The color was rising in his face; the tips of his ears were already red, a sure sign of impending fury.
“And have you lived a nun for twenty years?” he demanded, shaking me slightly. “Have ye?”
“No!” I flung the word at his face, and he flinched slightly. “No, I bloody haven’t! And I don’t think you’ve been a monk, either—I never did!”
“Then—” he began, but I was much too furious to listen anymore.
“You lied to me, damn you!”
“I never did!” The skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, as it was when he was very angry indeed.
“You did, you bastard! You know you did! Let go!” I kicked him sharply in the shin, hard enough to numb my toes. He exclaimed in pain, but didn’t let go. Instead, he squeezed harder, making me yelp.
“I never said a thing to ye—”
“No, you didn’t! But you lied, anyway! You let me think you weren’t married, that there wasn’t anyone, that you—that you—” I was half-sobbing with rage, gasping between words. “You should have told me, the minute I came! Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” His grip on my arms slackened, and I managed to wrench myself free. He took a step toward me, eyes glittering with fury. I wasn’t afraid of him; I drew back my fist and hit him in the chest.
“Why?” I shrieked, hitting him again and again and again, the sound of the blows thudding against his chest. “Why, why,
“Because I was afraid!” He got hold of my wrists and threw me backward, so I fell across the bed. He stood over me, fists clenched, breathing hard.
“I am a coward, damn you! I couldna tell ye, for fear ye would leave me, and unmanly thing that I am, I thought I couldna bear that!”
“Unmanly? With two wives? Ha!”
I really thought he would slap me; he raised his arm, but then his open palm clenched into a fist.
“Am I a man? To want you so badly that nothing else matters? To see you, and know I would sacrifice honor or family or life itself to lie wi’ you, even though ye’d left me?”
“You have the filthy, unmitigated, bleeding gall to say such a thing to me?” My voice was so high, it came out as a thin and vicious whisper. “You’ll blame
He stopped then, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
“No. No, I canna blame you.” He turned aside, blindly. “How could it have been your fault? Ye wanted to stay wi’ me, to die with me.”
“I did, the more fool I,” I said. “
He turned back to me, eyes dark with desperation.
“I had to send ye away! I had to, for the bairn’s sake!” His eyes went involuntarily to the hook where his coat hung, the pictures of Brianna in its pocket. He took one deep, quivering breath, and calmed himself with a visible effort.
“No,” he said, much more quietly. “I canna regret that, whatever the cost. I would have given my life, for her and for you. If it took my heart and soul, too…”
He drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the passion that shook him.
“I canna blame ye for going.”
“You blame me for coming back, though.”
He shook his head as though to clear it.
“No, God no!”
He grabbed my hands tight between his own, the strength of his grip grinding the bones together.
“Do ye know what it is to live twenty years without a heart? To live half a man, and accustom yourself to living in the bit that’s left, filling in the cracks wi’ what mortar comes handy?”
“Do I know?” I echoed. I struggled to loose myself, to little effect. “Yes, you bloody bastard, I know that! What did you think, I’d gone straight back to Frank and lived happy ever after?” I kicked at him as hard as I could. He flinched, but didn’t let go.
“Sometimes I hoped ye did,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth. “And then sometimes I could see it— him with you, day and night, lyin’ with ye, taking your body, holding my child! And God, I could kill ye for it!”
Suddenly, he dropped my hands, whirled, and smashed his fist through the side of the oak armoire. It was an impressive blow; the armoire was a sturdy piece of furniture. It must have bruised his knuckles considerably, but without hesitation, he drove the other fist into the oak boards as well, as though the shining wood were Frank’s face—or mine.
“Feel like that about it, do you?” I said coldly, as he stepped back, panting. “I don’t even have to imagine you with Laoghaire—I’ve bloody
“I dinna care a fig for Laoghaire, and never have!”
“Bastard!” I said again. “You’d marry a woman without wanting her, and then throw her aside the minute —”
“Shut up!” he roared. “Hold your tongue, ye wicked wee bitch!” He slammed a fist down on the washstand, glaring at me. “I’m damned the one way or the other, no? If I felt anything for her, I’m a faithless womanizer, and if I didn’t, I’m a heartless beast.”
