Chapter 23
Regaining consciousness was one of the worst decisions Ewan had made in a long time. It felt like someone had run him over with a mail coach and then lit him on fire. He tried to remember how he got there.
“I see ye’ve finished trying to die,” Angus said from the side of his bed. “About time. I’m sick of sitting in this chair.”
“How long?”
“Few days. Ye got pretty cozy with the brink for a bit.”
Angus handed him a cup of cool water. He coughed when he tried to gulp it down too quickly, and the pain in his ribs nearly caused him to black out again. He tried a second time, slower.
Days. He was definitely thirsty like it had been days, and already his stomach was sending out some very loud sounds of protest. He’d never been put down for days by anything. He remembered taunting Alastair. He remembered the knives. He remembered— “Deidre.”
“Aye, the lass is in sorry shape, too. Though nae so bad as yerself. She dinnae even try to die once.”
He’d been tied up. He couldn’t do anything to help her, and she’d had to . . . Ewan closed his eyes against the memory.
“She did a half-decent job patching ye up. Course, we went and ruined it all getting ye back here, but I suspect she saved your life.”
Deidre had saved his life and he had just lain there. “I couldnae help her.”
Angus frowned at him. “How much do ye remember, lad?”
“I remember.”
“What’s the last thing?”
“The gunshot. She fell onto the bed.”
“Aye, and then?”
And then nothing. “I assume ye rescued us.”
“Aye. I told ye I’d nae let harm come to ye.”
Ewan looked pointedly at his bruised and lacerated body. If this wasn’t harm, he didn’t know what was. Worse, though, he’d sworn that Deidre wouldn’t have to be a killer. Regardless of what she’d had to do in the past, he wanted things to be different for her now. Ewan wanted her to do what she wanted to do, not what she had to do. Gutting someone she used to love, no matter how evil a bastard he was, wasn’t something she should have had to go through.
“She killed him, Angus.”
“Aye, I suspected she might. Somebody had to.”
“It shouldnae have had to be her. It should have been—”
“Ye or I? I’ll nae argue with that, but circumstances being what they were, I’m glad she had it in her.”
It was too late to change it now—he’d failed her. “Where is she?”
Angus gestured to the connecting door. “Laid up in bed, same as ye.”
Ewan moved to stand.
Angus pushed him back down with a hand on his shoulder. “Nae a chance, lad. Yer awake, and that’s encouraging, but yer nae quite ready to be up and about.”
“I need to see her.”
“I’ve no doubt that ye do, but it’ll have to wait until ye’ve been off death’s door for more than five minutes.”
Ewan tried again, but he didn’t even have the strength to push Angus’s hand off him.
“Neither of ye is going anywhere,” Angus said as kindly as he was capable of.
Ewan turned his head away, silent. As soon as he was able, he would . . .
He would what? Apologize? There weren’t enough words to take back what had happened. Ewan had told her he would take care of her. He’d asked her to trust him. In return, she’d had to seduce and murder a man she was terrified of, and take a bullet for Ewan.
Even if she would forgive him, he didn’t deserve it.
“Right. I’ll leave ye to yer sulking. Maybe Rose will take pity on ye and send up something to eat.”
***
When Ewan first woke up, Deidre had heard the voices through the door. She hadn’t been able to make out the words, but when that second low timbre had joined Angus’s, she’d started crying.
She’d been crying for days. First when they’d taken the bullet out. Later, when Ewan hadn’t woken up. Anytime she tried to sit up. Sometimes for no reason at all. It seemed like she would never run out of tears. Rose had become used to it, but Deidre could tell it still made Tristan highly uncomfortable. When she’d heard Ewan’s voice, it was the first time the tears had been joyful.
Then the connecting had door stayed closed. It had been closed for ten days.
Initially, Deidre didn’t think anything of it. He’d been through hell and had only just woken up. His not coming to see her didn’t mean anything. As time went on and she heard him progress to standing and moving around in short bursts, it started to mean a great deal.
Angus had come to see her a few times, but he hadn’t had much to say about it except that Ewan “had some fool notion in his idiot head” and that he’d “come around.” Well, so far he hadn’t come around and Deidre had plenty of time lying in bed to dwell on why.
Deidre had hoped Ewan would be able to forgive her for the things he’d seen her do, but it was becoming obvious that he could not. She couldn’t blame him. Everything that had happened to him was her fault. Could she really expect him to suffer what he had and still look at her the same? Or at all, apparently?
