The Match of the Century by Cathy Maxwell Page B

brother’s tune, but I don’t.”
    “I’m not criticizing—”
    “You are not? Of course you are. And here, I thought you were glad to see me. At least, you expressed that an hour ago.”
    “I am happy to see you—” She caught herself and stopped, releasing a breath with great patience before saying, “I am very happy to see you. What is between you and Gavin is none of my business.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Then again, it is obvious you are not complying with what he wants you to do.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “The untamed hair, the clothes, the companions.”
    “Next you will be pointing out that ‘I stink.’ ”
    His accusation, softly spoken, was a direct reference to their last meeting and words he had never forgotten. They burned deep inside him. She didn’t pretend not to understand. A dull stain crept up her cheeks. Her jaw tightened.
    And he could have kicked himself.
    Why was nothing simple when it came to this woman?
    Moments before he was completely sympathetic to her. But he always seemed to be waiting for her to say one thing wrong. To offer any criticism . . . and he didn’t understand himself.
    “That was crude of me,” he murmured. “Ignore me.”
    Now she appeared genuinely confused. “Well, you do smell better than you did that night.”
    “I’d traveled a long way that day and the days before it,” he admitted.
    “And had drunk quite a bit.”
    “I bathed in whisky,” he agreed, and surprised a laugh out of her.
    She covered her mouth as if afraid she offended him again, and he waved her fears away with a motion of his hand.
    “I wasn’t good that night,” he confessed.
    There was beat of silence. “It was a terrible night.”
    “I know.”
    Now it was his turn to pause, to consider carefully what he wanted to say. A year and a half ago, he had attempted to make amends and had not heard one word from her until she’d run into the Oak’s taproom this evening.
    And what did he want to say? She still isn’t yours, an inner voice reminded him . She’d announced in front of Hooknose and the others that she was bound for London to marry his brother and all of her own free will.
    But she wasn’t married yet.
    It was amazing how insidious those little voices in his mind were. How they battled with each other, but only over this woman. Especially when she looked as vulnerable as she did now.
    Her hair was a tangled mess and her face pale from worry and smudges of dirt from her ordeal. However, her dark eyes told him she was grateful to have found him.
    Grateful. What a weak word. Too weak for what he wanted from her, and it was as if the years fell away, and he was once again under her spell. A spell she hadn’t woven because she was oblivious to him.
    Self-pity, anger, and heartache started to raise their ugly heads. He forced them back.
    God damn it all. He was a bloody fool.
    And the sooner he scooted her out of his life, the better he would be. He’d found peace without her twice now. He would find it again.
    “So,” he said, clapping his hands to punctuate the word and return his mind to good sense. “You need your rest, and tomorrow, we’ll take you to your father.” He moved toward the doorway, and half-out of it, pulling the door shut when Elin took a step toward him—and that was all it took for him to pause.
    “Thank you, Ben,” she whispered. “Thank you for being here.”
    Elin had never had guile. She had always said exactly what she thought. It wasn’t her fault that this defenseless side of her ripped all of his good intentions to shreds. He wanted nothing more than to fall on his knees in front of her and beg her to give him another chance.
    But he was a man. Men didn’t beg.
    “Right,” he said, sounding almost cheery. “Tomorrow.” He shut the door and, at last, took a full breath.
    “Ah, yes,” he muttered to himself. “St. Benedict Whitridge, martyr to lost causes and defender of stray kittens.” He balled his hand into a fist and