William’s voice filled the room, as loud and real as if he spoke to her. She was drawn back into too many memories. She was not strong enough for them now—for their poignancy and beauty and magic.
They had loved each other without planning to.
No one had made introductions. No one had whispered how many pounds he made a year and how profitable such a match would be to her. No one had smiled and urged her to dance with him or invited him over for dinner parties or questioned her on whether she found him intriguing.
She had not tried at all. She had not even realized what would happen.
Yet she loved him. His hands, strong and calloused and brown, the way they felt when they touched her cheeks. His hair, windblown and imperfect. His voice. His eyes. His lips. His smile. Everything about him, she loved.
I need you.She needed him now, but even if she were safe in the drawing room of Sharottewood, she would need him—
The door banged open.
Isabella jumped, the comb slipping from her fingers and clanging to the stone floor.
“As you have invited me to your ball, I should like to invite you to my own.” Lord Livingstone bowed. “Shall I escort you?”
She stood to her feet. “You have taunted me enough.”
“On the contrary. We are just beginning.”
“I shall not be degraded.”
“You shall be that and worse.”
Tremors coursed through her as she clenched her fists and pressed her back into the wall. “Anything you wish from me, you shall have to take. I shall give you nothing.”
“I always attain what I—”
“Not from me.”
“Time shall change you.”
“Time shall change nothing.”
His breathing thickened, face reddened, as he stepped toward her. “I would not say such things if I were you.”
“Let me go and Father shall reward you.” Her voice shrieked. She tightened against the wall, but he edged closer. Her chest exploded. “Whatever ransom, however many pounds—”
“Enough!” He snatched her arm and yanked her toward the door, a furious tremble in his grip. He marched her through the colorful room, the flickering chandelier light, then outside where an enormous fire sputtered and smoked.
“Men, attention.” His shout echoed, stilling every man gathered about the fire. “Where Miss Gresham is from, balls are held and attended. I should very much like her to feel at home.”
An applause lifted. Bottles raised into the air. From a rock near the fire, a shirtless man strummed the first chord on his lyre.
Then she was slung forward.God, help.She fell into someone’s arms, beefy and reeking of dead fish, and he spun her several circles about the fire. She pushed at his chest. She turned her face away from his, but someone else ripped her away and nuzzled her neck.
Cold horror rushed through her. She screamed. The music loudened. Clapping, swirling, another pair of arms, another laugh, another foul smell that choked the breath from her lungs.
“Whit’s a matter wi’ ye, wee lassie?”
“I thought you be lovin’ to dance!”
“Och, but give her here to me, Lochlan, ’fore I slit yer throat—”
“Enough.” Another voice. One smooth and refined, yet powerful enough that it silenced the jeering and music. Lord Livingstone pried her back away. “We cannot dance and make merry forever. Miss Gresham has something she would like to ask me.”
Stillness rushed over the men.
