Page 81 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
The odds had been against them this morning, and there had been every likelihood that she could have been hurt or worse. Of himself, he wasn’t much concerned. He’d faced more perilous combat during the war and survived. But she, a civilian with no training and unaccustomed to violence, had walked a risky path. Endangering her had gone against every instinct, but he’d been unable to face the thieves alone—not without something going terribly wrong, imperiling her further.
But she’d been magnificent and was safe now.
Those thieving bastards. He would have gladly beaten all four of them into a mash of blood and bone had it not been for the restraining presence of Atherton and some of the fellow guests. So he’d left them hog-tied in the stables and given his statement to the constabulary and had thought that perhaps he’d gotten control of himself.
Until he was alone with Beatrice.
Now they were tangled together, damp with sweat, and all he could think of was the fact that he had come within a hairbreadth of losing her forever. She’d become everything to him. Her laughter, her light, her wisdom, her passion. Life without Beatrice wasunthinkable—he had to do something, anything, to keep her in his life.
“Marry me.” Once he said it, his heart surged because it was the answer he’d been looking for.
Her breathing stopped. “What?”
He lifted up on his elbows to look down into her face. The face he’d come to care about so much it physically pained him. “This is good between us, aye? It needn’t end. We can be married and have this every day for the rest of our lives. We can have all the things we talked about—a lifelong companion to grow old with.”
“I’m already old,” she said softly.
“You aren’t, and that’s not the point.” Her words did not elate him—they were far from the joyful acceptance of his suit.
He still lay atop her, his softening cock pressed against her stomach, and their bodies going clammy in the wake of their frantic sex, so he sat up to fasten his breeches and then hunt down a cloth to clean her. He found a kerchief in his bag and handed it to her.
She wiped her stomach clean of his seed, but her gaze was on him. “Whatisthe point, Duncan?”
He sank into a crouch beside her. “I want us to be together, for the rest of our days. After what happened here today, I dinna ever want to lose you.”
His accent thickened with his urgency, but he didn’t care about that. All that mattered was the shuttered look on her face, sending a chill through him.
She tugged her skirts down. Quietly, she said, “And your solution to this is marriage.”
This was not going as planned—but that wasn’t true. Therewasno plan, and every word from his mouth was forged from feverish desperation.
He took her hand in his. “I’m offering ye me and my heart, forever. As my wife.”
“Duncan.” She pushed up from the floor so that she stood, and he rose with her. Her voice far too mournful, she said, “You are awonderfulman. But to marry again... it frightens me. I think of all the things that could go wrong, how it could fall apart, and I... I die inside.”
“Aye, but it’smeyou’d be marrying.” He thumped a hand to his chest. “Not some cold, controlling nobleman who only wants ye as an ornament. I would have ye be all that ye are and never try to crush your spirit.”
Her look was melancholy but level. “It doesn’t matterwhoI marry. The bonds of matrimony are shackles for women. They take away any scraps of power we might have and give it all to our husbands.”
“It wilna be like that with us,” he insisted.
“Itmight,” she said firmly. “Even if you were good to me, I don’t want tohopefor you or any man to be good to me. I want to be good tomyself. If I ever thought that you could one day change your mind and become not just my husband but mymaster—I’d live in terror of that day. And what ifImadeyouunhappy? I couldn’t do that to you.”
Every word she spoke pierced him like hundreds of bullets, as though he charged the enemy’s line. And yet he kept on running forward, into more gunfire.
“That isn’t going to happen,” he gritted. “I care about you, Beatrice. And I think you care for me.”
“I do, Duncan,” she said, her voice far too heavy for someone admitting they had feelings for him. “And caring for me means listening to me when I say that marriage is simply not possible.”
“We’ve been Mr. and Mrs. Frye all this time.” He knew he sounded desperate but didn’t give a ruddy damn. “It could work.”
“That wasn’t truly being wed to someone,” she countered gently.
“But marriage is what people do,” he rasped. “When people care for each other, and they want to be together, they marry. It’s how things are done. Be my wife, Beatrice.”
Her eyes brimmed with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “Not with me, not anymore. If you do care about me, you won’t keep asking. It isn’t fair to either of us.”
He stared at her, churning with desolation and frustration and the terrible, profound knowledge that she held her truth, he held his, and because of this, they had no future.
