“How can I not? Everything we are is a result of my folly and Isley’s bloody machinations.”
She hit his shoulder. Hard. “Fool! Your bargain reset your life’s course. It did not make me want you afterward. It did not make us happy. It did not make me lo…” She swallowed. “It did not make me love you, Win. You did that, you ass.” She shoved him again, hard enough to make him step back, which was good, for she could not stand another moment in his presence. “And if you cannot see that, cannot accept what we were, then our continued association is pointless.”
He grabbed her upper arms. “It is you who cannot see!” When she tried to move, he held fast. “You kept turning me down when I first proposed. Do you remember that at least?”
Stiffly she nodded, not liking the hard, black feeling swelling within her chest.
His grip tightened, his eyes wild with pained frustration. “I thought you did so because of who I was. But it wasn’t that, was it? I understand now. It was because of who you were.”
The blackness turned to pain and pushed against her ribs, filling up her throat. “I did not want to love you. I did not want to risk you.” She still did not want to face that risk.
Redness swarmed in his eyes as he looked at her. “I know, sweeting. I know it now. Can you not see it? I took away your choice.” Softly, his thumbs caressed her. “Ask yourself this. Would Boadicea, Mother of the SOS, have given in and said yes to me?”
A garbled sound broke from her lips as all that black, raging pain became too much to hold in. She sucked in greedy pulls of air, but it was no use. The truth came whether she wanted to say it or not.
“No.”
And then she was running. From him. From herself.
He watched her go. Every forceful stride she took drove a stab of pain into his heart. He bit his bottom lip to keep from calling her back. To keep from shouting out the truth. That he did not care if she wasn’t truly his. He loved her. He always had. He’d die loving her. But she’d said her truth as well. She would not have chosen him. Absently, he rubbed his chest.
“You did the smart thing, Lane.”
Hands fisting, he glanced down at the street urchin who had appeared by his side. A grubby little face blinked up at him, innocent, sweet with his button nose and too big eyes that flared with an inner fire. It took all Win had not to smash his fist into that face. “Did you do this?”
Jones looked down at the bodies littering the ground. “I thought this was your handiwork.”
“You bloody well know what I mean.”
“You’ve no sense of humor, Lane.” Jones shrugged. “As she said, it is not my style. The woman has more enemies than the devil.” His little face turned to watch Poppy go, and he grinned. “Ah, but she’s glorious when she fights, isn’t she?” Icy eyes settled on Winston. “She won’t be talking to you for some time, though, will she?”
“I swear to God,” Winston ground out, “I will find a way to destroy you, Jones. Even if I have to go to hell to do it.”
The urchin adjusted his cap and spat on the ground. “Sweet words will get you nowhere.” He shoved his small hands into the pockets of his short pants. “I’m doing you a service, really. Fate never meant for her to be yours.”
“And what if I don’t believe in your version of fate?” Each word was a razor dragged along Winston’s throat.
“Then you wouldn’t be here.” A little foot kicked at a broken clump of paving, and the clump bounded away. “You’d be running after her.” Hard eyes leveled on him. “Now, stop wasting time. You’ve got three days left. Then I come to collect.”
Chapter Eighteen
A man could make himself weak at the knees giving in to anticipation. Especially if gifted with a healthy imagination. He could watch the object of his desire and wonder. What would her lips taste like? Would they be tart and sweet like berries? Or warm and smooth like sherry? Would she willingly tickle her tongue along his? Or make him work for an entry? One glimpse of the shadow of her breasts and he could be hard, contemplating the shape of them once set free of their