Chapter 23
Lash could not take his eyes off Honoria, breathtaking in a gown of flowing red silk. Her locks were pulled together in a braid and secured at the top of her head, one curl straying along the side of her face. She looked tired, almost defeated, and still she was the most beautiful woman here tonight.
Her accusation stung, but it was true. Lash had left her—or tried. He had thought the best thing he could do for her was to walk away, to spare her the ridicule of being tied to a half-breed bastard. But whatever he had thought was best, he hadn’t been able to make it past the stables.
For three days and three lonely nights, he had stewed on a bed of hay. He had meant to leave and find his family. Meant to make it past the castle gates. Meant to do the right thing.
But no, he had remained, selfishly, and argued with himself instead. Argued over what was best for her. For him. Over how to best find his sister. Over how to begin to search for his mother and father. Over the future. And no matter how much he debated over which path to take, it always led back to one, singular, earth-shattering conclusion: he could imagine no future without Honoria MacCallan in it.
She was his woman. His fate.
He was a half-breed bastard.
He accepted that.
Lash would confront his fate, fight her brothers for her, convince her to accept him and hope that she didn’t regret her choice, to claim her as his, only to discover her in another man’s arms. He hadn’t truly understood how leaving had never been a true option until that moment.
“Well?” Honoria demanded.
“I may have left, but I am not the only one that gave up, it seems.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Letting another man kiss your plush pink lips, dancing the night away . . . were you going to choose a husband tonight? Is that not giving up on what we shared?”
“Do not be absurd. I’m having a horrid night. But what did you expect? That I’d lock myself in my bedchamber consumed by grief? Sulk on the top of my precious hill, pining away?”
He circled her wrist when she would have turned and walked away. “Yes! Dammit!” Lash knew he had no ground to stand on, that his jealousy bordered on irrational. “Your brother told me you loved me! Was that not true?”
She reared back. “My brother? Hugh? How dare that scoundrel speak for me!”
“To keep me from leaving.”
“Och, and you went anyway! I am furious with you, Lash Ruthven.” She struggled in his arms. “Let me go.”
“No.” His grip firmed.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Before I scream, I am going to kick you—”
Lash cut her off by clamping a hand over her mouth again. He whirled her around so her back pressed up against his chest, lifting her and shackling her to his body with his arms. Turning on his heel, he started down the path leading to the stables.
He had expected her anger. He had expected to grovel. He had expected to lay his heart bare. What he hadn’t expected was the scene that had greeted him, so different from the one he had fantasized about. Forgive him for feeling a bit more than justified in his anger.
She didn’t struggle as he strode across the lavish gardens, keeping to the shadows, quickening his pace when he heard the voices of guests that had ventured into the gardens.
Only once he reached the stables, did he set her back on her feet in the stall he’d used the past three days. “Now you can scream all you like, and kick me if you wish, but we will have this conversation uninterrupted.”
He watched as she glanced around the stall, taking in the straw bed covered with quilts. Some books. A few items of clothing. Complements from Ross.
“You have been staying here?” she asked, her amber eyes lifting to meet his.
“Yes.”
She circled the stall. “You never left?”
“No.”
She huffed out a harsh breath. “Lash Ruthven! I cannot believe you let me believe you left me while you were staying in the stables!”
