One Summer At The Castle. Jules Bennett

what he was saying. For some reason he’d changed his mind about her.

      Was he afraid she might expect something he couldn’t give? Even now? Hurting, she had to deliver one final taunt—if only to salvage something from the wreck of her self-respect. ‘It’s always about you, isn’t it, Mr Jameson?’ she demanded, wrapping her arms about her suddenly chilled body. ‘You’re completely self-motivated, aren’t you? Self first, self last, self everything!’

      The injustice of that statement almost choked him. He’d been thinking of her, for God’s sake! And of himself, too, he admitted, and how he’d feel when she saw him and turned away. But mostly of her, mostly to spare her the ugly patchwork his attacker had made of his body. It wouldn’t occur to her that the reason he wore long-sleeved shirts and sweaters was because the man had almost chopped his arms to shreds.

      Realising he would regret this, he got to his feet and faced her. Then, as she gazed up at him in sudden alarm, he tore his shirt open. Buttons popped and danced across the floor, and he realised he’d probably torn them off. But he didn’t care. In that moment all he wanted to do was show her the proof of what he’d been saying.

      Rosa got to her feet as he dragged the shirt off his shoulders, her breath catching in her throat when she saw the scars on his arms and chest. Someone had attacked him—with a knife, she guessed—and he’d raised his arms to defend himself.

      So this was what he’d been hiding, she thought, wondering if he thought they detracted from him as a man. The scars were old, and in many cases fading. But the memories they’d left with him were still strong enough to tear him apart.

      Oh, Lord, she fretted, ashamed that she’d made him do this. Not to mention accusing him of having lived a charmed life. But did he really think she’d be repulsed by his appearance? For heaven’s sake, she was ashamed of herself, not him.

      ‘I—I didn’t know,’ she began, wanting to reassure him. ‘I’m sorry, Liam, I—’

      ‘Not half as sorry as I am, believe me,’ he snarled harshly. ‘But, as you say, you didn’t know. I suppose that’s some excuse.’ He snatched up his shirt and shoved his arms into the sleeves. ‘But now you do, and I want you to go. I’ll get Sam to show you out.’

      ‘But, Liam—’

      ‘Don’t,’ he said, limping heavily to the door. ‘Believe me, I’ve had all the sympathy I can take.’

      Rosa fretted about what had happened all the way back to the guesthouse. She didn’t think about the rain, or the fact that the roads were slippy and she had to be careful she didn’t skid into a bog. Her own safety meant nothing to her at that moment. She didn’t even notice the stiffness of the steering wheel. All she could think about was Liam’s face when he’d wrenched off his shirt and shown her those awful scars. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the torment in his eyes.

      It was only when she pulled up outside the guesthouse that she realised it had actually stopped raining. Even the wind seemed to have eased a little, and she could actually walk up the path to the door without getting blown off her feet.

      Conversely, the knowledge that the storm was waning didn’t cheer her up. The ferry would come and she’d leave the island. She’d never see Liam again.

      ‘Is everything all right?’ Mrs Ferguson met her in the hallway of the guesthouse, her brow creasing when she saw how drawn Rosa looked.

      ‘Yes. Yes, everything’s fine,’ lied Rosa, knowing she couldn’t discuss what had happened with anyone. ‘Thank you for the use of your car. I must pay for the petrol, though.’

      ‘Och, that’s not necessary.’ Mrs Ferguson clicked her tongue dismissively. ‘I don’t want anything for the tiny drop of fuel you’ll have used. Like I said before you left, it will have done the vehicle good to have an outing. When my husband was alive he used to like to go bird-watching all over the island, but since he died I’ve scarcely had a use for it.’

      ‘You’re very kind.’ Rosa forced a smile. ‘It—er—it seems to be brightening up.’

      ‘Yes, I thought so myself,’ agreed the landlady, glancing out of the door. ‘But you’re looking a little peaked, Miss Chantry, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you sure you didn’t find the journey too tiring?’

      Tiring!

      Rosa stifled the sob that rose in the back of her throat. ‘Just—a bit,’ she said, hoping that would satisfy the woman. ‘I’m used to power steering, you see.’

      ‘Power steering?’ Mrs Ferguson sounded impressed. ‘And what would that be when it’s at home?’

      ‘Oh—’ Rosa wished she hadn’t said anything. ‘It just makes it easier to steer,’ she explained, without elaborating, and with that she headed towards the stairs that led to her room.

       CHAPTER TEN

      THE REST OF THE DAY was an anticlimax.

      After refusing Mrs Ferguson’s offer of lunch, Rosa holed up in her room, wondering if she’d ever feel normal again. The events of the morning seemed unbelievable in retrospect. Had she really almost been seduced by a man against his will?

      She simply wasn’t the kind of woman things like that happened to. Her marriage to Colin Vincent and his subsequent betrayal had left her distinctly suspicious where men were concerned. Yet from the beginning she’d not had that feeling with Liam. Perhaps because she’d never expected that he might be attracted to her.

      Even now, she hardly knew what he felt about her. Not enough to trust her, she acknowledged, wishing she’d had a chance to convince him she didn’t care about his scars. Were they the reason he lived here, miles from any of the people he worked with? She wished she knew him better, wished she could show him that she—

      She—what?

      Rosa shivered. What was she thinking? She wasn’t in love with him, for heaven’s sake. In lust, maybe, and she very much regretted the way she’d had to leave the castle. But she hardly knew the man. Certainly not enough to trust him with her love.

      Nevertheless, that didn’t stop her from regretting what had happened. She still didn’t know what he thought of her—if he imagined she was used to doing that sort of thing.

      She wasn’t.

      Rosa quivered. She couldn’t ever remember behaving so shamelessly before, even with Colin. But then, the feelings she’d had for Colin had been nothing like this, and that was something else she regretted.

      But had she really asked Liam to have sex with her? Had she really promised him there need be no commitment on his part, other than to take her to bed and make mad, passionate love to her?

      Her face burned at the memory. Burned, too, at the realisation that she’d meant it. That she meant it still. She wanted him. Wanted to be with him. And something told her it would have been an experience she would never forget.

      But it wasn’t going to happen. Liam had made sure of that. In one devastating move he’d shown her exactly how damaged he was. Not just physically. His physical scars had healed. It was the other scars he carried beneath the surface that worried Rosa.

      Because it was that sensitivity, which seemed to be as raw now as when the attack had happened, that had caused him to turn away from her. She was no psychologist, but she’d gamble that someone else was responsible for the protective shell he’d built around himself. Someone had hurt him, and she didn’t believe it was his attacker.

      So who? It had to be a woman, she decided painfully. A special woman. A woman he’d been in love with. Someone he’d been relying on to support him through his ordeal…

      The phone rang downstairs and Rosa tensed. Not that she expected it to be for her. Liam