10. Chapter 10

Chapter ten

"Even the proudest cask has cracks—some are simply better at hiding the leaks." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd tossed in bed like a trout flopping on dry land, cursing the lass who’d barricaded herself into his thoughts. His heart pounded, his legs twitched. Did I pass? she’d asked. You damn well passed, infuriating woman. He’d fought battles with less aggravation than resisting the memory of her kiss. Look at him, a bloody Sassenach, mooning over the chit because she tasted good.

The silence was thick and oily—a lousy bed companion. He strained his ears, longing to hear her murmur his name again. Her sigh when he caressed her spine. The way her breath hitched as his cheek brushed hers. Still, nothing. Just this blasted silence, pressing down on him like a burial shroud. He clutched her handkerchief, trying to see her initials in the dark. It tore in his rough hands, as fragile as his restraint.

Growling, he flung the sheets back and sat up. Can’t stay in this tomb of a room another second.

The bitter night slapped his cheeks as he strode into the courtyard. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, the only sound breaking the stillness. Everything slept. All but him.

His legs carried him to the fountain, of all places. A mirthless laugh misted in the cold air, unheard by anyone but himself. Dropping onto the bench, he tugged his greatcoat tighter and took a swig of whiskey, glaring at the majestic bear poised mid-catch above the still pond. Even the water was silent. Wherever he went, he could not escape from the past.

Papa Bear stared at him, his stone cubs looking particularly sour, each one with that unmistakable look—disappointed, disgusted, disheartened. Boyd could almost hear their lifeless eyes judging him—a true Highlander would never stoop to scheming against a lass he fancies.

“I don’t fancy her,” he growled. The wind carried his words away. He groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. “Didn’t give a damn for that kiss. Didn’t make my heart thunder or stiffen me like a Lochaber caber. Her voice? Sweet as honey—grated my ears, it did. Hell, I’d burn half my vineyard to hear her purr my name now, whispering it, murmuring it, shouting and licking and purring the blasted thing. And I don’t even like my own name.”

The bear kept staring, as unimpressed as an English banker counting his profits. Entitled beast. Highland bears, he reckoned, wouldn’t be half so critical.

He pointed at its haughty snoot. “A Highlander knows the worth of revenge. It’s right up there with honor and blood. And that lass? She’s neither.”

“Quit looking at me like that. So what if she’s not to blame for her father’s deeds? High society doesn’t care about consequences, do they?” The words tasted as bitter as they sounded. “They’ll trample anyone to get what they want.”

Papa Bear didn’t budge, its eyes fathomless, judgmental, and dripping with silent disdain. Boyd swore he could see its carved brow lifting, as if it questioned his very worth.

Boyd’s hands curled into fists, his knuckles whitening. “Ye know nothin’, do ye? Standin’ there lookin’ down on me, a polished-up Lowlander beast.”

Boyd gulped the whiskey and cleaned his mouth with his hand. What the fuck was he doing? Speaking with stone.

He must be getting soft. A highlander who built this all with his bare hands, facing the opposition of people like her, the scorn, didn’t want to be with them. What of his fucking future? His plan to buy wineries in France and expand to America? What a joke. He only had a past—this cursed fountain—and his silent room. The future beyond the holidays, when she would leave his life—taking with her the laughter, her soothing voice—was a hazy blotch.

He could not, would not, consider the day after. The Christmas feast where he would expose her family to financial ruin.

The bear seemed disgusted now. Hell, Boyd felt disgusted himself.

Boyd hurled a flick of dirt at the bear, watching with grim satisfaction as it splattered over the proud paws, smudging the polished stone. “There. Now ye look like the muck I clawed my way out of.”

What a blasted fool. Vandalizing his own house. The deuced house he paid a fortune for and couldn’t stand to stay inside.

He dropped his head in his palms. The tiredness of the day, of a lifetime, bore into his shoulders, pressing against his chest. Why couldn’t he sleep?

A melody, faint and lilting, carried on the breeze.

Every hair on his body prickled. What in hell’s name could it be? A baobhan sith come to lure him to his doom? Aye, that’d be just his luck—and well deserved.

The melody rose, stronger now, drawing him forward. His boots crunched over the gravel as he followed the sound to the right-wing—the guest rooms.

Light flickered from an open window, pooling in the flowerbed below.

The music swelled, a rumbling melody filling the air.

He edged closer until he could peer through the glass.

Beth.

She sat with a cello cradled between her legs, its polished wood gleaming in the dim light. The mysterious crate was forgotten by her side. So this was her secret. Why did she conceal it?

He shouldn’t be here, peering through windows like a hungry boy with his nose pressed to the glass of a sweet shop. Yet he couldn’t look away. He’d rather face a baobhan sith than relinquish his front-row seat to this serenade.

The instrument was an extension of her—its curves nestled between her thighs. He would be jealous of the cello position between her legs if it did not produce such heavenly sounds. Her red hair fell loose, a cascade of deep auburn spilling over her shoulders, a fire against the winter chill. Eyes half-closed, she parted her lips as if to taste the music. She looked like she might if he brought her to climax.

His heart ached, and he grabbed the windowsill, wanting to reach out and touch her. No. He forbade himself to interrupt her.

Her fingers coaxed tender harmonies from the strings, her movements fluid. This wasn’t the prim girl he’d taunted all day. This was someone passionate, struggling, alive. How could she keep all this locked under a corset and etiquette rules?

The music swelled, her brow furrowing as the notes grew richer. The mold of the society princess shrank before his eyes, too shallow to contain her.

This was the girl he planned to hurt.

The melody softened, pouring over him in gentle waves. His breath slowed, his muscles relaxing as the sound wrapped around him. A yawn escaped his chest. He allowed his legs to fold, lowering himself into the flowerbed. The begonias sighed around him, welcoming him into their bed.

Sleep tugged at his mind, heavy and comforting. Just one minute, he told himself. He’d brave the tomb of his room after she finished.