Twenty

Caitlin wasn't sure exactly what she'd expected Michael's reaction to be, but she'd thought he'd say something , even if it was a refusal. He didn't. He only stared at her for a long moment with a blank, unreadable expression, then looked down and finished pouring the tea. As if she hadn't spoken at all.

She walked around the table toward him. He must not have understood. "Mr. James said I could take a maid. You remember? Well . . ." She laid a hand on his arm, allowing a bit of a coy tease into her voice. "You're me most trusted servant. Me secretary. Surely, I could bring you instead?"

He pushed past her to bring the kettle back to the hearth.

Caitlin's hand was still raised, though now she touched only air. She let it drop and turned to watch him, the dull shine of the gray light on his hair, the linen of his shirt, damp and clinging to his skin. "‘Tis only a month left on your sentence." She could hear the desperation filtering into her voice, but she had to say it. If there was any chance he'd agree . . . "Surely, Mr. Flemming could use his influence to get your pardon just a bit early."

He stood with his back to her, staring into the fire.

"You needn't stay in Scotland forever." She was pleading now. "Only until I'm settled. It would be such a comfort, and you'd be out of this damn place. You could go to England. Home ."

Still no response. He crossed his arms.

Caitlin felt her shoulders droop. His silence made it clear—he didn't want to go.

She searched her mind for anything else she could say. But there was nothing. He'd be a free man—his own man—in just a few weeks. Why should he want to go to Scotland where he knew no one, as a servant, no less? He'd never spoken of his home or his family. Quite possibly he had none. Or he wouldn't be welcome if he did.

She released a deep sigh. What to say? This heaviness between them was exactly why she hadn't asked him to stay this morning.

How could it be that had only been this morning?

They stood frozen in place for what seemed like hours, the sound of rain tapping on the roof. Michael staring into the hearth. Caitlin staring at Michael's back.

Melia murder. This was ridiculous. She opened her mouth to speak, then quicky closed it to quell her quivering lip. She tried again, this time tightening her jaw and forcing the words out. "Never mind. ‘Twas a silly idea. You'll be free soon, And I'll—"

"Enough!" Michael wheeled around. The tendons on his neck stood out in stark relief, his face pinched and white. His eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Michael." Caitlin searched his expression for something familiar, something she understood, but she'd never seen him like this. He was shaking. Livid. What could possibly have him so upset? "‘Tisn't a problem. I—"

"I said enough ." He advanced with long, forceful strides. "Stop. Talking."

For the first time since he'd come to live in her house, Caitlin was afraid. Her stomach lurched, and she backed up a step, then two. Yet he kept coming.

Her heart was hammering. He wouldn't hurt her, would he?

"Michael. Please ." She held up her hands, creating a barrier between them.

"I'm not. Going. To Scotland." His breath seared her skin, and it was like a flame to a wick, burning his anger into her. How dare he come at her like this? She'd said nothing to provoke him. Nothing .

She would not cower.

Her own anger flared red hot, and she drew herself up as tall as she could. Thank God he'd shown himself. This was exactly why she didn't want a man in her life. She took a step forward, bringing them nearly nose to nose. "Leave, then." She spoke softly, but her words were like daggers, and she aimed them at his heart. "Get out." His eyes widened, and she half expected him to strike her. But he didn't. "You've got a week. Go back to town and drink yourself silly or—or—I don't care what you do. Just get out of me house ."

Then, with the fire still coursing through her veins, she wheeled around and left him.

Michael watched her go. He bloody watched her go.

The door to her bedroom slammed shut.

The tea sat on the table, cold.

A fly buzzed around the bread.

Rain fell, loud on the roof.

His pulse pounded in his ears. His chest.

Scotland . Why did it have to be Scotland? Christ, he'd follow her damn near anywhere, but the one place she wanted him to go was the one place he could never be again. Not after what he'd done.

Goddamn! His fist moved of its own accord, colliding with the wall. Dark blood pooled on his knuckles. An angry gash gaped in the wall. But he felt no pain.

He slammed it again, harder, deepening the hole. The blood poured out of him, dripping to the floor. Still no pain.

He cried out in frustration. He wanted the pain. Deserved the pain.

He'd thought he could go on forever in this world of dreams, as if happiness was possible. It wasn't. Underneath it all, he was still Michael Dunn. An evil man. He'd imprisoned an innocent in the depths of hell. He'd wronged his only kin. He'd been selfish and ungrateful to the one man in this blasted country who'd been kind to him, and now . . . now he'd come at Caitlin. He'd shown her once and for all who he truly was.

And he'd lost her.

His eyes fell on the empty space of the doorway where she'd disappeared.

It was better this way. She'd thought him something he wasn't. That damn magpie. Building a nest. A life of peace and beauty. Simplicity.

Horseshit. That's what it was.

Gradually, his pulse slowed. His hand began to throb, and he slumped into a chair. He was tired. So damn tired.

Go back to town and drink yourself silly.

That's what she'd said, what she'd commanded.

His eyes wandered to the door of the pantry, to where the rum was kept. He hadn't touched the stuff in a year—more than that if you counted the months at Moreton Bay—but what good would sobriety do him now?

No good. No good at all.

He held his breath, listening. The house was silent as a tomb. Even the rain had stopped. Caitlin was hiding away in her room. She wouldn't dare come out, not after the beast had attacked her.

As if pulled by an invisible string, he strode to the pantry where the ceramic jug sat on its shelf, cast in shadow. He grasped it, bringing it into the light. It rested cool and welcome in his hand. He uncorked it with his teeth, and the vapors from the alcohol flooded his senses, awakening him from his dream.

Yes. This. This was the way out.

Then, without taking any more time to think, he brought the jug to his lips and took a long draught.