Altogether, last night had been a revelation.
He’d been a brute, forcing her to flee from him into the night. He’d caught her and manipulated her into surrender. He’d schemed and blustered and bullied. And his reward had been the best sexual experience of his life.
But now her gallantry had changed everything between them.
The anger driving him for the last three months was absent this morning. His craving for revenge had retreated.
But though he no longer wanted to punish her, he couldn’t let her go. She was his only hope for peace. If nothing else, last night proved that was truer than ever.
Verity was his shield against the demons that pursued him. So her fate was sealed. She must stay with him forever.
The sun was warm on the back of Verity’s neck as she tugged relentlessly at the weeds infesting the flowerbeds behind the house. Kate Macleish, Hamish’s wife, kept a forbiddingly neat kitchen garden to supply the household, but she had no time left over for growing flowers. Verity had noticed the untidy beds yesterday, and the Yorkshire farm lass who still lurked within her had itched to create order.
She hadn’t seen Kylemore all day—he’d been mercifully absent when she’d awoken. She had no idea what she could have said to him.
Actually, she was astonished she’d remained unmolested. Good heavens, she’d slept the night cuddled up to him, for all the world as if she’d wanted to be there. A better man than the duke would have made use of the woman so conveniently at hand.
For the thousandth time, she berated herself for a fool.
What had possessed her to go to Kylemore? Her only hope of prevailing against him was continued resistance. Yet how convincing would refusals sound after she’d crept into his bed without a murmur of protest?
She’d survived and prospered as a courtesan because she’d used her head and not her heart. What if that heart she repudiated ached for his misery? The duke was nothing to her.
But if he was nothing to her, why had the sight of his tears, tears he wasn’t even aware he shed, cut her so deeply?
Some old sorrow plagued him. Some old sorrow that taught him to hide his true feelings behind a mask of ruthless autocracy and perfect control.
She growled her exasperation. With him. With the situation. And with herself most of all. Why should she fret over him? All she wanted was to be free of him, immediately, utterly and forever.
She began to worry at a particularly stubborn root.
Last night, he’d given her sexual pleasure such as she’d never known. She’d never forgive him for it.
But worse, he’d opened a chasm in her heart. She could fight his strength and perhaps even win. But she had no defenses against his need.
She must get away before she did something really stupid.
Like fall in love with the oppressive tyrant who believed he owned her, body and soul. Damn him.
She gave the root a vicious tug, but still it didn’t budge.
“Whisht, lassie! You’ll do yourself a mischief!”
She looked up from her turbulent thoughts to find Hamish Macleish staring at her in consternation. In the outlandish local costume, he looked large and capable, and his bare legs under the kilt were straight and strong.
Earlier, Angus had been on guard duty. He’d tried to divert her from what he’d clearly thought was an inappropriate activity for the lady of the house. She’d pretended not to understand and had kept going.
She was surprised to see Hamish. He’d always studiously avoided her—probably because he was the only servant who spoke English. She couldn’t subvert people who didn’t understand a word she said.
“Good morning, Mr. Macleish.”
/> The angels had been remarkably deaf to her pleas of late. But perhaps they’d heard her last desperate prayer for escape.
“Good morning, my lady.” He stepped closer. “It’s gey stony soil for flowers. My Kate gave up.”
Verity stood and wiped her hands on the faded apron that protected her skirts. “Mr. Macleish, will you help me?”
“Aye, my lady. Although ye ken it’s a wee while since I’ve done any gardening.”