“Well, I…”
She sniffed. “Of course you think I’m that foolish. Why wouldn’t you? After all, I am the same girl who followed you up to your bedchamber and surrendered her virtue whilst our parents played cards downstairs—with no offer of marriage on the counterpane, much less declarations of tender love. It shouldn’t be any great trick to seduce me tonight. Is that what you’re thinking?”
He shook his head. “No. No, I—”
“I’m a fool.” Her voice broke. “Too easily dazzled to resist. Too dimwitted to pause a moment and consider the consequences. Too stupid to know what an orgasm is. ‘Oh, Violet,’” she mimicked. “‘Let me show you how good it can be.’ Well, allow me to show you something, Christian.”
She raised the pistol and pressed the barrel to his temple.
He cringed. “Violet, for the love of God.”
“Remove your hand. Now.” She relaxed her thigh muscles just enough that he could slide his hand free.
He wisely complied.
“You’re going to listen to me for a minute.” She drew a deep breath, inching backward on the waxed parquet until a yard or so separated them. With steady hands, she kept the pistol aimed at his chest. “I adored you. All my life, I adored you. I asked nothing of you. No promises, no courtship. I surrendered my virtue. I gave you my trust. And you left me with a note.”
His mouth twisted in an expression of regret. He pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m so very—”
“Twenty-six words!” she shot back, in the loudest whisper she could manage. “I gave you my virginity, and you left me twenty-six scribbled words.”
“I thought it would be easier for you that way. So you could hate me and forget.”
“I did hate you. I hated you for making me feel cheap and foolish. I hated you for making me feel so ashamed, and distanced from my own family. And I hated myself for allowing it all to happen. But forget? How could I ever forget?” She blinked back tears. “You broke my heart into twenty-six pieces that day. But do you know something, Christian? Over the past several months here in Spindle Cove, I’ve stitched those pieces back together.”
As she spoke the words, Violet realized how true they were. She couldn’t name the day she’d set aside The Disappointment and begun to live again. The healing had been slow, gradual. Sometimes painful. But somehow, while she’d been distracted with sea-bathing and country walks and shooting lessons—and absolutely no embroidery—the impossible had occurred.
Her heart had mended.
“I’m a different girl now,” she told him, sitting tall. “A stronger girl. Blast it, I’m not a girl at all—I’m a woman.”
His mouth curved in a slight, appreciative smile. “So I can see.”
“Then you should understand, and believe me when I say this: I won’t let you hurt me again.”
He stared at her for several moments. When he spoke, he voice was even. “I do understand, and I believe you. I have a great deal I’d like to say to you, but I’d rather not say it at gunpoint. If I give my word I’ll not touch you, will you lower the pistol?”
She shook her head.
“Violet.” His voice took on a darker edge. “I could disarm you if I chose. But I might injure you in the process, and I’d rather not hurt you again.”
She exhaled slowly. Then lowered the pistol to her lap. That was as much as she’d give him.
“I’m listening.”
He inched closer. “The way I treated you was inexcusable. I deserve your scorn. I can see how you’ve changed, and it makes me so proud. You’re braver and stronger and more lovely than ever. I want you to know I’ve changed too, in our time apart. If not for the lovelier.” Slowly reaching out, he lifted her free hand to his face and traced her fingertip down the rugged slope of his nose. “Feel this?”
“It’s been broken.”
He nodded. “Twice. Purposely. Part of my training. I had to practice being in pain, you see. So that I would respond only in Breton, never in English.” He made her hand into a fist and bashed it playfully across his nose. “Corentin Morvan eo ma anv. My name is Corentin Morvan.” He sliced her finger across the scar on his throat. “Me a zo un tamm peizant. I am a humble farmhand.” He put her two fingers to his heart like a pistol. “N’ouzon netra. I know nothing. I swear on the Virgin this is the truth.”
“It sounds like torture.”
“It was, but it was necessary. For my own safety, and to guard the safety of others.” He kissed her hand and kept it in both of his. “They thrashed that carefree, callow duke’s son straight out of me and left a lowly farmhand in his place. But they never beat you out of my heart.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “I love you.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“I love you, Violet. I loved you then. I love you now. I don’t expect to ever stop.”