Francesca sagged against the door.
“How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love you. I love you, my cousin’s wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you, Francesca Bridger-ton Stirling, who-”
“Stop,” she choked out.
“Now? Now that I’ve finally gotten started? Oh, I don’t think so,” he said grandly, waving one of his arms through the air like a showman. He leaned in close- painfully, uncomfortably close. And his smile was terrifying as he asked, “Are you scared yet?”
“Michael-”
“Because I haven’t nearly begun,” he said, his voice skipping over hers. “Do you want to know what I was thinking when you were married to John?”
“No,” she said desperately, shaking her head.
He opened his mouth to say more, his eyes still flashing with his contemptuous passion, but then something happened. Something changed. It was in his eyes. They were so angry, so inflamed, and then they simply…
Stopped.
Turned cold. Weary.
Then he closed them. He looked exhausted.
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
She whispered his name.
“Go,” he repeated, ignoring her plea. “If you’re not mine, I don’t want you anymore.”
“But I-”
He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill. “If this is to end, you will have to do it. You will have to walk away, Francesca. Because now… after everything… I’m just not strong enough to say goodbye.”
She stood motionless for several seconds, and then, just when she was sure the tension between them would tighten and snap her in two, her feet somehow found purchase, and she ran from the room.
She ran.
And she ran.
And she ran.
She ran blindly, without thinking.
She ran outside, into the night, into the rain.
She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until she had no balance, was tripping and sliding in the mud.
She ran until she could run no longer, and then she just sat, finding comfort and shelter in the gazebo John had erected for her years earlier, after throwing up his arms and announcing that he’d given up trying to get her to curb her lengthy hikes, and this way at least she’d have a place outside to call her own.
She sat there for hours, shivering in the cold, but not feeling a thing. And all she could wonder was-
Just what was it she was running from?
Michael had no memory of the moments that followed her departure. It could have been one minute, it could have been ten. All he knew was that he seemed to wake up when he realized he’d nearly put his fist through the wall.
And yet somehow he barely noticed the pain.
“My lord?”
It was Reivers, popping his head in to inquire about the commotion.
“Get out,” Michael growled. He didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anyone even breathe.
“But maybe some ice for-”
“Get out!” Michael roared, and it felt as if his body were growing huge and monsterish as he turned. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to claw at the air.
Reivers fled.
Michael dug his fingernails into his palms, even as his right fist was beginning to swell. Somehow the motion seemed the only way to keep the devil inside at bay, to prevent him from tearing the room apart with his very fingers.
Six years.
He stood there, stock still, with only one thought in his head.
Six bloody years.
He’d held this inside for six years, scrupulously kept his feelings off of his face when he watched her, never told a soul.
Six years he’d loved her, and it had all come to this.
He’d laid his heart on the table. He’d practically handed her a knife and asked her to slice it open.
Oh, no, Francesco, you can do better than that. Hold steady there, you can easily make a few more cuts. And while you’re at it, why don’t you take these pieces here and dice them up?
Whoever had said it was a good thing to speak the truth was an ass. Michael would have given anything, both his bloody feet, even, to have made this all go away.
But that was the thing about words.
He laughed miserably.
You couldn’t take them back.
Spread it on the floor now. There you go, stamp it down. No, harder. Harder than that, Frannie. You can do it.
Six years.
Six bloody years, all lost in a single moment. All because he’d thought he might actually have the right to feel happy.
He should have known better.
And for the grand finale, just set the whole bloody thing aflame. Brava, Francesco!
There went his heart.
He looked down at his hands. His nails had carved half-moons into his palms. One had even broken the skin.
What was he going do? What the hell was he going to do now?
He didn’t know how to live his life with her knowing the truth. For six years, his every thought and action had revolved around making sure she didn’t know. All men had some guiding principle in their lives, and that had been his.
Make sure Francesca never finds out.
He sat in his chair, barely able to contain his own maniacal laughter.
Oh, Michael, he thought, the chair shaking beneath him as he let his head fall into his hands. Welcome to the rest of your life.
His second act, as it happened, opened far sooner than he’d expected, with a soft knock on his door about three hours later.
Michael was still sitting in his chair, his only concession to the passage of time the movement of his head from his hands to the seat back. He’d been leaning like that for some time now, his neck uncomfortable but un-moving, his eyes staring sightlessly at some random spot on the ecru silk fabric covering the wall.