Chapter Fifty-four
She couldn't get to sleep, of course. Sabrina hadn't thought she would, any more than she'd been able to last night. It was odd how a broken heart did that to you, made sure you fretted and analyzed and went through every imaginable "what if," and in the end, still stayed broken, when if the heart would just have a bit of pity, the pain could be ignored for a brief time in sleep.
She tried reading this time, though, and had brought to bed a book that had put her to sleep numerous times before. It didn't work. Had she really thought it would? When deep down she knew that she was probably going to lose even her friendship with Duncan now? How could what they had shared ever be the same, after all, when he had foolishly tried to make more of it, without having the real feelings that were necessary to make more of it?
He was deceiving himself, and in the process, had nearly deceived her as well, but only because she wanted to believe that he could love her. She did know better, and somehow had lost sight of the simple facts, that she wasn't a great catch, wasn't the type of woman who could turn men's heads, didn't possess the kind of beauty that could attract someone as handsome as Duncan was. She had tossed aside her common sense because of a few kisses and ...
Well, they really hadn't been friendly kisses. But then making love to her hadn't been a friendly type of thing to do either. But —and this was what she had overlooked—that was in her opinion, a woman's opinion. Men must obviously view it quite differently.
She was doing it again, analyzing, dissecting, driving herself deeper and deeper into morose-ness, when the facts simply weren't going to change. She left her bed. She paced some. She stopped by the window, opened the drapery, but the moon was hiding, giving her nothing much to look at outside.
Perhaps a long walk—no, then she'd have to dress again, leave her aunts a note ...
She moved to the fireplace, which was keeping the room pleasantly warm. She should put it out, turn off the lamps, too. Of course, a completely dark room hadn't helped last night. A warm glass of milk then. At this point she'd try anything to get some sleep so she could stop thinking.
She fetched her robe and went down to the kitchen, but shortly thereafter she was dragging her feet as she returned to her room. The milk hadn't made her drowsy. She was still wide awake, and even more so when she opened her door and found Duncan sitting on her bed.
She doubted her sight, of course. Her imagination had brought him there, had even removed his coat for him, because she knew how indoor heat tended to bother him rather quickly. Just wishfulness. He wasn't real.
"Since it was already late t'day afore I felt fit enough tae come," Duncan told her, "I decided tae make sure it was late enough that there'd be nae aunts peeking through windows this time. O' course, I hadna quite figured oout how tae get tae you wi'oout waking the whole house, until you appeared at the window."
It was the brogue, which she knew she couldn't duplicate with any degree of accuracy, that convinced her he wasn't just a trick of her mind, that he was really there. "You came through the window?"
"Aye, and had a devil's time reaching it. That tree oout there didna want tae cooperate. I think I broke a few o' its limbs."
He looked contrite. She was still too amazed at his presence to think straight. "But—why?"
He left the bed, approached her, closed the door behind her that she'd been too startled to realize she was still holding open. She moved away from him, over to the fire, starting to feel. . . agitated. That didn't deter him; he followed again, took her hand so she wouldn't move off a second time.
"I've come here willing tae make a fool o' m'self if I'm wrong, but I have tae be telling you, Brina, that what I feel for you is nae longer just friendship."
She groaned inwardly, knowing full well she wasn't going to be able to survive with any degree of composure if he was going to try to convince her that he loved her, when she knew he was just deceiving himself. Archibald's warning hadn't just been heard and filed away for vague reference, it had repeated itself in her mind countless times, had been drilled home into her heart.
He wants ye near tae hand is all. He showed how far he's willing tae go tae hae ye near, by bringing ye tae the gathering, e'en though it brought Ophelia as well. He'd move ye intae Summers Glade if it werena inappropriate. I'm thinking he'd marry ye just tae get ye there permanently. He values yer friendship that much. But it is only that. Dinna let him fool ye intae thinking there's more tae his feelings. Ye'd both sorely regret it if ye do.
She tried to hold those words up as a shield now when Duncan continued, "Archie admitted tae me what he told you, but he was wrong—"
"No," she interrupted. "I've hated him for telling me, but he was right, we—"
"Be quiet and let me finish," he admonished gently. "I dinna mean his intentions. Those were fine and noble. I mean he was wrong in what he thought. I did indeed tell him a while back that we were only friends, and it was the truth at the time. I felt a closeness tae you that I've ne'er experienced afore wi' any other, and truthfully, lass, I didna think o' you any other way until Archie tried tae convince me that men and women canna be friends, that sex will get in the way o' it. Dinna be blushing now. There's nae polite way tae explain this. It was after he had that talk wi' me that I started seeing you as more'n just a friend, as the bonny lass you are. You can blame Archie if you like, but I'm no' blaming anyone for what I feel for you now. It's no' what it was, lass."
This was more painful than she could possibly have imagined it would be, because she wanted to believe him so much—but couldn't. Archie had been right, Duncan just wanted her near to hand, and this was the only way he thought he could accomplish it. And he'd just said it himself, that he'd felt a closeness to her that he'd never experienced before. She was his best friend, but because she was a woman, he was trying to call it something else.
She turned away from him to face the fire. "It is what it was," she said sadly. "You've just come to realize that I'm not as accessible as you'd like, that you can't visit me anytime you want, that you can't wake me in the middle of the night to share your thoughts, that you—"
His chuckle cut off her words, and her gasp as well, as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. "And what is this, if no' the middle o' the night?"
"You know what I meant. You can't be climbing trees every night. And you'd have the neighbors gossiping about us if you tried to see me as often as you want. But then you know that, which is why—"
His arms squeezed her to silence this time. "You're a stubborn lass, so I'm going tae speak plainly. Every time I see you now, I want tae drag you into my arms and make love tae you. D'you really think that that has anything tae do wi' friendship? I'm fighting wi' m'self right now no' tae kiss you. Brina, I love the fact that we were friends first, and I love thinking that we always will be, but I have tae be more'n that tae you now. I want tae be your lover, your protector, your provider, and your friend, but I canna be all o' that unless you'll marry me."
"You're killing me," she choked out.
He swung her around. "Look at me! Do I look like a man who doesna know his own mind? And if you tell me nae, I swear I'll cart you off tae the Highlands and live wi' you in sin. After nine or ten bairns, then you can tell me I dinna love you like I know I do."
"I meant I couldn't breathe."
"Oh," he said, but he caught the twinkle in her lavender eyes and laughed as he drew her back into his arms. "You believe me now."
He wasn't asking, nor did she need to confirm it, though she did say, "Any man who would want that many babies from me must love me."
"It hurts how much, lass."
She cupped his face in her hands, leaned up to kiss him softly. "No, it only hurts when you can't share it. We're going to share it now, Duncan."