Golden Luckenbooth

Sixty-Two

Blair turns, her gaze swivelling from me to Harry where we're both staring at each other, neither of us speaking. Harry's chest is heaving as if he's just run a marathon, and his hair is splayed in at least five different directions. His lips are tight as that muscle in his jaw clenches.

Paddy sticks his head into the kitchen, grasping the kitchen doorknob and signalling to Blair to exit with him which she does, gazing at me mournfully. "Lock this door behind me," Paddy insists. "Try to get some sleep. I'll be back in the morning to figure out what we need to adjust in our security procedures."

"Apparently what we need is new security," Harry mumbles, but Paddy has already closed the door and either hasn't heard him or has chosen to ignore him. With the storm gathering on Harry's face, I'd probably pretend I hadn't heard that comment either.

"This is not Paddy's fault," I huff, rising to put my cup in the sink.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it is," Harry growls. "It's his job to protect you when I'm not here."

"Then you should have fucking been here." My voice is icy, and I keep my volume low. No one else needs to hear this conversation, and I've no doubt there are lurkers outside tonight.

"So this is my fault?"

"I didn't say that," I snarl, clutching the dishcloth tightly in my hand before I add soap to it and vigorously scrub my teacup.

"No, you implied it." He crosses his arms, his neck muscles straining as he clenches his jaw enough to break some teeth.

"You," I throw the word out like a curse, my voice a piano wire about to snap, "said you were going to come home every night from the manor."

My boyfriend's glare is a laser beam, boring a hole right through me. "And I told you I had to work."

"Cause work is more important?"

"Do not put words into my mouth!" It's the first time he's raised his voice so far, and Shortbread sits up sharply, as startled as I am. Harry's face is the epitome of anger with his eyebrows drawn downward in the centre as his forehead creases. It's like storm clouds have gathered around his face and are ready to unleash a force greater than that of a 100-year cyclone.

"Fine. That's fair. I shouldn't put words in your mouth. The words you said were, 'I'll come home every night.' Like I wouldn't even miss you because you would be here so often. And then you weren't here!"

He launches himself from the door like a rocket ship headed for the moon as his hands land on the back of a kitchen chair, his fingers squeezing so hard they threaten to splinter the wood, a silent scream echoing in the tense silence. "So you are saying it's my fault?"

"Oh, bloody hell, Harry! Yes. Is that what you want to hear? Yes. It's your fault. If you weren't famous, that woman would not have ever seen you in concert. She never would have convinced herself that you'd fallen in love with her. She wouldn't have made the trek here or decided that it was up to her to 'take care of' me so she could be with you! And if you hadn't impregnated me, I wouldn't have needed to wee so badly in the moment. In fact, she wouldn't have threatened to cut our baby out with a fucking scalpel because there wouldn't be a baby. AND..." I raise my volume as he seems ready to interrupt my tirade, "and if you had come home every night like you promised, I wouldn't have had to take Shortbread out for a walk on my own in the first place. So yes, you bloody arsehole. It's your fucking fault." My anger deflates as quickly as a dam breaks, replaced by a rush of overwhelming guilt. "But mostly, it's my fucking fault." I'm gasping for air as I try to finish my words before the tears that are threatening behind my eyelids take over. "If I had made sure the door was locked behind me. If I had put Shortbread on the lead. If I had told Paddy to stay instead of going on his date. If I had..."