When the Scoundrel Sins

by Anna Harrington

  Tonight had opened his eyes. He could make his success here, where proving himself would be difficult and complicated, and become a better man for it. The borderlands certainly weren’t the soil-rich lands that he had wanted as the foundation for his future, yet the offer he’d made tonight to Bartleby for Kinnybroch would put him well on the way. And make for equal partners in his marriage with Annabelle. The new combined estate would be theirs, a grand property to oversee together, where they would launch their lives and raise their family. Where he could prove himself away from Trent’s shadow and make his father proud of him, just as he’d wanted. And where he was needed.

  “I don’t want you to give up your dream for America,” she protested breathlessly. “I know how important that is to you, and I would never ask that of you.”

  “You didn’t. I came to that decision on my own,” he assured her. “With a little help from Robert. You need me, Annabelle.” He leaned over her and lowered her down onto her back on the mattress with a deep and hungry kiss. “Haven’t you realized that yet?”

  “Quinton.” His name was a heartbreaking ache for mercy, but he had no intention of giving her quarter. Not until she stood next to him in a church and pledged her life to him.

  “I’m staying with you.” He sucked gently at her bottom lip, then groaned at how sweet she tasted, that delicious flavor of the northern wilds, of heather and mountains and sky…“And I want you to have these pearls, something as special and precious as you are. Besides,” he murmured, placing a kiss on the side of her neck where the two strands crossed, “they’re beautiful on you.”

  Exquisite, in fact. The first loop of pearls draped down across her bare breasts, flirting tantalizingly at her dusky nipples, while the second fell down farther to graze her belly. Warm arousal stirred inside him at the erotic sight.

  “You will keep them,” he insisted as his lips went to her throat to suck at the pearls resting on her delicate skin. “And you will wear them on the day we’re married. Understand?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t—”

  “Annabelle.” Her name was a warning that he would brook no argument about this. Because his next course of action would have been to tie her up with them to make her see reason…although, he considered as he rubbed the smooth pearls back and forth across her nipples and watched shamelessly as they hardened beneath the soft friction, tying her up might not be such a bad idea after all.

  “I can’t accept them, Quinton,” she rasped out chokingly. “And I won’t marry you.”

  “You will,” he argued softly. Marriage was the right future for both of them, making both their dreams come true. More—she needed him, and he certainly needed her.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Why not?” he cajoled softly as his mouth followed the rope down to her breasts, to lave at her nipples with his tongue. Whatever her reason, he would prove it wrong—

  “Because I love you,” she whispered, and the anguished sound sliced through him like a saber.

  * * *

  Belle held her breath as Quinn froze, his mouth stilling against her, and waited for him to reply. Her heart pounded brutally as it ticked off each silent second, and each passing moment only made her more miserable than she’d ever been before in her life. Because she knew the harsh truth.

  For all his pretty words and charming smiles, for all his insistence that she marry him, he did not love her.

  When she could bear his silence no longer, she slid out from beneath him and off the bed. Thankfully, he let her go, but the heat of his puzzled stare fixed on her as she snatched up her discarded night rail and pulled it over her head. Her shaking fingers tangled the ribbon at her neckline into a knotted mess.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the stunned expression on his handsome face and pressed her hand against her chest, where her foolish heart continued to pound away. Didn’t the silly thing know it was broken? The irony burned inside her. Three weeks ago she was desperate to marry him; now she couldn’t bear the thought of being the wife he didn’t love.

  Pulling in a deep breath, she forced down the hollow pain smoldering inside her chest. “Do you know why I followed you into the darkness tonight during the party? Because I’d already made my decision to not marry. Tonight was to be the one and only time I would ever make love to a man,” she said softly. The raw sincerity came easier than she’d imagined, but it didn’t stop her heart from bleeding. “And I wanted it to be with you.”

  He stared at her, stunned at her confession. “Belle, I—”

  “It was wonderful, Quinton. You were wonderful. But I never expected you to marry me because of it. Not then, not now.” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear seeing his shocked expression. “In the end, you were right about me. I couldn’t bring myself to marry someone who didn’t love me.” Shaking her head, she forced a smile, but it only deepened her sorrow. She choked out—“And I still can’t.”

  Years of marriage to him, living with him and loving him, even bearing his children— Dear God. A different kind of hell than the one her mother suffered in her marriage, but still agony. To dedicate her life and heart to a man who did not love her in return, to be so close to his love that she could feel it and taste it, but never have it…how would she ever survive?

  He rolled off the bed and stalked toward her. “We need each other, Annabelle. As estate partners, as friends, as lovers…I want all of that with you. You’re beautiful and intelligent, and you make me feel alive. How could I not want you for my wife?”

  A soft sob tore through her. Damn him for saying such wonderful things! And damn him for putting his arms around her, for drawing her close against him…Oh, he wasn’t helping, not at all! Because for all his sweet words and tender touches, there was no admission of love. And she knew in her heart that there never would be.

  “Quinton—” Her throat tightened as he caressed his lips across her shoulder, her eyes closing tightly against the unbearable tenderness of his kiss.

