Page 53 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
The storm had washed away the bad weather, it seemed. It had not washed away Callum’s memories of what he had done and said to Ava the night before. He squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself.
Why had he done that? Why had he spoken to her that way, and shoved money at her as if she were nothing but a…
Stop it.It was necessary. Unpleasant, but necessary. Ye kenned that ye needed to cut her loose.
The previous night, he’d fallen asleep on top of his bedsheets, probably because of the quantity of wine he’d drunk. His head ached, and his mouth tasted as if he’d been licking the stone flags in the feasting room.
The canopy spread above his bed, and a spider had woven a cobweb up there overnight. The black dot of the creature itself squatted in the middle of the web, watching him. And itwaswatching him, he was sure of it. Spiders were shockingly clever creatures.
It was a large one, probably as large as his palm with its legs stretched out. It explained why there hadn’t been any annoying flies buzzing around his head during the night. He’d had a spider watching over him.
His mother had told him that spiders in the corner of his room were good luck. They caught insects that might otherwise bother him and never hurt people. They looked odd and could scuttle around in an unsettling way, but they wereessential, she said. Essential.
He lay there and watched it wave its front legs at him for a moment, presumably some sort of warning, should he take it into his head to try stealing the delicious, cobweb-wrapped flies.
It was a fair bargain—the spider protected him from insects in exchange for living up in the canopy of his bed and eating all the insects it could catch.
Memories filtered back from last night. Not the memory of his conversation with Ava—that had never left his memory and would probably haunt his dreams for some time to come.
He closed his eyes, remembering the contempt and anger on her face, how she’d stayed silent, how she’d refused to reach for the money he held out to her. He wondered if the pouch of money was still sitting where he’d left it on the table in her rooms.
He remembered how he’d gone back downstairs to the feasting room because there didn’t seem much else to do, and determinedly drank flagon after flagon of wine, brushing off his uncle and aunt’s nervous questions and Duncan’s pointed stares.
He had to prove that everything was all right, didn’t he? There would be questions, once he told them that the betrothal was over. Duncan would understand, even if he didn’t agree. Marcus and Moira would not. They’d always thought the best of Callum and didn’t understand that poisoned blood ran in his veins.
Groaning aloud, Callum pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
I should never have brought her here.Too late, too late. I’ve given me heart, and I cannae get it back again. I had her, so close to me. She could have been mine, but at what cost? I cannae do that to her.
He felt sick and wasn’t quite sure whether it was because of the whiskey he’d drunk last night or whether it was the realization that he would never love anyone else ever again and was about to let the woman he truly loved slip through his fingers.
There was no other way. He had to keep her safe. Besides, after all he’d done to her, why would she trust him again? He’d taken her heart and played with it. He’d lain with her and then fled from her bed the next morning, treating her like a common…
He swallowed hard, not wanting to finish that sentence, not even in the privacy of his own head. The thought that he was no different from the othermenwho sought her company and paid for it.
And he’d paid for it, too, in a way. He gave a harsh, pained laugh, too loud for the silence of the room.
Would the hurt go away? He hoped so. It had to.
A knock on the door made him jump.
“Go away!” Callum shouted. His voice sounded hoarse.
“No,” came the calm, familiar voice. “Let me in, Callum.”
It was Duncan. Callum imagined him lounging against the doorway outside, picking at his fingernails, maybe eating some purloined treat from the kitchens.
“Go away, Duncan. I dinnae feel well this morning.”
“Aye, I imagine nae, the way ye threw back the wine. Everyone noticed, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, I’m coming in.”
“Ye cannae, the door’s locked.”
“Are ye sure ye locked it last night? Or did perhaps whichever poor fool helped ye back to bed leave it open?”
