She blinked. “What?”
“I’m no’ going to marry ye.”
She blinked again.
The words individually made sense. I’m was of course a contraction of I am. And going to marry ye, well that was obvious. She’d been saying them to herself for weeks now.
‘Twas the no’ which was giving her brain some trouble.
“Ye’re…no’ going to marry me?”
His lovely eyes were full of sadness as he dropped his hands to her shoulders, holding her like…like…like a younger sister or something. “Aye, Robena. I cannae marry ye.”
Damnation. She’d heard him correctly.
Her heart, which had been a bit afraid to beat for the last moments, decided ‘twas a brilliant point to make up for lost time and began to beat double time.
“Cannae?” she whispered.
He bit back a sigh but held her gaze, as if determined to give her that much. “Lass, I’ve tried no’ to give ye false hope these last weeks. I want ye, aye, but I cannae have ye, and ye didnae deserve to be led along by an arsehole like me. Ye’re a beautiful woman—“
“Ye dinnae have to lie,” she choked out, blinking up at him, uncertain what either of them was actually saying.
“Ye’re a beautiful woman,” he repeated, his fingers flexing just slightly, digging into her skin beneath the silk of her yellow gown. “And I’d be honored to court ye, and fall in love with ye, and marry someone as talented, as witty, as caring as ye are.”
She opened her mouth to cry, So why will ye no’? but no sound came out. Her throat was dry, and her lips—still delightfully bruised by his kisses—opened and closed. Why wasn’t her voice working? She was a singer, a musician; she depended on her voice.
“But I cannae,” he repeated, his own voice dropping to a whisper.
His eyes flicked between hers, his gaze somehow…sad.
Hewas sad?
She swallowed twice before she was able to rasp out, “Are ye breaking up with me, Kester?”
In a flash, his palms were on her cheeks, and he was holding her face close to his. “Breaking ye? Lass, I would never hurt ye—“
“Then what do ye think ye’re doing—“
She wrenched her face out of his hold, angry at him and at herself, and of course slammed the back of her head against the wall behind her.
When she finished with a groan, he was there.
Despite his words, despite the way he’d just mocked her heart and her declaration, Kester was there for her. He stepped forward, trapping her once more with his body—and cupping the back of her head with his palm. Moments ago she’d been so happy to be here, and now she just wanted to push him away and run and hide.
“Let me see, lass,” he murmured, pulling her forward so her nose pressed against his chest. “Does this hurt?”
Although he was likely referring to the way his fingers were prodding at the tenderness on the back of her head, Robena’s muffled “Aye” was a response to how good—and how horrible!—it felt to be pressed against him when he’d just made it very clear she couldn’t have him.
She felt him sigh again. His breath ruffled her hair and his fingers stilled. He seemed content to just stand there.
Holding her.
And she…well, she was angry. Angry at him for making such ridiculous statements. Angry at herself for still loving the way it felt to be held in his arms.
Then, to her surprise, he grunted and shifted forward, pressing her more tightly against the wall. She wasn’t certain what to do with her hands, so she curled them into fists in her gown—the gown she’d chosen to wear to her sister’s wedding celebration—and tried to hate him.
It didn’t work.