy as I trudged toward the doorway.
"Where will you go?" he asked.
"I don't know. A hotel, I guess."
Several long seconds of silence followed. At last, I gave up and slogged up to the third floor and our bedroom. The further I traveled from the sitting room and Rory, the more the heaviness in my feet spread up my body. In the bedroom, I took out my suitcase and began to stuff clothes into it with all the vigor of a zombie. I didn't hear Rory approaching until he spoke from the doorway.
"I called Lachlan," he said. "He and Erica have offered to let you stay with them."
I dropped a half-folded shirt into the suitcase. "Thank you."
My voice sounded as dead as his.
"Tavish will drive you," he said.
"Don't bother him. I can drive myself, unless you're taking back my wedding present."
A muscle in his jaw pulsed. "Tavish will drive you."
I gave up arguing.
Ten minutes later, I watched in the side mirror of the Mercedes as the figure of Rory dwindled and vanished. Neither Tavish nor I spoke during the drive to the hills
outside Ballachulish, where Lachlan and Erica lived on their farm. The clouds seemed to bear down on me as I followed Tavish into the farmhouse. He'd insisted on carrying my bag. If I hadn't been exhausted in every way, I would've kissed him on the cheek for his sweetness.
After depositing my bag on the wood floor of the entryway, Tavish gave me a quick, awkward hug and left.
Erica hugged me next, her face revealing a sympathy that made tears prick at my eyes anew.
Lachlan hugged me too, surprising me so much I could do nothing except gape at him.
My hosts led me into the living room where Nicholas played with a squeaky elephant toy. The toddler squealed when he spotted me. "Em-ree!"
I knelt beside him, tousling his chestnut hair. The hair matched his mother's, but the ice blue of his eyes echoed his father's.
Lachlan cleared his throat. "I'll give Rory a ring to let him know you're here safe."
"He was so worried," Erica said. "He made Tavish bring you because you're too upset to drive. He was afraid you'd wind up at the bottom of Loch Leven."
I froze in the middle of handing Nicholas a red plastic ring that fit onto a little treelike contraption. "Rory told you that?"
"Aye," Lachlan said. "He made me promise to let him know the minute you arrived. 'The very minute' was his exact words. He repeated it twice."
Lachlan hustled off to call Rory, and I threw myself into playing with a toddler to avoid pondering why Rory cared so much about my safety. He hadn't cared enough to stop me from walking out the door.
He does care, that's why, declared an irritating little voice in my head.
After a while, Erica insisted I "veg out" in front of the TV because, as she'd diagnosed me, I suffered from depression brought on by a fight with my husband. The argument itself had originated with the trauma of a scandal instigated by "that sleazebag," aka Graham Oliver.
Rory and I hadn't fought. Things might've turned out differently if we had. He'd refused to acknowledge anything I said until I told him I needed time away.
That night, I tossed and turned in a strange bed, haunted by the memory of Rory's blank face and his frigid tone of voice. Yet when I finally sank into a deep enough slumber to dream, I relived the night on Skye when he'd made love to me with the tenderness and passion of a man who cherished me more than anything.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A baby monitor lay in the middle of the kitchen table between me and my hosts. I slumped in my chair, one arm slack on the tabletop, while Erica sat straight in her chair across from me. To her right, Lachlan lounged in another chair. He'd turned it toward his wife and draped one arm on the table, his fingers tapping an erratic beat.
Three bowls had been pushed to the side or toward the center of the table, the spoons balanced inside them. Erica and Lachlan had polished off their oatmeal, but I'd done little more than pick at it. Nausea plagued me this morning, making breakfast less than appealing.
A baby noise, something like a sigh, emanated from the monitor.
Lachlan tensed and asked Erica, "Should I check on him?"
"Nicky's fine. Sleeping."
Her husband relaxed back into his chair.
Though I aimed my gaze at the oatmeal bowl, my thoughts revolved around one thing — Rory. I'd thought of nothing else since the moment I walked out of the house yesterday. One day? Was that all it had been? Felt like weeks, months, longer. Rory hadn't called, texted, sent a letter, or stopped by. Okay, I could admit it. I'd suffered the silly romantic fantasy he'd rush after me, catch me before I got in the car with Tavish, and beg me to stay.
Nope.
When that didn't happen, I'd fantasized about him driving up to this farmhouse to sweep me into his arms, apologize with sweet words and sweeter kisses, and whisk me home.
Nope.
My last-ditch fantasy involved me waking up this morning to find him sleeping on the front steps, waiting for me to come outside and find him there, pitiful in his regret and profuse with his apologies. He would, naturally, beg me to come back to him.
Nope.
Erica leaned across the table to clasp my hand in both of hers. "He'll come to his senses. Rory's not an idiot."
"No," I said with a rueful little smile, "but he is stubborn as hell and terrified of getting hurt again."
Erica's empathetic expression made my stomach hurt. "Give him time. Aidan waited two weeks for Calli to change her mind, and I made Lachlan wait two months." She slung her husband a playfully chastising glance. "He deserved it, though. Didn't you, honey?"