When Tristan told her Ewan had ventured down the stairs and still the connecting door hadn’t opened, Deidre quit crying and set her focus on getting better. If he didn’t want her anymore, she couldn’t just lie around waiting for him to change his mind. Neither was she going to force him to ask her to leave. He might not like the things she was capable of—she wasn’t overly fond of them these days either—but they would see her through to starting over somewhere new.
She thought about Glasgow, before rejecting it. Alastair’s death would leave a void that a person with quick wits could capitalize on, but Deidre realized she couldn’t keep herself separate from the work anymore. Seducing the thug and Alastair had been necessary, but it had taken a toll. Even before she’d met Ewan, with that boy viscount she’d robbed, it had been difficult not to feel guilty about taking advantage of him. No, Deidre no longer had what it would take to seize control of Alastair’s gang.
Unfortunately, she had no idea what else she might do.
Tristan came in with a tray of food while she was trying to sort it out. He immediately slipped into the Romani language. “I know that face. That’s a leaving face. Why are we leaving?”
If she cried again, Deidre was going to scratch her own eyes out. “You don’t have to go. I’m sure Ewan would be more than happy to have you stay, and you’ve done really well with Darrow and the—”
“If you’re leaving, we’re leaving, but I thought you were happy here.” Tristan looked around the room. “I thought we might stay for good this time.”
So had Deidre. “I know.”
“What happened?”
She didn’t want to say it, but everyone knew anyway. “He hasn’t come to see me.”
“That’s all?”
Deidre shot her brother a look. “Don’t. He couldn’t stay away from me before, and now he can’t even bear to look at me. He’s disgusted by the very idea of me.”
Tristan made a dismissive noise. “You don’t know that. Maybe it’s something else.”
“What else could it possibly be?”
Tris wandered around the room a bit, before he snapped his fingers. “He nearly died. Maybe he’s having a bit of trouble with his . . . you know . . . and he’s afraid to see you, in case he’s not . . . all in order.”
It was lunacy that Tristan’s suggestion gave her a burst of hope, but it did. “Do you think?”
“He hasn’t said anything to me, but I sure as hell wouldn’t if I were him.”
That was true. Men could be extremely sensitive about the workings of their manly parts. Fortunately for Ewan, Deidre was an expert at inspiring ardor. If that truly was Ewan’s trouble, they’d have it sorted in no time.
“I suppose I ought to at least be sure, before I start packing.”
Tristan smiled, switching back to English. “Good. Now eat your broth or Rose will feed me to the sharks.”
***
Ewan pushed himself, forcing his body to make it up the last of the stairs before he stopped. He took great heaving breaths that strained his stitches, but they held. Deidre was still confined to her bed. When she could finally move about, Ewan was determined to be strong enough to help her.
He had gone to see her, once, but she’d been sleeping. He’d watched her for nearly an hour before he’d mustered up the strength to leave her. It had been a close thing. He decided he wouldn’t visit her while she was awake until she was healed. That way, if she abhorred the sight of him and he was too weak to go, at least she’d be able to walk away on her own.
The long trip down the hallway marked the end of his daily physical trial. He made it back to his room and settled in to wait. When sounds did finally drift through the connecting door, it wasn’t Deidre’s hideously adorable snoring—it was a cry of distress. Ewan stood up, barreling through the door with a speed he would pay for later.
Inside her room, he found Deidre twisted up in the sheets, trapped in a nightmare. He hesitated, unsure if he should wake her. She cried out again. He couldn’t let her suffer, even if the fears were a product of her own mind.
“Shh, leannain. Shh. It’s just a dream.” He touched her arm.
Deidre turned under his hand, lashing out. She struggled against an invisible force.
Ewan sat down on the bed, shaking her shoulders. “Wake up, Deidre.”
She lurched awake. Her eyes were wild until they found Ewan’s face.
“Yer safe.”
Deep, heaving gulps lessened into more sedate breaths. “You’re here.”
“Aye, I’m here.”
Ewan stayed next to her, stroking her hair, until she’d settled. When he rose to leave, her hand on his wrist stopped him.
“Will you stay?”
He shouldn’t. The nightmare had made Deidre vulnerable and she would regret his presence in the morning, but he couldn’t deny her. Not when he craved being near her so intensely.
Ewan nodded. He slid in beside her, careful not to jostle either of their injuries. She curled up against his side and he tried not to think about how good it felt to be next to her.
“Are ye comfortable?” he asked to distract himself.
She hummed a sound of appreciation.
