“I won’t leave you unprotected,” he said flatly.
“I’ve got my gun.”
“With you now?”
“No.”
“I’ve got mine. Fairbrother won’t catch me napping.”
“I did.”
“I know,” he said glumly, folding his arms over his upraised knees.
To his dismay, tears welled in her eyes once more. She leaned away to hide her loss of control, but not quickly enough.
“Darling, I hate to see you cry,” he said helplessly. He reached for her, then pulled back. He’d scuppered all chance of mercy the moment he’d admitted his identity.
“Leave me alone.” The hands over her face muffled her voice.
“Genevieve, I’ll fix everything.” He hoped like hell he wasn’t lying again.
Her shoulders heaved and a strangled sob escaped. She wriggled away, but he had her boxed against the angled roof. He stared at her in despair. London lauded his social adroitness, yet he blundered around Genevieve like an elephant in a peony garden. No wonder she couldn’t stand a bar of him.
Another sob. Her head bent and her nape under the untidy chignon seemed heartbreakingly vulnerable. She was a strong, determined woman, but right now she looked as fragile as glass.
Hesitantly, knowing she despised everything about him, he cupped that warm, smooth skin under the line of hair. Automatically, he stroked her, soothing her much as he’d soothe Hecuba.
Her breath hitched. He waited for her to wrench away.
She stiffened. Preparing to reject him, he guessed.
Oh, well, he’d asked for it. He couldn’t accuse her of leading him on. She’d made it perfectly clear that she wanted him to leave the barn. Then preferably leave her life altogether.
Her muscles bunched under his hand. Would this be the last time he touched her? The prospect shriveled his heart like a grape in the desert sun. Touching her was life to him. The greatest punishment she could inflict was to send him away.
He struggled to imprint this moment on his memory. The warm autumn sunlight limning her with gold. The flaxen tumble of hair. The soft skin under his palm. The faint scent of flowers and Genevieve.
He’d never forget her. He’d love her till he died.
She made a strangled sound, then shifted. Not away but forward. A drift of hay, a scrabble of limbs, a twist of her body and two arms lashed around him as if expecting protest.
Protest? Not in this life. He was in heaven.
“My darling…” he choked out and caught her against him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Genevieve was in trouble. Worse trouble than the madness of again surrendering to this man. Even when she’d been so angry with him that she’d wanted to shoot him where he stood, leaving Richard last n
ight had been like hacking off a limb. Now that he held her, she felt whole again. It didn’t matter that he’d lied. It didn’t matter that he stayed for his own purposes and his purposes promised grief for Genevieve Barrett.
Those things should matter, but when he wrapped his arms around her as if he’d readily defy the world for her sake, she couldn’t make them matter. She was a lost cause.
She was about to become more lost.
Frantically she stretched up, rising awkwardly on her knees. She mashed her mouth against his. Last night when she’d marched away, she’d told herself she never wanted to kiss him again. That proud resolution crumbled to dust mere hours later. He tried to jerk free, but she grabbed his shoulders to keep him near.
“Genevieve, you don’t want this. You hate me, remember?”