The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(90)

He should never have noticed the physician’s pretty daughter. He hadn’t at first. Muriel had been like a ghost when she’d come to Dunrobin, and at one and twenty he was too young and proud to notice a chit six years his junior. But she’d avoided him, and that had pricked his pride and his curiosity. He’d looked closer, seeing not a ghost but a wounded, haunted lass who’d stolen his heart and never let it go.

She’d been so damned vulnerable. He didn’t know what he’d wanted at first. To help her, maybe? To make her not so sad? But he’d never forget the moment she’d trusted him enough to tell him her secret. Hearing the horror of her rape …

It had unleashed something inside him. Emotions that could never be reined back. He would have given anything to take that pain away from her. He’d wanted to comfort her, to protect her, and kill for her. But most of all he’d wanted to never let her go.

Earls didn’t fall in love, damn it. He had a duty.

He paced around the small solar, straining against invisible chains. He knocked aside the wine that had been brought for him by one of his bevy of servants, and reached instead for the uisge beatha. After emptying a good portion of the jug into his flagon, he stood before the fire, staring into the flames and refusing to allow himself to go to the window to see if she would answer his summons—this time.

He tossed back the cup, downing the fiery amber brew as if it were watered-down ale. He was too angry, too frustrated, too pushed to the edge of his tether to notice. What the hell did she want from him?

He didn’t understand her. Since her return a few weeks ago, he’d tried everything he could think of to convince her to stay with him. He’d showered her with gifts—jewels, silks for gowns, fine household plate—a king’s ransom of riches that could keep her in luxury for the rest of her life. But she’d refused every one of them.

He thought if he brought her back to Dunrobin, she would see how much he missed her—and how much she missed him. How being together was all that mattered. But she avoided him, refused to come near the castle, and stayed in that damned hovel of hers. He should have burnt it to the ground. Then she would have to come to him.

Not even when he’d been forced to submit to Bruce had his pride taken such a beating. He’d gone to Inverness after her, damn it. He wouldn’t go after her again.

So he’d ordered her to come to the Hall a few days ago for a feast. She obeyed, but she’d barely glanced in his direction. When he’d forced her to speak to him, she answered politely, “my lording” him to death, and generally treating him as if he meant nothing to her.

Infuriated, he’d tried to make her jealous by flirting with Joanna, a servant he’d made the mistake of bedding years ago. But Muriel’s indifference to his actions made him panic. He sent for her later that night—claiming he had a headache—and she’d sent a posset … with Joanna.

It would have served Muriel right if he’d bedded the lass. She was eager enough. But he wouldn’t hurt Muriel like that, no matter how much she deserved it for defying him like this.

Will refused to consider that she no longer cared for him. That forcing her to come here might have been a mistake. She was just being stubborn, that was all. But with one week left, he was running out of time and ideas.

He stilled at a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, bracing himself.

The door opened and he almost let out a sigh of relief. He’d half-expected her to send Joanna again, but it was Muriel who entered the room.

God, she was lovely. So fragile-looking, but with the unmistakable air of strength that had always drawn him. Long, wavy blond hair, porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, and refined features set in perfect repose and … indifference.

He felt a strange hitch in his chest—not just of longing, but of fear. It twisted like a rope, getting tighter and tighter until the tension reached the snapping point. She couldn’t be this indifferent to him; he wouldn’t allow it.

She glanced at the jug in his hand—what the hell had happened to his flagon? There was nothing disapproving in her gaze, but he felt it all the same.

Suddenly, he felt naked and exposed. As though she’d stripped down the venerable earl and saw the uncertainty and desperation he was trying to drown in drink. He pushed the flagon aside, disgusted with his weakness. He was stronger than she, damn it. It was she who needed him.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Damn it, Muriel, stop calling me ‘my lord.’ ”

She looked at him blankly. “What should you like me to call you?”

He crossed the room and slammed the door shut behind her, his fists clenched at his sides in fury. “What you’ve called me for years. Will. William …” Love.

He was flailing like a ship in a storm, but she simply shrugged as if nothing about him made any difference to her. “Very well. Why did you send for me, William?”

The cool, impersonal tone sent a fresh surge of panic raging through his blood. He grabbed her arm and forced her to look at him, fighting the urge to shake some sense back into her. “Stop it, Muriel. Why are you doing this? Why are you being so stubborn?”

A small, mocking smile turned her lips. “What did you think, that bringing me back here would change my mind? That you could bend me to your will? Crush me in your iron fist like you do anyone else who refuses you?”