  “I care about you, Annabelle. And I want to make you happy.” He kissed her gently and murmured against her lips, “We need each other, and that’s enough. What more could love do but cause problems?”

  “Allow for a true partnership, for one,” she whispered. Something her parents never had.

  “We would have that.” He took a deep breath and confessed, “I spoke to Bartleby about it tonight. I’m taking the money I saved for America and purchasing more land for us. For us, Belle. Property we’ll own and manage together.”

  What should have made her heart soar only made it tear more deeply. “And inside the house where we live?” she murmured, unable to find her voice beneath her sorrow. No matter how much the hopefulness of his words warmed her chest, owning property together would only be part of their lives. “Would we be partners there, too? When we disagree—and we will disagree, Quinton, it’s our nature—without love to get us through the bad times…” She shook her head and whispered, “Our marriage becomes nothing but a prison.”

  “No, it won’t.” The determination inside him was strong, but it didn’t bring her comfort. “We were friends first before we ever considered anything more, and we’ll stay friends after we marry.”

  “I saw what my parents had for a marriage.” She blinked rapidly as his handsome face blurred unrecognizably beneath her hot tears. “They didn’t have love, which meant they didn’t have respect for each other. But they had resentment, bitterness, anger…so much anger!”

  “I’m not Marcus Greene,” he countered fiercely. “I would never lay a hand on you or treat you the way he treated your mother.”

  “I know that,” she whispered achingly. “But I also know that the damage you could do to me could be so much worse, just because I love you. You wouldn’t have to do anything except not return my love, and the pain would be unbearable.” She shook her head, the anguish already burning inside her so hotly that she shuddered. “I couldn’t bear that kind of marriage with you.”

&
nbsp; “You think love would make it better?” His arms tightened around her, as if he were afraid she’d leave him right then. “Love can make things worse, Annabelle. Look at my parents—when my father died, my mother was devastated. Her entire life was ripped out from under her. It took her weeks to crawl out of bed, and every breath she took filled her with such grief, such desolation, that it nearly killed her, too.”

  “Quinton,” she whispered, struck by the raw emotion in him. His jaw tightened as the grief of the memories mixed with his frustration, until it seeped inside her, as palpable as falling rain.

  “And your real parents, Belle…what did love do for them?” He shook his head. “In my experience, love causes nothing but destruction and heartache. Why would you want that?”

  Slowly, she stepped back, just out of his grasp, should he attempt once more to reach for her. Because she wasn’t certain she had the strength to push him away if he did.

  “You’re wrong, Quinton,” she said softly. “Without love there’s nothing.” She ached with a sorrow for him so intense that she couldn’t stop trembling, with so much grief that each breath burned in her chest. The breathless whisper fell from her lips. “Those hours of grief and pain can never add up to all the years of happiness and love.”

  “Annabelle.” Her name was a plea as he closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rested his forehead against hers.

  A sob choked from her, and despite herself, her arms went around his shoulders, to press herself close. One final time. “Can’t you…” she breathed out, so softly that she could barely hear her own voice over her pounding heartbeat, “can’t you find a way to…” She couldn’t stop the hot tears from spilling down her cheeks. “Do you think…someday…”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, so softly that it was barely a sound at all.

  But she heard it, and it ripped all the way down to her soul. Every breath emerged as a blinding pain, and every pounding beat of her heart was agony.

  “I care about you, Annabelle, and I want to spend the rest of my life protecting you and laughing with you, holding you close every night.” All of him shook as he dragged in a jerking breath. “Needing and caring, friendship and respect…we have all that,” he rasped out, each word a tickling warmth against her lips. “Let that be enough.”

  But it would never be enough. Not without his love.

  Her heart began to crack, like a thousand fingers splintering through glass. She felt each one slice through her, a thousand tiny cuts, each one more painful than the last.

  He tipped up her face, to make her look at him, but she closed her eyes, unable to bear it. “Marry me, Annabelle,” he urged her one last time.

  “No,” she breathed, and her heart shattered completely.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Quinton sat in one of the leather reading chairs in the library and stared at the walls of books surrounding him. Through the tall windows, the morning sun inched higher over the mountains in the distance, lighting the large room that Belle loved so much.

  Books…books…everywhere he looked. And not one answer to be found in any of them.

  Blowing out a hard breath, he leaned forward in the chair, knees on elbows. The confusion that had clawed at his insides since he left Belle’s room last night pulsed inside him as fiercely as ever.

  Good Lord. The Bluebell loved him.

  She was mistaken, that was all. Confused. God knew he’d been plagued with enough confusion of his own since the moment she’d shattered in his arms. No—since long before that. Since the moment he first kissed her six years ago.

  She drew him the way no other woman ever had. Nor most likely ever would again. One of her smiles sent his heart racing, and her needling criticisms only made him want her even more. And would he ever be able to enter a library again without thinking of her and all the things about men and women she’d learned by reading? The alluring, delectable way she looked, whether in silk gowns or men’s work clothes, had him half-hard right now just thinking about how that caramel hair of hers fell around her shoulders, how those honey-amber eyes melted into him. Never had he wanted a woman as much as he did Annabelle.

