“Temple—” she said, struggling beneath him.
“Will be fine,” he assured her, adoring the way that she cared for his friend. “He’s a professional fighter—he shall love every minute of this. At least until I have a moment to tear him limb from limb for allowing you to carry out this utterly insane scheme.” He stroked her hair back. “Let me look.”
“It was not insane!” she protested, turning her wound toward him, one hand coming up to test the swelling at her eye. “Ow.”
He ran his fingers over the red welt once more, hating the way she winced. “Gorgeous girl . . .” he whispered, removing her glasses and pressing a kiss to her temple, the corner of her lips, the soft skin at the side of her neck. She was safe. He let out a ragged breath, and said, “I should thrash you.”
“Why me?” she said, eyes wide.
He shot a look at thundering boots beyond the table. “You started a riot.”
“Not on purpose,” she defended, turning to look. “I hypothesized that they would leave, not stampede.”
At another time, when he was less worried for her safety, he would have smiled at the words. Not now. “Well, your hypothesis was incorrect.”
“I see that now.” She paused. “And technically, you started the riot.”
“I thought you were—” He stopped, a chill racing through him. “Pippa, if anything had happened to you . . . You could have been killed,” he thundered, his muscles trembling under the strain of his worry and his desire to do something—to return to the fray and fight until the fear was gone, until she was safe.
“I was with Temple,” she whispered.
“Temple isn’t enough. Temple cannot keep you safe,” he said into her hair, letting himself feel gratitude that he’d found her before all this happened, before Knight or half a dozen other nefarious characters discovered her. “Temple doesn’t love you,” he said.
She stilled beneath him, raising one hand to his cheek. “And you do?”
He wouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t even think it. It would only make things worse. Worse than being trapped in the middle of a riot, alone, beneath a hazard table for God knew how long with the most irresistible woman in Britain. In Europe. On Earth.
Yes. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want you.
“You are a troublesome woman.”
When he opened his eyes, she was beaming at him. “I always have been.”
Before he could reply, Maggie fell to her knees several yards away, pushed over by what looked like another battalion of gamblers. She caught herself on her hands and Pippa gasped, and Cross hesitated, knowing he should go to the other woman and protect her, but not wanting to leave Pippa here. “She’ll be trampled!” she cried, and Cross had just started to move when another came to Maggie’s aid, strong arms sheltering her as the gentleman helped her to safety beneath a nearby table.
It was Castleton.
Cross raised a brow. “It looks as though your fiancé is more than any of us imagined.”
Pippa smiled at the other man, sending Cross’s gut twisting unpleasantly. “He’s a good man.”
I’m better.
How he wanted to say it, but it was false.
He wasn’t better, and now Castleton was proving it with his heroics.
She would be safe with him.
Pippa turned blue eyes on him. “You kissed her.”
“I did.”
Her gaze narrowed. “I did not care for that.”
“I had to.”
She nodded. “I know. But I still did not care for it.” And with that, she reached up and kissed him, pressing her soft, pink lips to his, stroking her tongue across his firm bottom lip until he groaned and tilted his head and took control of the caress. One last moment. One last kiss. One last taste of Pippa before he lived out the rest of his days without her.
She pulled away when they were both breathless. “I love you, Jasper,” she whispered against his lips, and the words were weapons against his coiled, steeled strength.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “I’m not for you. My life, my history, my world . . . none of it is for you. Loving me will only get you ruined.”
He should have known better than to believe that his impassioned plea would change anything. Instead, his perfect Pippa rolled her eyes, and said, “You idiot man. I’m already ruined. You ruined me for all others that morning in your office. I’m not marrying Castleton; I’m going to marry you.”
Yes. Every ounce of him wanted to scream assent.
Every ounce but the shred of decency he found hidden deep in his core. “For a woman with legendary sense, you seem to be struggling not a small amount to come to it. Can you not see that I would make you a terrible husband? Worse than Castleton ever would.”
“I don’t care,” she said, firm and full of those convictions he’d come to adore. “I love you.”