She was no longer afraid that he might break her heart—if he hadn’t destroyed it years ago, then he couldn’t now. The years had changed him, but they’d changed her, too; she was now much stronger.
She refused to regret or in any way step back from what had, this time, grown between them. Last time, she had in effect r
un away, drawn back from loving him because he hadn’t loved her. Not this time. This time, she’d learned what not just love but loving was, how deeply satisfying it could be; she wasn’t going to give up the glory of loving him of her own accord. This time, if anyone was to step back, it would be he.
But would he?
Eyes narrowing, she looked again at his sleeping face, shuttered and closed. She’d assumed that in seducing her he was looking for an affair, a lover for the weeks he was here investigating. She’d stepped into his arms believing that, built her vision of what he was about on that basis.
But her vision was wrong.
He grew suspicious when facts didn’t fit; so did she. The emotional link that had grown between them, that he’d allowed and encouraged to grow between them, didn’t fit with a fleeting affair. Nor did the way he’d dealt with her, until today.
With her eyes, she traced the lines of his face, the sensuous lips, the squared chin. In the last hour, she’d deliberately set out to shake him free of his self-imposed restraint, to see what lay behind it. She’d succeeded well enough to learn what she’d needed to know; the wolf hadn’t changed his pelt for a curly fleece. Regardless of what he allowed to show, underneath he was a conquering French-Norman lord, dominant and domineering, and blatantly, ruthlessly possessive, at least with respect to her.
So why, so consistently over their recent enounters, had he taken the supplicant’s role?
There was only one answer; he wanted something from her. Specifically, he wanted her.
The damned man was wooing her.
That explanation was the only one that fitted; reviewing his behavior, she could see nothing that argued against it. Indeed, he’d even told her she was his perfect bride. He’d been fixed on marrying her from then, but with her mind flatly disavowing any such likelihood, she hadn’t caught the admission in his words.
At some point, he was going to ask her to marry him. She knew him; he would ask in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to avoid giving him an answer. So how was she going to reply?
Inwardly she swore, relieved her feelings by scowling at him, thankfully still sleeping, then looked away across the fields.
Why did he want to marry her? A critical question to which the answer might be a host of partial reasons. He’d mentioned some in declaring her his perfect bride; none was a reason she would accept.
She loved him, but she didn’t know what he felt for her. If it was some mild, impermanent emotion, affection laced with lust and desire, even now she would rather live the rest of her life an old maid than see affection fade and die, know her love was no longer wanted, and have them both grow bitter.
If they weren’t married, then if and when her love was no longer enough for him, they could part; if they were married, they’d be doomed. She could easily see herself as his longtime lover, but tied to him in marriage? Not without love on both sides.
But did he love her? Thirteen years ago, she’d been sure of the answer. Now…her uncertainty felt very strange, but it was real. Worse, not knowing—not knowing what gave rise to his emotional need of her—left her trapped, unable to accept him yet equally unable to refuse him, not until she learned the truth—was love one of the mature emotions he kept hidden behind his mask?
Not for anything this side of hell could she let that question lie unanswered. She’d put away her dream of loving him and having him love her, and all the rest her youthful heart had assumed would follow, thirteen long years ago. She’d never found another dream with which to replace it. Until now, she hadn’t had to face what that meant, that being his wife, lover, and friend was still the only future she truly wanted.
Now…eyes fixed unseeing on the distant sea, she felt that reality to her bones.
Eventually, he stirred; the hand lax about her hip tensed, gripped. Turning to him, she put her thoughts away. She had a week or more, until they caught the murderer, before he would ask, and she would have to answer.
His eyes opened; deepest sapphire blue in the afternoon sunlight, they looked into hers, then he smiled. He reached for her and drew her back down, into his arms, into a succession of increasingly intimate kisses—until she drew him over her, parted her thighs, and wordlessly welcomed him into her body.
Into a slow, heated dance, with his weight moving over her, against her, into her, with her clasping him and holding him close, of her fractured cries as she climaxed, of his low groans as he sought his pleasure in her, of the warmth that flooded her when he found it, of the shattering sensations that sped down her veins, then dissipated in pulsing glory.
The glory slowly faded, leaving, as she was learning it was wont to do, her emotions exposed, at least to herself. She’d never had any choice but to accept them; they were immutable, unswerving. Holding him close, idly stroking his hair, she reminded herself she had time to learn his secrets, to find some way of reading, not just his mind, but his heart—before he demanded hers.
CHAPTER 18
THEY REACHED THE ABBEY IN MIDAFTERNOON. FILCHETT met them in the front hall and informed them nothing had arrived from London, but that Fothergill had called that morning.
“Very interested in architecture. I took him on the usual tour.”
“Did he ask many questions?” Charles asked.
“Indeed. Quite a knowledgable young man.”
Charles pulled a face at Penny. “Tea in the study?”