I want to cry you say something to provoke me.'
Yes, Olivia had been doing that among other things. For Aleix, she was keeping his little sister from going mad or getting sick. When Annalía had woken that first morning and run downstairs, searching frantically for MacCarrick and her brother, Olivia had patiently explained that they'd left early, ready to get this fight won.
'Did MacCarrick leave me a message?' Annalía asked.
'He told me to tell you that they would be through in a few weeks. And that Ethan would see us down when it is safe,' Olivia had answered, veering from the truth. Llorente had told her that; MacCarrick had given no such assurance or message. When Olivia had asked MacCarrick if there was anything he'd like to relate—and yes, she'd asked—he'd only grated, 'Olivia, if you are unkind to her in any way…'
So ever since they'd gone, Olivia had hedged the truth—and met every sign of tears with snide comments and crude observations. Yet she could only stem the tide for so long, and even now Annalía's eyes watered.
Olivia slammed the book flat on the table. 'That is one thing I'm not looking forward to—a watering pot for a sister. The embarrassment of it!'
'How would you feel?' Annalía demanded. 'The man I love was letting me go, though I thought we would be together. I'd just found out he'd given Aleix to Pascal. I was nearly murdered. Then MacCarrick left me without saying good-bye!'
'One more time—your brother would be dead right now if MacCarrick hadn't put him away, and MacCarrick never lied to you about that. He merely omitted, a tactic I know well and use whenever I feel that I'm getting just shy of hellbound. Say good-bye? He was with you the entire night before he left. I'm sure he said quite a few things'—she raised her eyebrows accusingly at Annalía—'yet it's his fault you weren't awake to hear them?'
'He could have left me a letter.'
'Now you're just being silly. He's a mercenary—he's not going to go about penning love letters, and really, what would he write? 'Anna…love you…grrr?''
Annalía ignored the last. 'I just wish I could remember that night! It's all so confusing. And I feel awful—I never feel awful.' She clasped her forehead. 'How can you stand the bloody worry?'
Olivia slid her nail file across the tabletop to drop it in her palm, then leisurely filed. 'Oh, I'm not worried about your brother.'
'What?' Annalía swung her head around, her undone hair whipping to the side.
'MacCarrick will look out for him. To please you.' Olivia wasn't fearful for Llorente in the least. MacCarrick? She gave him a one in two chance. 'I'm confident he'll be safe.'
'MacCarrick would do that, wouldn't he?…' She sniffed.
'Annalía, don't you dare—'
'You would cry in my position!'
'No, I emphatically would not. I'd scrounge something to eat in this blasted British house, and I'd take care of myself so that when I saw him again I wouldn't be skin and bones with eyes red from crying. And if I had questions about MacCarrick that couldn't wait, and I was stuck in a house rife with answers, I'd find them.'
'What do you mean?'
'The servants. Servants know everything.'
'I tried! Courtland often said a Gaelic phrase to me, and it signified something important—I know it—but when I repeated it to Erskine and the cook and the maids and the footmen no one would translate it for me.'
Olivia snorted. 'I wouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer.'
Annalía glared. 'Should I have held them down and poured boiling water over them until they talked? Really, I'd like your expert advice.'
Olivia rolled her eyes. 'Of course not. You would use boiling oil.'
In a sighing voice, Annalía asked, 'Why are you being so nice to me?'
Take it back, Olivia almost sputtered. 'I'm not being nice to you, I'm acting nice to you. Your brother seems to think I can behave appropriately to certain people.' She began filing her nails again. Annalía had told her that they'd be more attractive if she didn't file them so sharply, and she'd cast her a long-suffering look. A woman's nails had nothing to do with attraction. 'I'm merely testing Llorente's theory.'
Annalía pulled her legs in closer and rested her chin on her knees. 'You told me how the 'engagement' came about, but you should know that Aleix had vowed never to wed again.'
'I did know that.' Olivia blew on her nails. 'So it's a good thing I came along to force his hand.'
Annalía tilted her head at her and scrunched her lips. An open book.
'I can see that you agree.'
'If you are what makes Aleix happy, then I will have to tolerate you.'
'Oh. Since I was awaiting your approval.'
Annalía exhaled a long breath, her gaze settling blankly on the opposite wall. 'MacCarrick never told me he loved me.'
'What did he say when you told him?'
Annalía bit her lip.
'You never told him?'
'I wanted to. I was going to,' she said as she stood to pace. Olivia wondered yet again if the trembling bottom lip or the pacing was worse. 'I just wanted the perfect time and…and, very well, I lost my nerve.'
'Would you have been able to tell him if you were pregnant? You could be, you know,' Olivia said, wondering if Annalía would finally admit to her condition.
Annalía stilled. 'That's impossible. We can't have children.'
Olivia's lips parted in shock and she dropped her file. Can't have children? Oh, the devil's red boots, this was getting worse and worse. The chit had absolutely no clue she was pregnant. No wonder she didn't understand why she felt so poorly—or why her emotions were roiling.
Olivia had thought she was keeping it a secret, but no, Olivia was going to have to explain, and in terms more delicate than 'In another month, I'll be the only one wearing your clothes.' She repeatedly knocked her forehead against her hand on the table. Llorente owed her this marriage.
'I suppose it's a good thing,' Annalía offered.
Olivia wearily raised her head.
'Since he was just going to let me go.'
'You clearly want to be with him'—Olivia leaned forward as if imparting a secret—'so don't let him let you go.'
'Don't let him—?' Annalía's brows drew together. 'That's what you're doing with Aleix.'
Olivia sat back and propped her half-boots on the table. 'So far it's working. He has to return to me because I have his sister hostage.' She briefly put her fingertips to her lips. 'Did I just say that? I mean I'm protecting the baby sister and earning his trust.'
After a few moments more of pacing, Annalía admitted, 'I must say this is better than crying.'
Olivia threw her hands up. 'What have I been telling you? And you've got it even easier than I do. Llorente doesn't love me—yet—but MacCarrick loves you.'
Annalía frowned, then said with increasing conviction, 'He did love me. I might be inexperienced to a ridiculous degree, but I should be able to tell, right? A man couldn't simply pretend that.'
He could with ease! But Olivia knew that wasn't the case here. 'Right!' she declared with a firm nod. 'Now you stew over your plan of attack while I go find some food in this place. If we have to subsist on tea and biscuits, then we'll start hoarding tins up here.' At the door she turned back. 'And, Annalía, if I come back and see that you've been crying'—Olivia made a clawing gesture with her 'unattractive' nails—'I will give you something to cry over.'
During Olivia's absence, Annalía had time to bathe, dress, and conclude two things. First of all, there was no way she was giving up MacCarrick without a fight. She quite liked this idea of simply not allowing him to throw away what they had. It gave her a feeling of some control over her life.
Second? Though she still had concerns about Olivia—Annalía couldn't determine if Olivia was intermittently evil or handily the strongest woman she'd ever met—Annalía knew she would've gone bloody mad in this tense, foreign household without her future sister-in-law to berate her….
Olivia returned then, breezing in the doorway, her arms full of biscuit tins. Evidently, they were, in fact,
