He let out a shuddering breath as he closed the notebook. “I think maybe you see too much.”
He was probably right, but that’s what happened when you grew up alone, on the outskirts of the action. You got to be really good at watching. “It was just a theory.”
“It’s right. I wished at the time, though, that I had acted on my love for him, and my nephew. My father and mother and sisters, and not Helen.”
He didn’t mean that he wished— “The story of Paris and Helen is one of the greatest love stories in the world.” Was he saying that he wished he never met her? Or loved her?
Lifting his gaze to mine, he said nothing.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“Name the greatest love stories, just two more. Or one more, Leo. Tell me one of the greatest love stories of all time.”
“Romeo and Juliet.” It slipped off my tongue.
He lifted his dark eyebrows. He was a striking man, with his blond hair and deep blue eyes. Those dark brows were heavy, and at odds with the light color of his hair, but he was undeniably a prince. When the word prince was invented, they had Paris in mind. “A tragedy. And what is mine?”
There was no way the story of Helen and Paris could be described as anything other than a tragedy, but the thing was, it was—to a very distant observer—a beautiful story. “But you saved her and fell in love. And I thought that was beautiful.”
Eyebrows drawing together, he shook his head. “Maybe it would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been orchestrated by the gods. I did love her. I just don’t know if what I felt was me and her, or them.”
I glanced out the window. Fog had rolled in and obscured the view I had of the moors. “Did you find her? Afterward?”
“Sort of.”
No explanation, no reason, just,sort of.
“Didn’t you want to?” I asked. After everything they’d been through, had he just given up?
“Yes, but Hector needed me more than Helen did.” Was that a lie he told himself? Or was it the truth? In some of the stories about Helen after the Trojan War, she went back to Menelaus, her Spartan husband, while in others, she escaped to Rhodes, or even Egypt.
I always hated the idea of Helen being forced to return to a life of misery.
“She went back to Menelaus,” Paris said after a long moment. “She was queen of Sparta again and had many sons. She didn’t want me after the war.”
So he had seen her again. For some reason, it eased a knot of disappointment that had sprung up when I believed he’d just let her go.
“I still loved her, and I would have found a way to get her somewhere safe if she wanted to go. But she didn’t want that. She was content, and after ten years of war and death, contentment was a gift. When was the first time you fell in love?” he asked suddenly.
Pollux’s face appeared in my mind. “I’ve never been in love before.” Before now. If I was headed toward love.
He stepped toward me. Startled, I bumped into the desk. I had nowhere to go, and he kept coming until we were nearly toe-to-toe. He stared down at me, his hair grazing his chin, blue eyes roaming my face. “Never?”
“I’ve been busy.”
Smiling, he reached toward my face, tucking a stray curl behind my ear and leaving a trail of sparks where his fingers touched my skin. I nearly leaned into the touch, but jerked away at the last minute. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Too busy for love?” He acted like he hadn’t heard my question. “Now, that’s a tragedy.”
He was making fun of me, teasing me. “It’s not funny.” It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted someone to love. I didn’t appeal to people. I never had.
Canting his head, he studied me, gaze lingering on my lips. “I’m not teasing you, Leo. Everyone should fall in love. You should do it as much as possible.”
“You just told me love is a tragedy.” I couldn’t keep up with him. “You’re confusing me.”
Moving quickly, he pressed his mouth to mine. I froze. Where our lips touched there was heat and pressure, but I wasn’t supposed to do this.
I had kissed another man this morning, and I shouldn’t be doing this. But Paris’s hands went to my hips, fingers digging in so it was pleasure and pain.