A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2) - Sarah MacLean Page 0,84
panicked. “Where did it go?”
Alec crossed to her. “Lily,” he said quietly, “we’ll find it. There are a finite amount of places where he could have hidden it.”
“There are a hundred places,” she said. “A thousand.” Frustration grew, tightening in her chest. “This is not a Scottish keep, Alec. It is London.” She paused. Looked at him. “Do you believe in fate?”
“No.”
She smiled, small and sad. “I do. This was my only chance. My opportunity to save myself. Perhaps, though . . . perhaps my disgrace is fated.”
“It’s not.”
She didn’t reply, turning back to the room to whisper to the empty walls, “I wanted to find it.”
For the first time in three weeks, one day, she’d had hope that her life might be hers once more. That she might survive.
She looked to him. “I begged you to let me run. To let me end it my way. And then you gave me hope and I thought this was the answer.”
“It is,” he said, his gaze firm and full of something akin to pride. “Clever girl. It is. We will find it. Anywhere in London. Running is not the answer. This is.”
And, God save her, she almost believed him. His sure certainty, as though all he had to do was will it so and it was done.
She almost believed him. “I thought it would be here.”
“And if it were mine, I would keep it here.” The reply came without hesitation.
She looked up, meeting his eyes, whisky in the golden candlelight. “What does that mean?”
He looked away, as though he’d been caught confessing something he should not have. “Only that I would keep it close.”
“If it were your best hope of a legacy, you mean.”
“No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”
She caught her breath at the words, at the way they thickened the air around them. “What then?”
He was so close, now, close enough to touch, and Lily was consumed with the keen memory of two nights prior, in the carriage. Of touching him. Of him touching her.
She shouldn’t do it.
Not here. Not ever.
And still, she lifted a hand, feeling the tremors in it as she set it to his chest, feeling his heart beating strong and fast beneath the swath of tartan that crossed his shoulder. Time stopped. They both stared at that place, where her pale hand rested against the red of his plaid.
He was so strong.
So warm.
Her gaze lifted to find his gaze on hers, waiting for her. Quiet and strong and patient, as though it were his whole purpose. To wait for her. To be with her.
To be hers.
Her lips parted at the thought, and his attention flickered to the movement, the dark and silence cloaking them in each other.
She lifted her chin, offering herself to him. He dipped his head, closing the distance between them. Yes. Please.
She would give anything for him.
Her eyes slid shut.
“Lily,” he whispered, the word a kiss of breath against her lips, filled with devastation and desire.
Yes.
And then he released her. Cleared his throat. “We should leave before he returns.”
Like that, it was over, and the room spun with the speed of his departure.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, wishing she could will away the ache there—the wanting. He wanted to kiss her. She’d seen it.
Why hadn’t he done it?
Was it Derek? Was it her past? Was he too reminded of what she had done here?
Of who she had become here?
Regret came, harsh and painful, and Lily stiffened, hating it. Hating all of it. Every minute that had led her to this moment, in the room where she’d laid herself bare for one man, and ached for another.
With no choice, she followed Alec back into the bedchamber, attempting to appear as unmoved by the moment as he was. “What if he’s left? Absconded with it?”
Alec ripped open the doors to the massive wardrobe in the corner, revealing a sea of clothing in silks and satins and wools and linens—every color imaginable. “I assume he is not gone.”
She shook her head, drawing nearer. “Derek would never leave his clothes behind.”
He looked to her. “He’s a peacock, you know.”
“I know,” she said, reaching for a turquoise vest, brocaded in gold thread. “But peacocks can be very compelling.”
A low rumble sounded from his chest, followed by a distinctly grumpy, “Compelling is not the same as worthwhile.”
Her fingers stilled on the shimmering blue fabric. “Scotsmen are the latter, I suppose?” Later, she would wonder why on earth she thought the words appropriate. Where on