“Miss… Beatrix, please. I did not mean that,” he began, but he stopped when he saw her sneak a hand towards her eyes and wipe away a tear.
Callum came closer and took her hand in his, turning it over and spying how it glistened from her tears. She watched in silent awe as he brought it to his lips and kissed it, holding her hand so tenderly as though he thought it might break.
“What… what are you doing?” Beatrix whispered, ignoring the urge to pull her hand back from his and run away. The warmth of his hand wrapped around hers was too welcome to be real.
“I don’t even know,” he answered, looking up at her with eyes filled with remorse. “I only know that I’ve caused you great pain, and I know not how to repair it.”
Beatrix watched in silence as he turned her hand over, tracing the lines of her palm with his fingertip like a man transfixed. Callum looked at her hands, brushing his fingers lightly against the calluses and old scrapes, battle scars she’d earned tending to her father and his men for these past many years.
“I forgive you,” she finally whispered, closing her fingers around his gently.
“Do you?” Callum asked, still looking at her hand and reaching to take her other one. “Because I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
When he finally looked up at her, his expression was nearly unreadable. Beatrix only saw his remorse, mixed with a sense of confusion about his feelings.
“And do you forgive me?” she asked softly. “I do not have your property, nor do I know where it is, but I still refused to help you find it. Am I forgiven for that?”
“Of course,” Callum replied. “It was wrong of me to ask it of you. Nearly as wrong as bringing you here against your will and treating you so wretchedly.”
“I think I’m glad you did,” Beatrix said slowly, looking at Callum’s face and stepping closer. “I cannot explain why, but it is true.”
Daring to risk offense, Callum held both of Beatrix’s hands in one of his, then pressed the palm of his hand to her cheek gently. When she didn’t flinch from his touch—nay, quite the opposite, or did he imagine she leaned against his hand longingly?—he bent forward and brushed his lips against hers gently, his senses on fire from the faint touch.
She pulled her hands from his and for a moment Callum feared she might run from him. Instead, she took the lapels of his jacket in her hands and clung to him. His arms wound round her in an instant, holding her tightly to him.
At the sound of a stable hand’s shout from outside, Callum released her quickly and stepped back, putting a safe distance between the two of them. There were no words, only silence for a few moments as they both mulled over what had just transpired.
“Beatrix…” Callum started to say, but she put up her hand to stop him, closing her eyes against the sight of his anguished face.
“Don’t. You spend all your time apologizing to me, do not spoil that by telling me that you’re sorry now,” she insisted, a hint of pleading in her voice.
“But I am, I had no right,” he said urgently. “It wasn’t right of me to take advantage like that, and I’m sorry!”
“I’m not,” she said firmly before turning and racing towards the house.
* * *
“Where have you been?” the Earl of Weavington hissed, grabbing Peter by the arm painfully when he came into the house.
“Father! What’s the matter? I only went to pay Callum a visit. What’s wrong?” Peter looked around, confused at not seeing the source of his father’s irritation.
“The Duke is sending his solicitors over to draft the marriage agreement and the order of succession! Go wash yourself at once—you stink of the stables—and put on something more suitable to greet these men!” The Earl released Peter’s arm with a rough sort of shove and stormed away, his footsteps echoing through the empty hall.
“Good to see you too, Father,” Peter muttered under his breath.
Still, he did as he was bid, and returned a short while later to find both of his parents sitting in the drawing room. It was almost comical how they attempted to look as though this was an ordinary day and they were not perched on the edges of their chairs. They, too, appeared freshly groomed and highly attired, and Peter noted an inordinate amount of jewelry adorning his mother at this early hour of the afternoon.
He stifled a laugh and managed to wear a serious expression when he asked, “Where should I stand? Here, by the window? Or should I look thoughtful and responsible by studying some documents at the desk? Perhaps I should be reading a map of the British empire!”
“Do shut up,” his father said sternly, looking over a financial report. “Sit anywhere, your only role in these proceedings is to manage to avoid sounding like an imbecile.”
Peter rolled his eyes and glanced over at his mother, who smiled sympathetically but said nothing. He noticed that she, too, was merely seated on the gold brocade chair and waiting, not holding so much as a needlepoint to occupy her attention.
“Mother, I had an interesting visit to Callum’s today,” he said, and she brightened somewhat.
“How is he faring after the loss of his dear mother?” she asked sweetly. “Jane was like a sister to me all those years; I should pay her son a call soon to see how he’s getting on.”
“He’s doing rather well I should think, considering the circumstances. But there’s a newguestat his home to occupy his attention, if you understand my meaning,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising slightly.
