He released a short laugh and turned away. “More fool you.”
Confused, she watched him set the big carved chair nearer to the fire. He undressed down to breeches and a loose white shirt. “It’s only a few hours until dawn. I’ll do quite well here, thank you.”
She’d completely misunderstood him. Not for the first time, she thought with the stabbing regret that seemed her constant companion tonight. When he’d first insisted they share a room, she’d wondered if he had some darker purpose. Some plan to take the wife who so profligately offered herself to another man. To teach her who was her master.
His actions now proved her wrong.
What did she expect? That he’d suddenly want her after all this time? She was a fool. She’d always been a fool where Sebastian Sinclair was concerned.
The constriction returned to her throat, the constriction that felt alarmingly like tears. She lay back and forced herself to speak. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Alicia.”
He blew out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire. On edge and preternaturally aware of his every move, she listened to him settle. He tugged off his boots and drew his greatcoat over him for warmth. There was an odd, familiar intimacy in hearing the creak of the chair and his soft sigh as he extended his legs toward the flames.
Alicia stretched out. The bed was warm and soft, and the sheets smelled fresh. She was weary to the bone, but no matter how she wriggled, she couldn’t find that one comfortable spot.
Recollections of the day tormented
her. Harold’s craven desertion, which should have been a considerably sharper blow than it was. If her original plans had eventuated, she’d now be lying in his arms. She should resent his weakness, his absence, but all she felt was vast relief. Her mind dwelled instead on Kinvarra’s unexpected gallantry. The fleeting moments of affinity in this room. The powerful memories of their life together, memories that tonight stirred poignant sadness, instead of turbulent resentment.
Kinvarra had turned the chair toward the hearth, and all she could see of him was a gold-limned black shape. He was so still, he could be asleep. But something told her he was as wide awake as she.
“My lord?” she whispered.
“Yes, Alicia?” he responded immediately. “Can’t you sleep?”
“No.”
Their voices were hushed, which was absurd as there was nobody to hear. The wind rattled the windowpanes, and a log cracked in the fireplace. He was right, the weather had worsened.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“What is it, then, lass?” He sounded tender, and his Scottish burr was more marked than usual. When his emotions were engaged, traces of his Highland childhood softened his speech. She remembered that from their year together.
That hint of vulnerability made her brave. “Come and lie down beside me. You can’t be comfortable in that chair.”
He didn’t shift. “No.”
“Oh.”
She huddled into the bed and drew the blankets about her neck as if they could fend off the brutal truth. Hurt seared her like a branding iron. Of course he wouldn’t share the bed. He hated her. How could she forget? Tonight he just played the gentleman to a lady in distress. He’d do the same for anyone. Just because Alicia was his wife didn’t make her special. Nothing between them had changed.
When they’d first married, she’d attempted to establish a rapport between them in the daylight hours, some trust that she could carry with her into the nights. But when she’d rebuffed him in bed, he’d rebuffed her during the day. He’d made it blatantly clear that he didn’t want her childish adoration. He wanted a woman who could satisfy him between the sheets, not a silly little girl who froze into a block of ice the instant her husband touched her.
Alicia blinked back more of the tears that had verged close so often tonight. She’d wept enough over the Earl of Kinvarra. She’d wept enough tears to fill the deep, dark waters of Loch Varra that extended down the glen from Balmuir House, his ancestral home.
“Hell, Alicia, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”
She opened her eyes and through the mist of tears saw he’d risen to watch her. The fire lent enough light to reveal that he appeared tormented and unsure. Nothing like the all-powerful earl.
“I’m not crying,” she said in a thick voice. “I’m just tired.”