Nicholas shrugged. "Freedom is overrated, I've come to realize. There has never been anything in my life I cared enough about to make me want to give it up. Until you."
"You'll give it up until you tire of me."
He returned her gaze steadily. "That will never happen."
"How can you know?"
She heard him draw a measured breath. "Because… I've fallen in love with you."
Stunned, disbelieving, Aurora stared at him.
"It's true," Nicholas said with a crooked, masculine smile. "You captured my heart on the quay in St. Kitts. Only it took me some time to realize it."
"You don't really love me…" she breathed.
"No?" She watched his dark eyes turn very deep and soft. "How could I not love you after what you did for me? You saved my life, Aurora. You came to my rescue like an avenging angel, sparing me the brutal pleasure of my guards. You wed me at great risk to yourself, when you knew your father would be outraged. You've cared for Raven as if she were your own sister."
"Nicholas, you are confusing love with gratitude."
"No, sweeting. I'm not. From the very first, I've felt a bond with you that I've never experienced with any other woman." His voice was low, vibrant. "On our wedding night, it seemed as if we were joined in spirit as well as the flesh. The next morning, severing that bond… Sending you away was the hardest thing I've ever done. And afterward, when I knew I would live, you haunted my dreams. You stole my heart and left me aching with desire."
Her own heart wrenched at his singular admission. Could she possibly believe what Nicholas was saying? Did he truly love her? Or was he only telling her what he thought she wanted to hear, so that she would remain his wife?
"Nicholas," she said finally, "a marriage needs more than carnal desire to sustain it throughout the years."
"We have much more than that, sweetheart."
"We have passion, I cannot dispute that. But how long will that last? Passion can fade so easily."
He gazed down at their entwined fingers. "Or it can grow into love."
Aurora followed his gaze to their clasped hands, myriad emotions welling in her – want, hope, wonder, need, doubt.
He leaned his forehead against hers. "Be my wife, Aurora," he said, his voice soft.
"Nicholas…" she murmured. She wanted so much to believe him. "I… need more time."
After a moment he drew back. "I understand. You're not yet ready to commit yourself." He kissed her gently on the mouth and stood, releasing her hand. "You don't have to decide just yet. We'll return to London tomorrow, but it will take a few days to prepare my ship to sail."
"So soon?" she asked with a sharply indrawn breath.
His handsome face was a study in solemnity as he gazed down at her. "I'm afraid so." He hesitated. "I want you to come with me to America, Aurora, but I won't compel you. You would only resent me for it. You have to come willingly, because you want to be with me. With all my soul I hope your answer is yes."
He turned away then, leaving her to herself. Aurora watched him go, her gaze blurring, her heart torn.
Did she dare risk believing him? Or was Nicholas still trying to rescue her from her passionless existence, embellishing his arguments with tempting beguilements and promises of love in order to persuade her? How could she be certain what he felt for her was truly love? How could she even be certain of her own heart?
After a long moment, she glanced down at the jeweled book in her lap. Fresh tears stung her eyes as she remembered the Frenchwoman's fate in the journal. Desiree's prince had promised her raptures of love more precious than treasure, but in the end had given her only pain; the tale had ended tragically with the death of her prince.
Desiree had made her choice – to remain with her lover – but in so doing, had become his greatest vulnerability. Betrayed by the schemes of a jealous concubine, she was stolen from the palace harem by his fiercest enemy and carried off to a remote mountain fortress. The prince had mounted a long siege, determined
to rescue her, but while he had killed her abductor, he was mortally wounded himself.
Desiree had wept tears of agony as her lover lay dying in her arms. Yet it was her anguished lament afterward that still rang in Aurora's mind.
Regret tastes like bitter poison on my tongue. Why, why did I ever let my self love you?
With trembling fingertips, Aurora reached up to wipe her tears away, wondering with a sharp sense of desperation if she was succumbing to the same malady.