Joanna's Highlander (Highland Protector #2)(64)

He twisted the handle of the screen door until the wood frame crackled and splintered. She’d already made a plan even though she’d no’ discussed the matter with him. The knife she’d already thrust into his heart twisted and burned all the deeper with the hurt she’d ignited. He yanked open the screen door and stomped inside, letting it bang shut behind him. He crossed the porch to the wet bar, thumped a glass down on the counter, and filled it to the rim with whisky.

“I foresee myself gettin’ verra drunk this evenin’,” he informed the bottle as he left it open on the bar.

The screen door slammed again. “Fix me one too, will you?”

Joanna stood close behind him—close enough that he could feel her heat and breathe in her delicious scent. He ached to turn and sweep her up into his arms, holding her tight until all this heartbreaking foolishness went away. By damn, he’d lock them both in the bedroom and make love to her until she swore she’d ne’er leave.

He started to turn and grab her up but forced himself to stop, holding fast against the thought and keeping himself locked in place. Nay. I shouldna do so. A man of this century would ne’er do such a thing to the woman he loved. He huffed out a disgusted snort. Aye. A man of this century didna have the bollocks t’fight to make a woman see that she needed him as much as he needed her. Men of this century had been castrated by feckin’ social convention.

Judging by Joanna’s insinuation that she’d be taking the job in Chicago no matter what he thought, she apparently wanted a twenty-first-century man that was happy to wait until she decided she had time for him. An obedient man. One contented to heel until his mistress called.

Grant downed the whisky and refilled his glass, his mood growing darker by the minute. How could his dearest love not want him? Not want a medieval Highlander who kept her close and safe? A man who hungered for the touch of her every day and would die if necessary t’protect her from pain or harm? But apparently, Joanna didna want such a man, a man who treasured her in his thoughts through every waking hour and dreamt of her at night.

Grant upended his glass and swallowed the whisky in one long gulp. He slammed the heavy crystal tumbler back on the counter and selected another glass from the shelf above the bar. Risking a glance back at Joanna, he jerked his head toward the row of liquor bottles against the wall. “What d’ye wish t’drink? Whisky, brandy, port? What will it be, m’lady?” Damn…I should no’ have called her “m’lady.” Much too polite for this century.

The burn of the whisky down his gullet fed the urge to vent the sarcasm building inside him. Resentment stung like salt in the gaping wound where his heart used to be. He held up Joanna’s empty glass just as she was about to speak. “Excuse me,” he said loudly in a tone that dared her to interrupt. “I worded that poorly. I shouldha said, ‘What will ye have?’ There’ll be no more m’lady—ne’er ye fear.”

Joanna rolled her eyes, blew out a heavy breath, and folded her arms across her chest. “Whisky, please.”

“Whisky it is!” Grant poured a moderate splash of the amber liquid into a glass, passed it to Joanna, then turned back and refilled his own glass nearly running-over full. He downed it just as quickly as the first and then refilled it again.

“Could you please slow down on that stuff until you hear me out?” Joanna walked over to the cushioned settee up against the wall and lowered herself to nervously perch on the edge of the cushions, cradling the glass of whisky between her hands. “My working in Chicago won’t be nearly as bad as you think. I’ll be home every weekend…and every holiday.”

“Yer willin’ t’give me two days of yer life out of seven—and more on holidays.” Grant held out his arms and managed a gallant bow, even though four full glasses of Scotland’s finest was starting t’make his ears ring just a bit. “Yer generosity leaves me speechless, m’lady.” Hell’s bollocks. I said it again. He held up a finger. “Beg pardon. Not m’lady.” Backing up to the bar, he filled his glass again. “Yer generosity leaves me speechless, Joanna.”

“Grant, please. Don’t be like that. You know I have to do this.”

“Why?” He slammed his once-again empty glass down on the counter. “Why the hell d’ye have to do this? Tell me that. Make me understand why yer so damned determined to get away from me. What the hell have I done t’run ye away?” He’d held his temper as long as he could. The world and his family tellin’ him he must be cool-headed could all just be damned.

“It’s not like that.” Joanna’s voice broke. She slid her untouched glass of whisky on the table beside her, then looked back at him, her eyes shimmering with moisture. “I’m not trying to get away from you.”

She lies. I can see it as plain as this godforsaken day. “What about our wedding? Our children? Our life?” He’d tell this woman he loved so much it hurt like hell exactly how wrong she was and by the gods, he’d make her understand. I hafta make her see.

“We can have it all. I’ll just have a longer commute than most.” Joanna cleared her throat, retrieved her glass from the table, and barely sipped the whisky, looking at him with such a renewed expression of calmness it infuriated him even more. Gone was the moisture in her eyes that he’d foolishly mistaken for tears.