Page 95 of Duke It Out
“You’re so obsessed with control and duty and saving face—God forbid someone actually likes you for who you are under the legacy of guilt.” I wave my arm. “You can’t even see the magic of this place you’re lucky enough to have in your care. You’re so busy protecting it that you’re strangling the life out of it. You’re a perfectionist and you’re paranoid and yourule this place with an iron fist, all the time acting like you never wanted the role in the first place.”
“Are you finished with your psychoanalysis?” His jaw is clenched even tighter now.
I shake my head and give a bitter laugh. “No. You always wanted to see the worst in me from the moment I got here, because if you saw the best you might have to admit that you actually care for me. You do. I-I know it.” I put my hands on my hips and face him straight on. “And you -you might even love me, but you’re such a fucking coward that the idea of that?—”
But I can’t finish the sentence because he’s stepped forward and he’s kissing me. It’s not tentative or soft, it’s an angry claim, weeks of tension and rage and longing all at once. His hand curls around the back of my neck, pulling me against him, and for a moment – just for a moment – I kiss him back. Because I want to and my body responds instantly, even now.
And then I shove him away.
His eyes are dark as he looks down at me in surprise.
“I wasn’t finished.” My hands are balled in fists by my sides. “You don’t get to come in here with a helicopter and play the hero when you’re the one who pushed me off the cliff in the first place. What was the plan? Swoop in here, rescue the poor pathetic commoner who you kicked out of your castle then pat yourself on the back?” My heart is banging in my chest, and I pause to haul in a breath.
“You know what would have been heroic, Rory?” I say, the words sharp as broken glass. “Trusting me. That would have been athrillingtwist.”
His expression changes, like I’ve hit the one nerve he didn’t want me to touch.
And then he kisses me again. My hands are still balled by my sides as his lips brush against mine. It’s an apology without words. And I hate myself for kissing him back, but I do because despite everything, despite how furious I am, how much I want to slap him, I want him.
My hands are fisting the thick wool of his sweater, pulling his body towards mine before I can stop myself. I feel the solid heat of his bulk against my mud-covered, damp sweatshirt and I let myself have one heartbeat where I think that maybe this mess can be salvaged.
Then I pull back.
“I wastalking,” I snap, breathless.
His mouth twitches in that sexy half-smile I can’t resist. But not this time.
He takes my hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling me towards Kate’s cottage. “Let’s get your things.”
And I stop dead on the soft heathery path. “I’m not coming with you.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not going back. I’m not going back to be a secret or something you’ll regret in the morning.” I hear Fenella’s catty comment echo in my head. “I know that you’re used to people falling into line as soon as you snap your fingers but it’s not happening.”
I step back, breathing hard.
“Edie,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I mean it, Rory. You can get back in your helicopter and fly back to your castle. I’ve got my own story to write.”
37
EDIE
Kate’sspare room is tiny, the single bed sags in the middle and there’s a pile of boxes in one corner. But the sun shines through the curtains the next morning and I wake up, tangled in a duvet that smells of unfamiliar fabric conditioner. For half an hour I lie there, listening to the sound of birdsong and the occasional scuffle of paws as Bert or Ernie – or both – collapse with a flop and a sigh outside my door.
There are no castle bells, no estate breakfast trays. There’s no luxury bathroom filled with organic toiletries and fluffy white towels. There are no scrawled diary pages glaring at me from a library desk.
There’s just light and quiet, and a weird feeling of peace I wasn’t expecting.
Janey comes by later in the week, under the guise of picking up some seed potatoes from Kate’s shed.
“I brought some shortbread,” she says, holding up the tin like an offering. “It’s not a bribe, I swear.”
We sit in the garden, nursing mugs of tea and trying toavoid eye contact. Eventually she reaches across the faded wooden table and puts her hand gently over mine.
“I just wanted you to know I miss you. The place isn’t the same without you, you were the best thing to happen to Loch Morven in a very long time.”
