Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

Heedless of the warning, she entered and perched a hip on the arm of the chair facing the hearth. “Well, I fear you are going to be in an even fouler temper when I tell you about my evening.”

“Good God, you weren’t attacked—”

“No, no, not me.”

He jerked around, the poker banging against the brass fender.

“Not Caro, either,” she added hastily. “Rather it was your character being hit upon. With innuendo and suggestion, not outright blows. But nonetheless, it did damage.” Her lips compressed in concern. “Mr. Thayer is a very nasty gentleman.”

Alec let out a grunt. “Let him say whatever he wants. Why the devil should I care?”

“Because I have the feeling he is poisoning Caro’s mind with twisted tales of the truth.”

He had worked hard at making himself impervious to pain, but in that instant, a small stab somehow slipped under his guard. Thrusting aside the blade, he repeated, “Why should

I care?”

His sister flinched at the roughness of his tone. “Oh, Alec,” she whispered. “Elizabeth hurt you more than enough in her lifetime. Must you keep letting her wield such power from the grave?”

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t speak of my late wife. There are private places where not even you are allowed to trespass.”

Her chin took on a defiant tilt. “Because you wish to cower in the shadows all alone?”

Good God, Isobel was all sweetness and light—what did she know of shadows?

A dull throbbing began to pound at his temples. If he couldn’t do a better job of protecting her from darkness that lurked inside the hearts of some men, she would learn all too quickly. There were crevasses and corners where the sun never stirred a flicker of illumination.

“Yes, all alone,” he snapped. “Indeed, I can’t think of a place I would rather be than a solitary sanctuary, be it a damp, dark hole in the ground, where I won’t be bedeviled by plaguey women.”

Hooking the poker back in place, Alec took up his glass and the brandy bottle. “So I shall leave the bright blaze of the fire to you and retire to my black-as-Hades bedchamber.”

He stalked out, too angry to care about her stricken expression. It wasn’t until he had slammed the door to his room shut that the flare of emotion died down to remorse.

“Bloody, bloody Hell.” Expelling a harried sigh, he tilted the bottle and eyed the brandy, knowing there wasn’t near enough to submerge him in blissful oblivion. Instead of pouring another measure, he sunk down on his bed and took his head in his hands.

Coward.

Isobel’s accusation cut right to the quick. He had never thought of himself as lacking in backbone. But perhaps that was simply another mistake.

Another delusion.

Her challenge compelled him to admit that he had been afraid to confront the failure of his marriage. Like demons, the reasons teased and tormented him with their whispers of his faults.

Perhaps it was time to fight back. If he was to have any hope of…

Alec suddenly found himself repeating the lines of Caro’s poem on the Scottish moors. She seemed capable of seeing strength and beauty in the harsh ruggedness of the mist-gray stone and storm-colored heather. So hers was the sort of serious sensibility that might overlook his lack of practiced charm and social polish.

She might see their shared interests, their intellectual engagement of more substance than fine manners and flowery compliments.

“Ha,” he breathed, after contemplating the thought for a brief moment. “And pigs might fly.”

Caro was, he reminded himself, a lovely, lively spirited heiress, with legions of London aristocrats seeking to win her hand. Given such circumstances and such choices what lady in her right mind would prefer a rough-cut Scottish savage?

The answer was too depressing to contemplate.

And yet, she had kissed him.

Practicing her flirtations? A spur-of-the-moment whim?