“I cared well for my dear old ma,” he said harshly. “I took her to the church and then I went searching for Siobhan. I didn’t find her for a week. She was already wasted from her disease. I couldn’t stop it. She died.”
It was all becoming terribly clear to Mac. “I couldn’t stop it,” he’d said again and again. “I tried.” A boy who’d tried so desperately to be the man, to make up for his father’s betrayal, to protect his womenfolk against life’s inevitable cruelties. And had lost the battle, because he was only a boy and his world was far too merciless a place.
“And then…” she said, hugging herself to keep from hugging him, “and then you had no one.”
All at once he looked at her—looked at her, not through her. “I didn’t need anyone,” he said. “I took care of myself. I made my own way. I have more money than Da ever dreamed of. I have everything.”
Except freedom from the past, from your own perceived failure. Because you’ve never lived that down. Her eyes filled, and she fought to keep the tears behind her lids. You’ve been trying to make it up ever since. With the slave girls. With Caroline. Trying to save the ones you can.
Warm breath caressed her face. “Tears, Mac?” he asked, bitterness unconcealed. “Did my story move you so deeply?”
“Liam… I’m sorry—”
“Save your pity. I don’t want it.” He turned on his heel and went for his clothes.
“You think I don’t know what it is to lose people you love?” she said, dogging his heels. “I do. I know how it feels when you’re helpless to stop it.”
He tugged on his pants and began to button his shirt, ignoring her. There was nothing to do but throw everything at him, whatever the risk.
“You don’t love Caroline,” she accused. “She was perfect for you because you didn’t love her. She was safe. You could control everything she did, protect her for eternity, but she wasn’t a risk to your heart, and you could still make up for the past. When you lost her you didn’t lose love, you lost the chance to redeem yourself.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He spun so fast that he almost knocked her down.
“To hell with you,” he rasped. “You’re not God to be knowing what’s in my heart.”
She summoned up every ounce of her courage and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “For God’s sake, Liam, let me be your friend.” She brushed his unshaven chin with the back of her hand. “I care about you. I care.”
A bone-deep shudder went through him, passed into her own flesh and blood as if they were joined.
She reached for the top button of his shirt and slipped it from the buttonhole. “Don’t run from me. I need you, Liam.”
His answer held no words. He caught her hard in his arms, cupped her bottom in his hands, pressed her against the nearest wall.
And kissed her, with a stunning tenderness. He leaned into her as his mouth worked over hers, and she felt him melt through her wrap and chemise and burn straight into her heart.
She wouldn’t let him take the lead this time. He needed. Needed to feel cared for, loved, without expectations or demands or judgment.
He didn’t move as she slipped her hands under his shirt, baring his chest. He made only a single sharp sound when she peeled the shirt over his shoulders, trapping his arms.
She spread her palms against his chest, lacing her fingers through the crisp curls of pale hair. His heart thudded under her hand. She leaned into him and kissed his chin, his shoulder, the firm swell of his pectorals. Her tongue flicked his nipple, and he let out a rough sigh.
She was still kissing him as they moved to the bed. A moment later she was straddling his thighs, her kisses following the downward path of hair that stretched from chest to ribs to belly and disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.
He was very quiet while she undid the buttons and tugged his pants down around his hips. He was entirely at attention, practically leaping into her hand.