Her words cut, sharp blades cleaving his heart.
He should tell her to stay. But he couldn’t ask that of her. Johanna belonged in a city, a place with libraries and theaters and shops, a place where she would see her niece properly educated in social graces as well as academics. Not a rugged fortress in the Highlands surrounded by people who designed body armor from tea trays, constructed weapons from jewels, and devoted their days to the study of arcane antiquities. The bairn needed stability. Family. Culture. She needed a safe, predictable life.
That was what mattered.
Not the ache in his heart.
“I know.” Could she hear the reluctance in his voice?
God above, he was a fool. He should cast aside all the logical arguments his mind advanced and forbid her to go. He should demand she stay with him until they were old and frail and breathed their last breaths.
He should tell her the truth—tell her he loved her.
But leaving would be for the best. For her. For Laurel. They needed a life he wasn’t prepared to offer.
Bollocks. He was an arse. Plain and simple. After she was gone, he’d tell himself she’d be better off without him. And know it was a lie.
Reaching out to him, she cradled his cheek against her hand. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him again, a sweet, lingering caress.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. Damnation, he hadn’t expected that.
“Please offer Brenna my apologies. It seems I’ve lost my appetite.”
When she turned away, Connor knew this was farewell.
“Johanna,” he called after her as she hurried from the room.
There was no changing fate now. He couldn’t keep her here. There was no bluidy choice.
“Ye’ll do well in Philadelphia, my darlin’ lass. Ye’ll make a good life for yerself and the bairn.”
Damnable shame she’d be taking a piece of his heart along on the journey.
Chapter Forty
London, Six Weeks Later
A featherlight touch pulled Johanna from her thoughts. Gentle. Yet demanding. Another soft brush against her arm. So very persistent, as always.
Indulging herself in a sigh, she set down her pen.
Meow.
The dratted animal was bloody spoiled. Bloody spoiled. She smiled to herself. Wouldn’t her oh-so-proper Philadelphia-bred mother have a conniption fit if she heard Johanna speaking the local vernacular? After all, when in London, speak as the Londoners do.
Laurel had taken to the tabby soon after their return to the city. Its elderly owner seemed only too pleased to allow the child to indulge the furry creature’s whims, while the furball’s daily visits filled a place in Laurel’s heart. Once Johanna got the two of them firmly settled, Laurel would be able to have a kitten of her own.
Meeeeooooowww. A bit longer this time. Definitely more pitiful. The furry little beast would get his way, wouldn’t he? Drat the luck, the cat had picked a devil of a time to interrupt her. Five minutes longer, and her villain would be in the throes of a deservedly horrid death.
Oh well. The cad’s demise would have to wait. Johanna scooped up the tabby and offered a rub behind his ears. A blissful purr replaced the plaintive whining as pure contentment washed over his suddenly sleepy countenance.
A rap at the front door, and the startled creature leapt from Johanna’s arms. With what appeared a feline scowl, the cat stalked off.
“Silly thing,” she said, turning back to her desk. Her housekeeper’s muffled voice drifted down to the study, but Johanna could make out only a scattering of words. Perhaps a messenger had brought a communiqué from her publisher in New York. Peculiar, how the notion made her chest tighten just a bit. When she’d first contacted the New York office with news of her impending return to America, she hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to leave behind her London publisher. She’d so enjoyed the rapport with her editor, a bespectacled owl of a man with a keen eye for detail. She’d miss his insights and droll sense of humor. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it.
Within a fortnight, she’d be on American soil once again.
Home.
If only it didn’t feel as if she was leaving a part of her soul behind.
A discreet throat-clearing tugged Johanna from her thoughts. The housekeeper now hovered in the doorway of the study.
“Miss Templeton, there’s someone here to see you.”
Was it Johanna’s imagination, or did Mrs. Mitchell look unduly tense? Good heavens, it wasn’t as if she was about to offer the woman a tongue lashing for interrupting her writing session. The matron had been in her employ for only a few months, but one would think she’d be confident of their rapport by this time.
Johanna forced a smile. “Does this someone have a name?”
“Yes, Miss.” The housekeeper presented an elegant calling card.