Lachlan shook his head, his lips ticking up. "I fell to my knees and begged your forgiveness, but still you made me wait."
"A few days." Erica sat back and patted her husband's knee. "It all worked out in the end, just like it will for Emery and Rory."
Though I heard her words, my brain — my heart, actually — had gotten hung up on what Lachlan said. He'd fallen to his knees and begged Erica. My dreams of Rory coming to sweep me off my feet involved an identical act of supplication, but I doubted he'd ever do that. Rory was stubborn and proud and entrenched in the past so deeply I didn't know if he could excavate his way out.
Lachlan made a dismissive noise. "I've known Rory all his life, and I've never seen him so full of angst over a woman before."
Angst. The very word made nausea roil in my gut. I didn't think me making him angst-ridden was a good thing.
Erica flashed her husband an irritated look. "She's depressed, Lachlan. We're trying to cheer her up, not make her feel worse."
"I didnae —"
"You just told Emery she's the reason Rory's a mess."
Lachlan started to speak but stopped. After a couple seconds, he said, "I meant he's never been like this before because he's never cared so much about keeping a wife, and he has no bloody idea how to do it." Lachlan looked straight at me. "He loves you. He'll come soon, you'll see. Rory doesn't waste time."
That was true. Rory had steamrolled the legal systems of two countries to get us married and get me a visa. He'd steamrolled me into moving to Scotland. Hell, the night we met he'd convinced me to sleep with him in a matter of minutes.
He didn't waste time. So, where the hell was he?
"Rory will come," Lachlan insisted.
"I walked out yesterday. I seriously doubt I'm going to look out —" I slashed a hand toward the window above the kitchen sink that overlooked the driveway and swung my gaze in the same direction. "— that window and see…" My voice trailed off as I spotted a car rolling to a stop outside. "Rory's Mercedes in the driveway. Him getting out of the car. Marching up to the door and —"
A determined fist rapped twice on the front door, the sound echoing down the hallway.
Lachlan and Erica exchanged surprised glances.
"It's him," I said, my pulse racing.
Erica flapped a hand at me. "Go, go. Talk to him."
Adrenaline powered my limbs as I flew out of my chair so fast it toppled over backward. I hurtled out into the hall and to the door, but I halted with my hand on the knob.
"We'll be in here," Erica called from the kitchen, "in case you need Lachlan to whoop his brother's behind."
"Aye," Lachlan said.
I took a deep breath and let it out. Then I opened the door.
Rory's body consumed the doorway. He wore that unreadable expression. "Please come home. I love you."
My mouth dropped open, but I couldn't summon words. His tone of voice, like his expression, gave nothing away. Oh how I'd dreamed of him speaking those words. The reality kind of, uh, fell flat.
Not entirely flat. My tummy fluttered a touch, but no butterflies took flight. What happened next counted more than his matter-of-fact declaration.
"Told ye," Lachlan shouted from the kitchen. "He doesn't waste time."
"Quiet," Erica chastised.
I shooed Rory away with my hands. "Outside. Please."
He shuffled backward, his brows knitt
ing together, and kept backing up until I'd shut the door and situated us away from it.
"That's it?" I said.
"I thought you'd want to hear — you said —" He squinted his whole face and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he met my gaze again, his eyes evinced a desperation I'd never seen before. "You wanted me to say it. I thought this would… fix things."
Oh jeez. Lachlan was right. Rory had no clue how to do this. Love had no rules he could follow, which left him floundering.
"If you'd said that a few days ago," I told him, "it would've fixed everything. But after yesterday… I don't know how we make this right. I'm sorry, I just don't know."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you want to?"
"Want to what?"
"Do you want to work this out?" He pinned me with the bleakest stare I'd ever witnessed, on him or anyone. "Do you want me?"
A pang in my chest. A lump in my throat. I fought the impulse to throw my arms around him and kiss him until he stopped looking at me that way.
"Rory." I clamped my hands under my arms. "I love you. I want to be with you. But saying you love me doesn't resolve any of the problems I tried to talk to you about so many times. It doesn't erase what happened between us yesterday. You hurt me more than ever."
He raised his hands as if to touch me but let them fall. His mouth open, he gave a weak shake of his head. "I thought you'd be happy."
"That you're here? That you love me? It's all well and good but —" I winced at a pain that twisted around my navel. Too much stress, for sure. "You just stood there. Robot Rory staring at me like I was invisible."
"How could I stare if you're invisible?"
"Don't be obtuse on purpose. You know what I mean."
He hung his head. "Aye."
Scrubbing my cheeks with my palms, I tried to think in spite of the nausea and the weird pain in my gut. I wasn't cut out for drama like this. "I told you everything — everything — I was feeling. I told you how much I love you. And you said nothing. I cried, and I said I had to leave. You said nothing. While I walked out the door, you stood there watching like it didn't matter to you at all."
He lifted his head, and I knew he was about to object.