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Cleo had wanted to walk free from him with her conscience clear and now she would always know that by saving Quin, not once, but twice, she had condemned her own father.
But she could not go back and undo it and lying here was not going to help either. There were soft sounds in the room, someone was there with her.
‘Maggie?’ Cleo opened her eyes, blinking into the bars of strong sunlight that crossed the bed from the windows. It was still late morning then.
The bed frame behind her creaked as someone sat down on it and she rolled over on to her back. ‘You.’ Of course, he would not leave her in peace, he had to carry on harassing her.
‘Yes, me.’ Quin reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead. ‘How do you feel?’
She could not bat his hand away, she was so tangled in the sheet. Cleo struggled free and sat up. ‘How do I feel? Like a fool. Like a woman men lie to and who is stupid enough to believe them. Like a daughter who could not see what was going on under her nose. Like a sentimental female who wants to think the best about a man because he offers hugs and smiles and...’ And kisses.
‘I am sorry. We had to find out who was involved, you must see that? We had to be certain you were innocent too.’ He sat and watched her face, his own serious and open. There was regret in his voice as well as in his words.
She wanted to believe him, began to form the sentences to tell him that, to tell him she understood why he had lied to her and used her, that she believed it must have been hard.
‘It was for your own good,’ Quin added.
‘My own good?’ Every iota of empathy and understanding fled. ‘You expect me to believe that? Of course it was not for my own good! Of course you had to know whether I was guilty or innocent and it doesn’t much matter which, does it, provided you know? Innocent is probably less messy, I suppose. Do you shoot women? Or would I have had a nasty accident? That would have been neater.’
‘Cleo—’ Quin reached for her and she struck his hand away with the edge of hers, bone against bone.
‘Ow!’ Tears sprang to her eyes and she cradled her bruised and stinging hand against her chest.
‘Let me see.’ He held out his hand again, the mark of the blow red against the side of the palm. ‘You abuse these poor hands enough without trying to break them on my hard bones. Come,’ he urged when she glared at him. ‘Show me.’
She laid her hand in his and closed her eyes as he straightened out the fingers, one after another. So gentle. And so implacable. He knows it hurts me and he is going to do it anyway. For my own good.
‘Nothing broken. Keep still.’ He began to wrap it in something soft and when she opened her eyes she realised that the bandage was his neckcloth, pulled free so his formal collar gaped open.
She had seen that vee of brown skin, the curl of hair, every day they had spent together up to now. She had seen him stark naked, for Heaven’s sake! But this seemed both a shocking informality and a sign of tenderness that touched something deep inside. Something that hurt.
‘Quin.’ Cleo realised she was weeping. Great welling tears splashed down on the sheet, on his wrist, on her shift. ‘I never cry,’ she stammered. ‘I never faint and I never cry and...’
‘And you never let go, do you? Come here.’ Quin shifted so he was sitting with his back to the wall and pulled her into his arms. ‘There is a lot to cry about, I would say.’
Chapter Twelve
He thought she would resist. Cleo went rigid in Quin’s arms and then, with a little gasp, burrowed deep against his chest and wept. His nice clean shirt, borrowed from Sir James, stuck wetly to his chest, his hand where she had struck him ached, there was a lump in the plaster behind his head—and his arms were full of soft, fragrant woman. Cleo, who might never forgive him, Cleo, who certainly needed him at this moment.
The discomforts faded. Quin bent his head and nuzzled the top of hers, his lips moving against the shifting texture of her hair. He felt no need to try to stop her weeping. She would be better for the release and, selfishly, he enjoyed having her in his arms.
When she sat up, red-eyed and endearingly snuffly, he found his handkerchief and offered it without a word.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered into the depths of the linen.
‘Don’t be.’ Quin stayed where he was and waited until she emerged. ‘Cleo, we believe you. And we believe your father now we’ve talked with him. The man isn’t that good an actor.’
‘What...what did he say?’
‘He is furious that he was deceived and appears to regard it as an insult. The implications for national security do not appear to concern him anything like as much as the thought that we might cut him off from his correspondents.’
