Twenty-seven

For the first time since he'd come to Glenoch, Michael allowed himself the luxury of holding Caitlin as she slept.

It was peaceful, with the soft puff of her breath on his chest, her skin warm against his, her hair tickling his cheek. He didn't intend to drop off himself, but he must have because at some point in the middle of the night he surfaced from mindlessness into a kind of clarity he hadn't known in years.

This hope of forgiveness was not new. There had been a time, after the panic of his departure from Darnalay and before he'd been apprehended in London—when the guilt was still fresh—that he'd resolved to find his cousins and Sommerbell and apologize, explain everything and beg for absolution. But that idea had died the minute he'd been clapped into irons. It had been buried deep in the hull of that cursed ship to New South Wales, right beside the rigid, vainglorious view of the world he'd inherited from Father. Michael had cast aside both impulses—the pathetic apology and the pompous pride—deeming them naive, two sides of the same coin. Then he'd enclosed himself in the tough, cynical armor he'd worn ever since.

But now, with the perspective of time, in the arms of the woman he loved—the woman who loved him in return—he could see how foolish he'd been. That soft youth who'd inherited the earldom, who'd only wanted to make his father proud, and ended up on a ship to Botany Bay . . . he hadn't been wrong, or—not all wrong. He'd been unwise, to be sure, and gullible to all sorts of terrible ideas, cruel even, but he hadn't been wrong in his softness, in his impulse to do right by the people he loved or to make amends to those he'd hurt.

It wasn't callow to apologize for one's wrongdoings. It was brave.

At least it must be, because the prospect was terrifying.

It might be too late. Certainly, after the blundering way he'd tried to seduce Jane while she was disguised as a maid he'd not be at all shocked if she refused his apology. He'd only met Cameron once, and then briefly. He had no idea what kind of man he was. And Sommerbell . . . Would he be at the castle as well? The countess had said Cameron's sister and her family were staying there, but Michael had no way of knowing if that meant only their children or the husband, too.

Michael shuddered at the thought of coming face to face with the pale, haunted visage of his nightmares.

Still, after what he'd done to the man, he deserved whatever came from the meeting. Certainly, it would be nothing compared to what Sommerbell had been through at Michael's hands.

What would happen afterward? What would he do? Two scenes kept playing in his head. One in which he strode over the Darnalay drawbridge, victorious and proud, mounted his horse, and rode back to Caitlin, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her off to a beautiful little farm in America where they would live happily ever after. In the other, himself running and running, head down through a dark world. Just as he had the first time.

The moon still shone through the window when he gently extricated himself from Caitlin's arms, rose from the bed, and tiptoed to his own chamber where he dressed hurriedly and scribbled a quick note. Then he stole back into her room and put the paper on the pillow that still held the impression of his head. She was sleeping soundly, curled up on her side, her hands tucked beneath her head. Soft snores escaped her parted lips, which seemed to be smiling.

He wanted so badly to kiss her, but he daren't. Instead, he turned and left the room.

The shining sun projected a patch of warm, yellow-white light onto the bed when Caitlin woke. She rolled into it, stretching from her fingers to her toes, and allowed the warmth to soak into her skin.

She was naked under the sheets, and she felt lithe and sensual against them—oh yes . A different kind of warmth flowed through her as she remembered the night that had just passed. She'd laid herself bare; then he'd declared his love. He had . They would go to America together, and—

Something brushed against her cheek. Paper?

She grasped at it. A note, in Michael's hand.

Dearest, I've gone to Darnalay. I must attempt to make amends. I've taken the horse but will see that it's returned to you.

Please understand. I love you, but I can't live with the guilt hanging over me. It will only lead to sorrow, for both of us. I hope to return to you, but if I do not, please don't look for me. It's for the best.

You have, and will forever keep my heart.

Michael

The note dropped to the pillow as her panic rose. Darnalay ? Of course, it was a noble thought, but . . . Michael was defenseless in the face of his demons. If he tried to fight them and failed . . .

She flung the coverlet aside. She had to get up, get dressed. How long ago had he left? If she could make it to the village and find someone willing to hire her a horse, if she rode like the wind, she might get there before he—

She caught her own eye in the mirror and froze. Her hair was a disheveled mess, black streaked with gray. Her body was pale, her nipples taut in the chill air. Her chest heaved. Her hand rose to her mouth, the same lips that had kissed him so deeply. Then it trailed down her throat, settled above her heart. Her heartbeat pounded beneath her palm. She'd surrendered this heart, this body to him mere hours ago, given him all of herself.

What had she told him? She'd told him he had to choose.

And he had.

If it were anyone other than Michael—the man she loved—she would have cheered his impulse to seek forgiveness. It was the right thing to do. A brave thing to do, but . . . but if it broke him . . . If she lost him . . .

She forced a long, slow breath through parted lips. She could almost see it, a cloud of fear and acceptance blown out into the world. Then she let her hand fall to her side.

It would kill her to sit here and wait, but that's what she must do.