I allowed the matter to drop, not certain I wanted to hear about Gage’s youthful conquests.
He studied me closely, and at such a close range I felt a little like an insect beneath a magnifying glass. I tugged against his hold and he released me, allowing me to move to a safe distance. His gaze dropped to my upper arm where I was rubbing the spot where he had gripped me, not so much because it hurt, but because it still tingled from his touch, even through the thick fabric of my wrapper.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice was concerned.
“No.”
He searched my face as if trying to decide whether I was lying. He must have decided I wasn’t, for he turned away, raking a hand back through his hair. After a moment’s contemplation, he spoke carefully. “You realize it’s probable William Dalmay will never fully recover from this.”
My eyes dropped to his feet. I wanted to deny it, but the pain twisting in my chest told me that I already knew this, even if I didn’t want to admit it even to myself.
I felt Gage’s worried gaze on me. “He will never return to the man he was. Too much has happened. Too much has changed.”
“Are any of us the same people we were ten years ago?” I asked.
It was meant as a rhetorical question, a feeble defense against the truth of his words, but from the ringing silence, I knew Gage had taken the query seriously.
I lifted my eyes to find him watching me, his pale blue gaze torn with indecision. He inhaled swiftly and parted his lips to speak, but then, as if he’d thought better of it, he stopped. The words died on his tongue and his mouth drifted shut in resignation.
I could almost feel the gravity in the air between us of whatever confession he had been about to make. Another secret unspoken. Another thought left unsaid.
Frustrated by his continued refusal to share, his determination to keep me off balance, I tried asking him myself. “What happened in Greece?”
His gaze turned stony. “I’m not going to talk about Greece.”
“Why? Did something happen there?”
“No.”
Irritated, I racked my brain trying to remember what might have been going on during that time period. “Were you caught up in the Greeks’ war for independence?” I asked, trying to recall when that conflict had actually begun. I knew very little about the Greek revolution, and those things I did know, I had read in the newspapers. I must admit I had not been very interested in following the events of a war so far from home, but now I wished I had paid more attention.
I knew I had hit on something of the truth when the muscle in his clamped jaw jumped. “I did not come here to discuss the Greeks’ struggle for independence from the Ottoman Empire.” He stabbed a finger at the middle of my chest. “You are attempting to distract me.”
I turned away with an aggravated huff. Why did the man insist on being so secretive? It seemed ludicrous that I could be so drawn to him when I really knew almost nothing about him except the few facts I had been able to glean from others. Certainly I felt I knew his character after all we had been through at Gairloch. I could even understand his desire for privacy—I myself prized it highly—but his stubborn refusal to share anything about his past upset me. I had shared so much of myself with him already—parts of my life that I discussed with no one—that it smacked of betrayal when he did not reciprocate.
Upon his departure from Gairloch, I had accepted his decision to remain quiet about his reasons for ignoring my doubts about the initial findings of the investigation we had conducted. If he had believed, as I did, that we might never see each other again, I could understand his unwillingness to share private information with someone who would return to being a stranger. I hadn’t liked it, but I could understand it. However, now that we had been thrown together again, for who knew how long, I could not comprehend his continued silence.
“I understand that you care for Dalmay,” Gage said in a calmer voice. “And I can understand that you wish to help him, but just stop and consider the matter for a moment.” He leaned closer and I looked up, reluctantly meeting his troubled gaze. “He is damaged. Even Dalmay himself would admit that.”
I scowled.
“He is not always himself, as we witnessed this evening.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.
“Yes, he did not harm anyone tonight. But that doesn’t mean he is incapable of it,” he added carefully.
I lifted my eyebrows, letting him know I was tired of hearing this same refrain.
He quickly came to the point. “How do you think Dalmay would feel if he emerged from one of his stupors to discover he had hurt you?”