“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, holding her tight. “I’m sorry.” He knew well what a disturbing picture it made. Which was precisely why he’d never shared it. Not with anyone. He hated that such a gruesome tableau would be seared on her imagination. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Of course you should.” Sniffing, she lifted her head. “You did absolutely right. To think, you’ve been keeping that to yourself all these years? I’m the one who should be sorry.” She worked her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “Colin, I’m sorry. They’re pathetic words, and they’re not enough. But I’m so, so sorry. I wish with all my heart you hadn’t suffered so. But I’m glad you told me everything.”
He buried his face in her hair. For a moment, he feared he would weep. And then he realized, if he did weep—even noisily, messily, uncontrollably—she wouldn’t shrink from him. She probably expected him to shed some tears. These soft, sweetly fragrant arms would hold him as long as he needed to be held.
So he decided to let the tears come.
And then they didn’t. Odd.
For whom should he cry? For his parents? He’d grieved their loss, yes. And he missed them still. But mourning only lasted so long. It was the horror of that night that had lingered. The fear. And the shame.
The deep, buried, unvoiced shame.
“For years,” he said quietly, “I thought it was my fault. That if I hadn’t fallen asleep, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She gasped. “But that’s nonsensical.”
“I know.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.”
“You were a child. There was nothing more you could have done.”
“I know. And as a grown man, I understand that, rationally. But . . .” But he’d never managed to rid himself of the notion. It was as though he needed someone else to confirm his innocence. Someone very intelligent and logical. Someone he could trust to always give him the unvarnished truth.
Someone like Minerva.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said.
“No,” she answered. “It wasn’t.”
Sweet, darling Min. From the first, this was what he’d loved most about her. Her certainty.
She pressed a kiss to his jaw. He took a deep, slow breath. Remarkable, how much lighter he felt. As though without her arms anchoring him, he might simply float away.
“Do you know something?” he asked drowsily. “I’ve always thought my parents’ death was like something from a ballad. They loved each other so very much. Even as a boy, I could see it. It seems almost fitting that they met such a poetic end. Always together, united even in death. As tragedies go, you must admit—it’s a rather romantic one.”
She was quiet for a long time, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her fingers teased through his hair.
He’d almost drifted off when he heard her reply.
“If you write the verse, I’ll sing it.”
Minerva didn’t sleep any more that night. Her heart and mind were too full. And somehow, she knew he’d sleep more soundly if she kept the vigil for him.
As the first rays of dawn seeped into the hut, she stretched her left arm. First overhead, drawing blood to her numbed, stiff fingers. Then habit and necessity drew her arm to the side, where she groped for her spectacles.
With an incoherent murmur, Colin turned in his sleep. He threw a leaden arm over her torso, and his fingers fumbled for her breast.
Oh, heavens. Her heart froze for a moment, refusing to beat. Then it underwent a rapid, prickling thaw. It hurt, the way snow-numbed fingertips stung, when thrust in a basin of warm water. Breathing suddenly required conscious thought.
She reached for her spectacles every morning, first thing. Because she could make no sense of the day without them.
Colin reached for her.
She couldn’t “heal” him. No woman could. Events that far in the past just couldn’t be undone. But perhaps he didn’t need a cure, but . . . a lens. Someone who accepted him for the imperfect person he was, and then helped him to see the world clear. Like spectacles did for her.
An hour from now, the idea would seem absurd. But these first misty rays of morning forgave all kinds of foolishness. So just for a moment, she let herself dream. She let herself imagine how it would be to wake like this every day, feeling essential to him. The last thing he touched at night, and first thing he reached for every morning—out of familiarity and a desire to feel whole.
By the time he stirred with wakefulness, pressing kisses to her cheek, she wanted it so keenly, so desperately, some raw, throbbing part of her heart was already mourning the disappointment.
She turned away from him, onto her side—not wanting to explain how she’d managed to make herself so overwrought even before breakfast. He nestled behind her, cradling her body with his own. The pose emphasized all the contrasts of their physiques. The hard contours of his chest pressed along her back. The coarser hair of his legs rubbed against her smooth thighs.
Beneath the linens, his hands roamed her curves with hot, possessive intent. Cinching an arm about her waist, he drew her close. His arousal pulsed against her lower back.