Rory had been so angry, yet there was no way he could know what had happened in the library that morning. She poured the rest of the wine into her glass, drank it off in three gulps and banged the glass down on the table. Last night had been so magical, and now they were at loggerheads again. Did he mean what he’d said about loving her? Or were the words a plot to get her into bed? Her hand lashed out. The empty glass sailed through the air and collided with a tall nettle springing out of a low wall so overgrown it was barely noticeable. The glass dropped and nestled among the thick grass stems. Last night she’d trusted Rory. He’d seemed vulnerable, said he loved her and he’d stood back and waited for her to accept or reject him even though heat came off him in waves and he trembled as he stood there. Even now, after so many hours, she remembered how the air around them had quivered with longing, how her senses had demanded that she accept him. She had so wanted to believe in him.
