Madonna, even if the impossible happened and he offered marriage, she’d have to refuse. They’d never be able to live together in amity.
“If I stay, you must act only as my host. No wooing. No kissing. No touching.”
He sat in the saddle, straight as a ship’s mast. “You ask too much.”
“I know.” Sadness roughened her voice. “Which is why I must go.”
“No.” Those formidable shoulders tightened, as if he were indeed a general facing an implacable enemy. “I can abide by your rules.”
“Can you?” Marina subjected him to a searching stare. “You don’t like playing by anyone’s rules but your own.”
“Neither do you,” he said, his expression grim. “And in this particular game, you hold the winning hand.”
His bitterness shocked her, scraped a wound across her heart. He sounded as if she did him great injury, whereas she’d assumed that after a bit of grumbling, he’d take her decision in his stride.
She made a helpless gesture. “You said the choice was mine.”
His head tilted in a strangely courtly gesture. “It is at that. But I dinna have to like it.”
Neither did she, curse her level head and her need to protect herself. “I still think I should go ahead to Skye.”
He shook his head, and she waited for a stinging response, but when he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. “No. Give me your company, even if you’ll give me nothing else.”
She’d imagined his considerable pride would revolt at begging for such a small concession. Cielo, no doubt it did. When she’d met him, he’d struck her as a man above human frailties like doubts and longings. She’d been wrong.
Guilt at how she hurt him sliced at her. She wasn’t proof against the fierce misery she read in his eyes. And he hadn’t tried to take advantage of her susceptibility for him to cha
nge her mind, when they both knew he could.
Fergus was indeed a man of honor. She felt sick at what she did, but if she gave in, the risks were far too great.
Marina looked away across the heather-covered hills and fought against the hot tears rising to sting her eyes. “Very well, Mackinnon. I’ll stay. For now.”
Chapter Twelve
Marina was right about one thing, even if Fergus was convinced she was wrong about everything else. That day on the hills proved to be the vilest torture, and so did the next three.
In a torment of suspense, he waited for her to declare that the tension spinning tighter and tighter between them became unbearable, and she intended to leave. He should want her to go. Having her within reach but forbidden drove him to the edge. His joke about being the first mad Mackinnon came back to bite him with sharp teeth.
Surely if she left, he had a chance of finding some peace. It made no sense that the prospect of never seeing her again made him want to rampage around like a wounded lion.
More than once, he regretted that the world had moved on from ages past. Present mores forbade him from seizing Marina, the way Dougal had seized Fair Mhaire, and holding her captive until she saw sense.
Perhaps the misery might be easier to bear, if he thought Marina was any more content than he was. But with each day, she became more subdued. He missed the vital, scintillating creature who had so fascinated and appalled him on their first meeting. What he’d give to hear just one claim to female independence.
The irony was that this new, dispirited Marina was much closer to the kind of woman Fergus used to admire. Somewhere during this last week, he’d learned to appreciate a challenge.
Tonight they’d dined with Ugolino. Fergus supposed that now the meal was over, he should go downstairs and catch up with the estate work that piled up while he moped after his guest.
Soon she’d decide to go—she must. Be damned if he’d waste what time he had left with her, even if her nearness was sheer purgatory.
Fergus glanced across to where Marina sat beside the bed, sketchbook in hand, although she hadn’t opened it. That was something else that had changed. She didn’t draw anymore, or at least not just for the pure joy of it.
Her father was talking about a book he’d read. Over the last few evenings, the burden of conversation had fallen on Ugolino. Whether he noticed the strain between Fergus and Marina or not, he seemed content to fill the lengthening silences.
Fergus remained at the small table where he and Marina ate each night. Over the rim of his wineglass, he observed the woman he wanted. Wanted more with every day. Gloom hung about her the way a rainy day hung about the glen.
“How is your work going, Marina?” Ugolino cut off his critique of the novel, as if realizing he was talking to himself. “You never say.”