Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(36)

“True family,” Kate mused quietly. “Those are the people who ask, and on whose say-so, you go halfway round the world? People like Lord Blakely, then.”

She looked up at him.

“Rather like oxygen,” Ned agreed, “inhaled into lungs that burn with exertion. Family consists of the people who are vital, even though sometimes they hurt. But if you’re worried that I feel some obligation to Harcroft that would make me reveal that little trick you played on him with the peppermints, or, um, anything else—worry no more.”

She glanced at him, and then looked away once again. “And who do you include in this category of true family, then?”

“Jenny,” Ned said instantly. “Gareth. My mother. Laura—that’s Gareth’s half sister. She and I were practically raised together. It’s not a large group, Kate.”

Still she didn’t say anything. Her lips pressed whitely together.

He’d wanted her to know that the people who could command his loyalty were few, that she could rely on him. Obviously, that hadn’t worked.

She was looking at him still. Not one muscle had shifted in her face, and yet he could see that the glitter in her eyes was not hatred or even mistrust. He’d completely misunderstood; this wasn’t about Harcroft, somehow. He was never going to understand women. By the furrow in her forehead, he guessed he’d said something truly awful. He’d misread that silver glint all along. She wasn’t angry with him. She was devastated.

“Christ,” he swore in confusion. “What did I say? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

She shook her head. “Wrong question. It’s what you didn’t say.”

“Very well, then. What didn’t I say?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” Her words were bitter, and now she looked down. “And nothing that I couldn’t have expected. It doesn’t matter.”

The edge of the sunlight caught the smallest reflection of moisture in her eyes. She was doing a valiant job of not crying. Her nostrils flared. She took in a deep breath, no doubt intending it to be calming. “It does. Kate, I don’t actually want to cause you pain, you know. If you would just tell me—”

“Jenny,” she counted softly. “Gareth. Laura. Your mother. I don’t question your allegiance to any of them, or the sincerity of the connection. It’s foolish of me. We’re not that kind of husband and wife. But Ned, you are married to me.”

Oxygen? It was as if suddenly there were too much of it, as if his every breath counted for twice as much. Ned felt himself gasping—as if he were a salmon cast upon the sand.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It never does seem to be. You vowed to cherish me,” Kate said quietly. “You vowed to love me and honor me. When I spoke my vows, I meant them. I intended to cleave unto you for the rest of my life, but you disappeared for years. To you, that ceremony was nothing but words,” Kate said bitterly. She held up her hand, index finger pointed. And then she touched his chest—as if she were tallying up his mistakes on his ribs. Her finger swished along him as if making an accusatory notch: One.

Ned had nothing to say in response.

“That’s all you’ve ever given me—words.”

“No. You can trust me.”

She clenched her hands and faced him. “Who do you suppose I am?”

Kate was the impossibly attractive woman he’d married, and if he’d craved her before today, he hungered for her now.

She raised her chin. “I was the one who waited at home while you strolled the world. I withstood the questions. I endured years of the betting books, and I held on to fidelity through all the long years of your absence.”

“I—I may not have acted as well as I could with regards to you. But that’s going to change, Kate. It’s already changing. Listen—”

“If you had really wanted to stay—if you had really wanted to keep company with your new wife, you would have found a trusted minion to take your place. I think you wanted to go. I think,” she said, “that like all young men, you wanted to sow your wild oats. And having lost your chance to do so here in England, by virtue of your unfortunate marriage, you decided to take the matter abroad.”

She raised her hand again, to tally that second accusation against his chest. Ned reached out and grabbed her fingers. “No,” he said. He could barely recognize his own voice. “No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t why.”

“How many women? You were gone three years. In all that time, how many women did you kiss?”

“One,” he replied. “And she was you.”

She waited. The silence that followed was cold with her disbelief.

“I was young, Kate. Young and determined to prove I was more than a useless fribble. I’ve made mistakes. I wanted to show everyone that my mistakes hadn’t made me. That I was rational. Sober. Reliable.”

“And what did you want to show me?”

“You?” He glanced at her and understood innately why he’d left. She flummoxed him. Even now, peering into the gray of her eyes, he could feel a tide of want and desire rising. He’d had a million reasons to go. But primary among them, he’d fled England because when he was around her, that sober, rational, reliable part of him faded into nothingness. It left behind this dark beast, this needful thing. When she stood near him, he sure as hell didn’t want to honor her. He hadn’t wanted to keep any of the gentle vows required by the Anglican ceremony. No, standing this close to her, he yearned to possess her. He wanted to own the curve of her waist with his hands. He wanted to claim her for his own. And he was unable to suppress that longing, no matter how ferociously he tried. He’d hoped that proving to himself that he was steady and reliable would alleviate that want.