Page 76 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Annabeth snorted. “You may tell yourself that, but it’s clear that you thought me incapable of bearing up under such news. You decided, all on your own, what I would feel, what I could accept. Maybe I would have been angry with you. Maybe I would have fallen apart. But I would have had a choice. Instead, you cut me to ribbons and left me bleeding. You took twelve years away from us. Twelve years when we could have been happy. We could have been married. We could have had children. We could have had a life together. And you stole all that from us...because you didn’t believe in me the way I believed in you.”

Annabeth whipped around and headed toward the door.

“Didn’t believe in you!” He strode after her, and she stopped with her hand on the knob, not looking at him. “You’re all I believed in. Damn it, Anna, I gave up everything for you. I risked my life. I gave up all hope of love and happiness. I ruined my name. And now you dare to say it means I didn’t love you?”

“I didn’t want you to do any of that!” She turned, her eyes blazing. “I had no desire for you to give up everything. The last thing I wanted was for you to risk your life. I didn’t want you to die for me. I wanted you to live for me. But you never gave me the choice.”

She jerked open the door and walked out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

SLOANE SANK BACK in his chair and called for some brandy. God knew, he needed it tonight. He’d known the last few days wouldn’t last, that there was no real future for him and Annabeth, but it didn’t make the pain any less. She had been the one to leave him this time. And it felt like hell.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was worse for the one left behind. At least he had known the reason for his hurt; however bad it had been, it had a purpose. Annabeth had had nothing to hold on to. She’d thought only that he didn’t love her. That he had chosen a life of treachery over her. He’d told himself that it would make it easier for her to think he was as bad as he’d always worried he was. But maybe he’d just made everything harder for her. Had he really spent twelve years punishing not just himself, but the only person he’d ever loved?

He set his elbows on the table and sank his head into his hands, fingers pushing back into his hair. Was he wrong not to have told her the truth? He thought of her face this afternoon when she’d read the confession, the way she’d sobbed against his chest. Surely it had not been wrong to want to spare her that pain. What kind of man would he be if he hadn’t wanted to protect her?

“Sir?” The barmaid stood at the door, tray in hand.

Sloane raised his head and nodded, gesturing at the table. She set the tray down carefully, and, with a sideways glance at him, hurried out the door. No doubt she thought him a madman or already in his cups.

He poured a large amount of brandy into the glass, and, shrugging out of his jacket and untying his neckcloth, he settled down to drink.

He did well at the task, apparently, for he awoke the next morning in the same room, his head on his arms on the table. Somewhat gingerly he raised his head. The sun slanting in through the window pierced his eyes, going straight into his brain.

Cursing himself for being as stupid as he had been at nineteen, Sloane pushed himself to his feet and set about repairing his looks somewhat. There was no shaving stand in this dining room, leaving him with a dark stubble all over his jaw. There was at least a mirror over the fireplace, so he was able to retie his neckcloth, and he pulled his jacket back on, regaining some degree of respectability.

Annabeth entered the room and took a look at the table, where the empty bottle lay on its side, and then at him. “Good heavens, Sloane, you look dreadful.”

“Mmm. I can assure you that looks are not deceiving.”

She sighed and went over to the table to set the bottle upright. “I didn’t think—you slept in here? Wasn’t there another room?”

“I had registered us as a married couple with one room, so it seemed a trifle...”

“Awkward?” Was that actually a tiny smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth? “Well, I am out of the room now, so you can go upstairs and...” She made a sweeping gesture at his appearance. “I’ll order us some breakfast. I’ll have coffee brought up for you if you’d like.”

After a shave and pouring half a pitcher of water over his head, along with drinking two cups of coffee and changing his clothes, Sloane felt some semblance of normality. He returned downstairs, not looking forward to talking to Annabeth, but knowing there was no way to escape it.

He found her sitting at the table, finishing off the eggs and sausages on her plate. “Glad to see you waited on me to eat.”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure you would be interested in eating breakfast anyway.”

Sloane looked at the poached eggs on his plate. “Perhaps you’re right.” He sat down, setting the cover back on it. “I would take a cup of whatever it is you’re drinking.”

“Of course.” She poured him a cup of tea, leaving it black, as he liked it.

Her movements were stiff. No doubt she felt as awkward as he did. This was not going to be a pleasant journey. He wondered if they might be able to make London in only two days instead of three.

Well, he could not put it off any longer. “Annabeth... I... I must apologize to you.”

“You must?” she asked.

“I want to apologize,” he corrected. “Obviously, I cannot give you back the last twelve years or change what I did. It was not that I did not believe in you. The truth is it was myself I didn’t believe in. I feared, deep down, that I would never be good enough, never accomplish enough, to marry you. But smuggling, spying—that was something I knew I could do. I was nineteen, and even if my father had been around, it would have been useless to ask him what to do. So I did what seemed to me to be the right thing.”

“I know.” Annabeth toyed with her spoon. “I am sorry that I was so harsh to you last night.”

“You said what you felt. What you thought.”