Addictive. Enthralling. Deeply satisfying.
That, however, had been the least of the revelations the evening had brought.
When, finally slumped in his arms, heated and replete, she’d nipped his shoulder and told him she liked the sort of soldier he was, he’d sent one hard palm stroking slowly, pensively, down her spine, then said, “I’m not like Whorton, I promise you.”
She’d blinked, then struggled up onto her elbows to frown down into his face. “You’re not anything like Mark.” Her mind had been groggy; the rock-hard, tanned, scarred body beneath her was nothing like what she’d ever imagined Mark’s might be, and as for the man within it…
Tristan’s eyes had been dark pools, impossible to read. His hand had continued slowly, reassuringly stroking. He must have read her confusion in her face. “I want to marry you—I won’t change my mind. You don’t need to worry I’ll hurt you like he did.”
Realization had dawned. She’d pushed up, stared down at him. “Mark didn’t hurt me.”
He’d frowned. “He jilted you.”
“Well, yes. But…I was actually quite happy to be jilted.”
Of course, she’d had to explain. She’d done so with greater candor than she’d previously brought to the subject; stating the reality aloud had more clearly established the truth in her mind as well as his.
“So you see,” she’d concluded, “it wasn’t any deep and lasting slight—not in any way. I don’t have any”—she’d waved—“adverse feelings toward soldiers because of it.”
He’d considered her, searched her face. “So you don’t hold my former career against me?”
“Because of what happened with Whorton? No.”
His frown had only deepened. “If it wasn’t Whorton jilting you that gave you a distaste for men and marriage, what did?” His gaze had sharpened; even in the shadows she’d been able to feel its edge. “Why haven’t you married?”
She hadn’t been ready to answer that.
She’d brushed it aside, clung to a more immediate point. “Is that why you told me about your career—to distinguish yourself from Whorton?”
He’d looked disgruntled. “If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have told you.”
“But I did ask. Is that why you answered?”
He’d hesitated, his reluctance clear, then admitted, “Partially. I would have had to tell you sometime…”
“But you told me this afternoon because you wanted me to see you as different from Whorton, different from how you imagined I saw him—”
He’d hauled her down and kissed her. Distracted her.
Effectively.
She hadn’t known what to make of his reasoning—his motives, his reactions—last night. She still didn’t. Yet…he’d obviously felt threatened enough by her experience with Whorton, and how he believed that affected her view of military men, to tell her the truth. To break with what she suspected was habit and neither hide nor conceal his past.
A past she felt sure none of his family knew. That few others of any sort knew.
He was a man with shadows behind him, yet circumstances had dictated he step into the light, and he needed someone—someone who understood, who could understand him, someone he could trust—beside him.
She could see that, acknowledge that much.
Slowly stretching under the covers, she sighed deeply. Because of his earlier suggestion, she’d allowed herself to imagine what being married to him would be like; her response to the vision had been completely different to what she’d expected. To what her response to all such thoughts of marriage had been in the past.
Now…now that she was imagining being his wife, the prospect enticed. With age and experience—maturity, perhaps—she’d come to value things—things like the gentle round of country life—far more than she had previously; she’d gradually come to realize such elements were important to her. They provided an outlet for her natural abilities—her organizational and managerial talents; without such outlets she’d feel stifled…
Just as, indeed, she felt increasingly stifled in her uncle’s house.
The realization was not so much a shock as an earthquake, one that literally rocked the concepts she’d thought for so long were the foundations of her life. That realization was not a small thing to assimilate, to absorb.
The sunbeams danced on the ceiling; the household was awake—the day called to her. Yet she remained in the cocoon of her bed and instead opened her mind. Let her thoughts free.