“I have considered it,” she broke in, longing and frustration and anger and grief all fighting for dominance. “And I will not marry you.”
“Will not, or cannot?”
“What’s the difference?”
“There is every difference.” He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, his face infinitely tender. “Clara, you must know I lo—”
“Don’t,” she rasped, turning away from him and pulling the covers up over her breasts. “Please, don’t say it. It will only make things worse.”
He was silent for a moment, the ticking of the mantel clock and the faint crack and pop of the dying hearth fire the only sounds in the room. When he spoke again his voice was careful, cautious, as if he was afraid she would shatter. “Clara, I don’t care what may have happened in your past. I want you as my wife.”
She pressed her burning eyes to her knees. “No—”
“Clara.” He sat up, his arms going around her, his lips fervent on the nape of her neck. “I know something or someone has hurt you. And I swear I won’t press you to tell me. Whatever it is, it’s yours to reveal when you’re ready. But it won’t affect my feelings for you. I want to marry you, Clara; that won’t change.”
She shuddered. “You don’t know that,” she rasped into her knees, fighting the desire to lean back into his embrace, joy and despair warring in her.
“I do.” When she only shook her head he let out a frustrated breath. “Just don’t say no yet. Please. Let me prove my sincerity to you.”
Temptation swirled in her. How easy it would be to take that leap, to entrust Quincy with this thing that ate at her from the inside. She was certain he believed his own words. The earnestness in his voice was clear even to one as untrusting as her.
But once that Pandora’s box was opened it could never be closed again. She needed to protect her son’s memory with everything in her. And she needed to protect Quincy from himself. Even were his feelings to somehow remain unchanged, he could not know the weight that such a truth had on one’s soul, what the constant fear of discovery did to a person’s spirit. If it were ever made public—and there was every reason to believe that his mother would be only too happy to see her humiliated—he would hate her for it.
But his arms were wrapped about her like a blanket, his lips doing tender things to the nape of her neck, his scent filling her up, and those logical arguments were losing their strength by the second. Instead they were being taken over by imaginings of what could be, small vignettes of waking beside him in the mornings, sharing quiet conversation beside a fire, laughing as they dressed for an evening out.
Ah, God, she wanted that life with him.
“I need time,” she rasped.
“I can give you that,” he vowed. “I can stay beyond Phoebe’s wedding; we can work things out. You can take all the time you need.”
“No,” she said, her voice overloud in the quiet of the room, knowing that the longer he stayed the more he would work under her skin, tempting her, when she needed this decision made on clear facts. “I’ll decide before then.”
“Very well,” he murmured, his hands rubbing with infinite care over the tense curve of her back.
She nodded, then made to throw off the covers and rise from his bed. His hand stayed her.
“Please don’t go,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes. “Quincy—”
“I swear I won’t attempt to sway you. I only want to hold you, Clara.”
Her body responded to the raw need in his voice before her mind could. She turned back to him, stretching out alongside his hard body, wrapping herself around him even as his arms drew her flush to him. She would focus on the here and now, and not on the impossible decision she had to make in the coming days. And certainly not on the bitter irony that, lying beside him here in the dark, her heart had finally found where it belonged.
Chapter 18
He knew before opening his eyes that she was gone.
There was an absence in the air around him. The great gaping loss hit him like a blow. Glancing at the pillow beside him, he could just make out the impression her head had left on it. Proof she had been here, and not just a figment of his imagination.
Taking the pillow, he pressed it to his chest and rolled to his side. Her scent was still there, something akin to sun-warmed linens and fragrant meadows and fresh breezes, filling him with longing. In a rush the memories of the night before came flooding in, every kiss and sigh, every embrace. She had curled against him when he’d begged her to stay, her head resting on his chest, her arm tight around his waist, holding on as if she would never let go. And simultaneously as if she were memorizing him, for there had been a goodbye in it that was unmistakable.
He’d wanted to howl and curse into the cool night air. This miracle that had fallen into his lap, the possibility of a life with this woman he loved, was slipping through his fingers, and he felt there was nothing he could do to stop it. Every instinct in him screamed to bombard her with affection and charm and persuasive words until she couldn’t help but accept him.
Instead he’d held her tighter, and prayed as he hadn’t since he was a child.
Now he stared at the strengthening light streaming in through his window, feeling the fracture in his heart grow. Whatever horrible thing had happened in her past, she would not easily let it go. It had rotted her self-worth for so very long, he feared she would never be able to break free of it. He suspected what that tragedy might be; she had not been an innocent. And his heart broke, thinking of what she might have suffered, and was still suffering. He had been tempted to tell her, in no uncertain words, that he knew and didn’t care, that he loved her regardless. But that was her secret to tell, and forcing it from her would only cause her to withdraw further.