Or, as the case proved, let him let her take him.
It was a distinction she appreciated, yet it was only much later, when she lay in his arms in the rumpled jumb
le of her bed and listened to his breathing deepen, listened to his heart slow as he slipped into slumber, that she realized.
She didn’t need to wake him to ask if he’d done it on purpose; she knew him—of course he had. He’d set the stage, played the part, and she—without thinking, without the slightest warning flicker in her mind—had slipped into the opposing role.
That of his wife.
If her unthinking acceptance hadn’t rattled her so much, she would have woken him just to upbraid him.
Damn man! She hadn’t seen that coming, not at all.
There was nothing to be done, not now she lay wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, still far too physically wrung out to even contemplate moving.
No point in trying to move, either; even in sleep he’d hold her where she was. Over his heart.
All of which led her to contemplate instead the unexpected turn her life had taken. Randall was gone—as Christian had said, removed by fate from her side. And he was there instead, holding her through the night as Randall never had—as she’d never allowed Randall to do, which in itself told the story.
She was besotted with Christian, always had been, and nothing on that front had changed.
And now he wanted to marry her.
She knew he meant it, that this time he intended to stubbornly press his suit until she agreed, but the more cautious and wary, afraid-of-being-hurt-again side of her insisted she had to know why.
Had to know what was truly in his heart before she could decide whether marrying him now, after their years of separation, was the right, safe, and sensible thing to do.
It wasn’t being his wife she questioned; she’d always wanted the position, knew it fitted her like a glove and that everyone—simply everyone—agreed. That was not the issue. What she wasn’t sure of, what was holding her back, was a sense of not having looked hard enough. Of not yet having gained sufficient assurances to justify taking the risk of loving him again.
Of giving him, as she had long ago, her heart and soul, unconditionally.
Last time she’d done that naïvely, without a second thought—without any idea whatever of the dangers—and when she’d needed him by her side to protect her heart, he hadn’t been there. So her heart had been broken and, as she’d told him, she’d put the pieces away, locked them away and buried the key. That was the only way she’d been able to survive, to distance herself from the pain.
She still remembered the pain.
Given that, now he was back, now he was there once again in her arms, before she dug up the key, unlocked the casket, took out her heart, put it back together and handed it to him again, she had to be sure.
Absolutely, beyond all doubt sure that her heart would now be safe with him.
Once bitten, twice shy; in her case the old adage rang true. Regardless, she was going to have to make up her mind, and soon.
With him so intent on pressing his suit, in the next few weeks she would have to decide if what he was offering—all she would gain—was worth facing, accepting, and taking that risk again—this time with full knowledge of the pain she would endure if she agreed and her decision proved wrong.
She lay in his arms, cocooned in his strength, listened to the muffled thud of his heart—and knew in her heart that she was where she belonged.
If only there existed some guarantee.
Or at the very least some sign…
She was on the cusp of sleep when clarity shone, a beam sharpened by the prism of her waning conscious.
She knew she loved him—that wasn’t, never had been, a part of her dilemma.
The resolution to her dilemma lay in the opposing direction.
She had yet to be convinced that he loved her.
Loved her as she loved him, with her heart, her soul—with everything in her.