She sniffed, the sound enough to unlock the strangling feeling in his throat.
How had they come to this? And how could they repair the damage between them? He had planted a child inside her. A child which had sapped all of her strength. Given her virgin state five months ago, he had to take full responsibility for that.
He brushed the damp hair back from her cheek, then cradled her face to lift her gaze to his. Her cheeks were dry but he could see the moisture in the deep pools of shattered blue.
Heat surged in his groin. He steeled himself against it. Now was the time to soothe rather than demand—not a skill he was particularly adept at. He must not ignite the passion between them, even if he could smell the musky scent of her arousal. And see the stunned desire in her eyes.
She did not understand the depth and power of their physical connection because she had so little experience. But he did.
He placed a light kiss on her forehead, felt her shudder of response and then forced himself to drop his arms and release her from the protective cage.
She stood watching him. Unsure, shaky, but he took it as a major concession that, rather than try to run, she simply wrapped her arms around her waist, as if attempting to hold onto the emotions cascading through her body.
Emotions he recognised because they were cascading through his body too. Emotions she probably didn’t understand any more than he did.
‘The marriage would be time-limited,’ he said, his voice rough as he struggled to get his mind to engage with the plans he’d made last night. Detailed, pragmatic, sensible plans before he’d managed to shoot them to hell with his knee-jerk demands.
Her eyes widened and her expression was still stunned, still confused, still a little panicked. But she didn’t speak and she didn’t move, so he forced himself to continue in a voice he hoped was more persuasive than demanding. Another new experience for him.
‘I want the child to be born with my name—and to always have my protection.’
And I want you to have my name and my protection too.
He swallowed, forcing himself not to add the qualifier, the truth of which surged through him as she stood before him, virtually naked, and utterly defenceless.
‘I want you to live in Burgundy at my château, to have the best possible prénatal care. No more working, no more hunger, no more exhaustion. I will...’ He paused, forced himself to counter the desire to demand. ‘I wish to provide for you everything you need while you bear this child. This is very important to me.’
She watched him but, instead of refusing his help out of hand as he half expected her to do—for she was nothing if not contrary, and fiercely independent—she simply said softly, ‘Why?’
‘Why do I wish this?’ he asked, confused. Was this not obvious? ‘Because I do not wish for you to put your life at risk...’ He breathed, paused, before blurting out too much. ‘Simply to survive, when I have the money you need.’
‘My life’s not at risk, Maxim.’ Her gaze softened, drawing him in, while only frustrating him more. ‘Why would you think that?’
His brow knotted. Was this a trick question? But she didn’t look conniving, she looked guileless and unsure, so he was forced to answer the question. To spell out the obvious.
‘Pregnancy and childbirth is dangerous, Cara. Women can be...’ He breathed, the memories burning like acid on his tongue. ‘Women can be weakened by childbirth, especially without the appropriate care. We shouldn’t have had sex without a condom.’ He allowed his gaze to stray to the pronounced bulge of her belly, the guilt he had tried to qualify and mitigate during the night starting to overwhelm him. ‘It is through my carelessness that you are now facing this danger. So it is my duty to ensure you are well cared for until the child is born.’
He lifted his gaze to hers, ready to demand, beg, cajole, even blackmail her if necessary into agreeing to the marriage. But he stopped, shocked by the sheen of tears in Cara’s eyes. ‘What is wrong?’
The stab of guilt lanced into his belly. He hadn’t meant to distress her more. Had only wanted to give her the explanation she sought—so she would see why marriage was the only answer.
‘Maxim, I’m really not in any danger,’ Cara said. ‘And, even if I were, you’re not responsible.’
‘Of course I am,’ he said, his voice prickly with impatience. But for once she welcomed the caustic reaction because it revealed so much.
Going with instinct, she pressed a hand to the rough stubble on his jaw.
A muscle in his cheek tensed before he drew back, his expression confused and wary, but also more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. Or ever suspected he could be.
‘How can you pretend this is not my fault?’ he said.
‘Because I made a conscious choice to have this child,’ she said, trying to pick her way through the minefield he had exposed. She had underestimated him in so many ways, she realised. That he should feel such responsibility for her health and well-being was ridiculous, but she had helped exacerbate it because of her own stubborn pride, her refusal to bend.
She should have contacted him as soon as she’d found out about her condition. If she had asked for his support she would not have had to work herself into exhaustion. And scared him to this degree.
‘I could have ended this pregnancy but I didn’t want to,’ she said. ‘You’re not responsible for the choice I made to have this child.’
She’d been a coward, scared he would object to her keeping the baby. And, because of her fear, she hadn’t given him a choice.