Every tiny movement, every rustle of the sheets, added to the bonfire of awareness going on in his mind. Ewan cursed his body. He cursed his desires. Even if he hadn’t failed her, neither of them were in any shape to be doing the things his imagination was suggesting. And then, there was the unavoidable fact that she would hate him in the morning if he took advantage of her weak moment. She needed him just then, but it didn’t mean she wanted him.
He tormented himself with a rotation of arousal and self-disgust as he waited for her to find her way back to sleep.
“Ewan?”
“Aye?”
“About what happened—”
“Shh. We dinnae need to talk about it now. Just get some sleep.” He could feel her poised to say more, so he pressed his cheek to her hair and rubbed slow circles into her scalp. Like the night she’d slept innocently beside him, it didn’t take long for the snoring to begin.
Ewan was a thousand kinds of coward. He should have let her say it—let her draw the line and tell him they weren’t lovers anymore—but he wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Soon, he’d be ready to let her go, but not quite yet.
***
In Deidre’s nightmare she’d been in bed with Teller. She was riding him while Alastair watched. It hadn’t mattered to her in the dream—just one more thing she had to do—but then Ewan had come through the door. He had looked so betrayed, and suddenly it mattered very much.
She wanted to go to him, wanted to follow him and explain, but her body wouldn’t make the motions. Her mind screamed out for her to do something, but she just kept on. The whole time Teller and Alastair had laughed. Laughed as Ewan ran from her.
When she woke up and he was there . . .
He’d said she was safe, she felt safe. She wished she could have told him everything and found out what he was thinking, but it was nice just to lie next to him. When she’d fallen back into sleep, it was peaceful. No nightmares came calling.
Waking up again in the morning, she felt Ewan’s warmth wrapped around her. She also felt a familiar protrusion at the small of her back. Tris’s theory ran through her mind. They were both too injured to do anything about it, but perhaps . . .
Deidre rolled over, careful not to wake him, and slipped her hand under the edge of his shirt. She brushed her hand up the length of him and felt him twitch in response. Thank God. Concern for their injuries faded to the background as her body responded to the feel of his thickening cock. She snuggled closer, burying her face in his chest, loving the smell of him. With light touches she brought him to steely hardness.
He moaned and rolled on top of her. It made her wound ache, but she didn’t care. She looked at his face to see if it had hurt him, but his eyes were still closed. Sleep-heavy hands spread her thighs and suddenly he was inside her. His mouth found her neck as he moved on sheer instinct. Deidre adjusted her hips, wanting to take him deeper. The shift brought a stabbing pain to her stitches and she cried out in pain.
Ewan froze. Consciousness dawned and she watched horror descend over his face.
“It’s okay. I’m not—”
He pulled out of her and fled the bed in a flash. “I’m sorry. I dinnae—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I have to . . . I’m . . .” He didn’t finish his thought. He just turned and fled back through the connecting door, slamming it behind him.
Deidre looked at the closed door, realizing she’d made a grave miscalculation. The revulsion on his face was impossible to mistake. He didn’t want her—he’d only come because she was in danger. Only stayed because she had asked him to. Chivalrous Ewan, coming to rescue a damsel in distress. Nothing more.
***
He’d forced himself on her. He hadn’t meant to—hadn’t even known he was doing it—but that hardly mattered. If she didn’t hate him before, she certainly did now. There was a bullet hole in her stomach, for Christ’s sake. What kind of a monster was he?
The door sat on the edge of his vision, taunting him. She was on the other side of it, feeling God only knew what, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t take back what had happened. There wasn’t an apology that could be uttered for something like that. The only thing he could do was try to make sure it never happened again. That meant keeping himself well away from her.
Ewan dressed with little regard for his wounds. At the bottom of the stairs, instead of heading out toward the courtyard and the cliffs, he turned toward the store rooms. He knew exactly where he was headed, but it was still unnerving to arrive at the doorless archway atop the basement stairs. The old dread welled up inside him as he stepped past it.
He fought the panic, making his way down into the dark room one laborious step at a time. Ewan followed the walls until he was as far in as he could go. Sliding down with his back to the wall, he sat and let the memories come.
They arrived in fragments. Rats skittering in the darkness. Her voice, strained, telling him not to be frightened. The metallic smell. The rattling, sucking sound as she struggled to breathe. Her hand under his, weak and clinging. Finally being taken by exhaustion. He’d thought the crackling sound of her breathing was the worst of it, but waking up to silence and her body cold next to him . . . Parts of him had broken in that moment and he’d never recovered.
This was what could happen—what would happen. He couldn’t keep himself from hurting her. No matter how much he loved her, he wasn’t good for her. Ewan had to let her go.