  Yet his attraction wasn’t only lust. Which was the most bewildering of all.

  He’d found himself enjoying her company and looking forward to spending time with her, even if only to argue over the newspaper at breakfast or to battle over a chess game. Her laughter was like music, and whenever she looked at him, her eyes shining, a warmth filled his chest. Happy. Energized. He cared about her and liked spending time with her, he would admit to that. He’d been happier here in the borderlands with her in the last few weeks than he’d been in the last several years.

  But she wanted love. Would he ever be ready for that?

  So he’d come here, to the one place she loved most in all the world, in a desperate attempt to understand her. He stared at the room around him as if it were a puzzle to be solved. But he couldn’t find the answer.

  “What on earth are you doing in here?” his aunt asked, dumbfounded, as she stopped short in the doorway.

  Quinn glanced up quickly, only to be struck by a pang of disappointment that Belle wasn’t with her. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

  “Because it’s the library,” she explained as she came forward into the room.

  He rolled his eyes as he grumbled beneath his breath, “I studied at Oxford, you know.” Why wouldn’t anyone believe that?

  She added quietly, “It’s also Annabelle’s favorite room.” She paused. “Were you hoping to find her here?”

  Exactly that. In more ways than his aunt realized. But admitting that would make him sound exactly like the kind of lovesick pup he wasn’t.

  He shoved himself out of the chair and stalked across the room to the shelf that held the Bibles and reached behind them for the Bowmore. He held up the bottle in silent offer.

  “Awfully early for a drink,” she commented. When Quinn arched a brow at that, she added, “Well, someone had to say it, for propriety’s sake.” She pointed at the row of hymnals on the next shelf. “We keep the glasses there. Don’t be stingy on my pour.”

  “Of course.” He splashed the golden liquid into two glasses and carried one to her.

  “If you’re waiting for Annabelle, I’m afraid you’ve missed her.” She accepted her glass. “Angus Burns sent a message to the house, just after dawn. There was a problem in the fields last night.”

  He paused with the glass halfway to his lips, his gut twisting with dread. There hadn’t been any trouble in the past fortnight. He’d hoped the barn fire had been the last of it. “What kind of problem?”

  “One of the gates was accidentally left open, most likely by a departing party guest, and the sheep wandered out of their pasture. They’ve strayed all over Kinnybroch, and the men have set to rounding them up.”

  Suspicion prickled at the back of his neck. That was no accident. “Where’s Belle?”

  “She’s gone out with Mr. Burns and the others. That’s why I was surprised to find you here.” She studied him over the rim of her glass. “I was certain you’d be out in the fields with her.”

  He carefully kept his face inscrutable as he pretended to take interest in the whisky swirling in his glass. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because in the month that you’ve been here, you’ve come to care about this place as much as she does. And to care about Belle as much as she cares about you.” Her old eyes softened on him. “You two belong together. I’ve known that since you were children.” She slowly shook her head. “Six years ago, though, you very nearly ruined everything. She hated you for such a long time after that.”

  And deservedly so. He was only now beginning to realize—and accept—all the wrongs done to her that night.

  Dear God, the stupid, silly things he’d done in his past! Had he really been so immature and naïve to think that he could keep slipping through life by solving all his problems with
fisticuffs? Or that he could avoid all responsibilities of the heart and emotional attachments with only a grin? A fine mess all that had gotten him into. Fate had twisted everything into a knot until the one woman he should never have cared anything about was now the only woman he wanted to marry.

  But not love.

  He wouldn’t put himself into a position to be wounded the same way his mother had, and something deep in his heart whispered that loving Belle would do exactly that.

  She sighed. “I had hoped that this time around would be different.”

  “It is.” Frowning into his glass, he quietly admitted, “Annabelle loves me.”

  His aunt froze, except for her eyes, which widened like saucers. “She…said that?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. He would have puffed out his chest in arrogant pride if Belle hadn’t made it sound like a prison sentence.

  Or expected him to love her back.

  “Yet she refused to marry you?” she breathed out, still staring wide-eyed. If he’d sprouted a second head, his aunt couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “She did.” He tossed back the rest of the whisky.

  Her face fell, and she blinked, utterly bewildered. “Why on earth did she do that?”

  He stared at the empty glass. “She doesn’t want a loveless marriage.”

  “But it wouldn’t be loveless. If you both—” She narrowed her eyes knowingly on him. “You did tell her that you love her, too, did you not?”

  “No.” That familiar pang of uncertainty returned to his chest in full force.

  She gaped at him. “For heaven’s sake, why not?”

  “I won’t start my marriage with a lie.”

  “My dear boy, you won’t start your marriage at all at this rate.” Her eyes swept over him, as if desperate to notice something important that she’d missed before. “You don’t love Annabelle?”

  The quiet question was a punch to his gut. “Annabelle is wonderful.”