The past that, together, they finally mourned.
His tears came as hers did, from a deep, silent place, filled with regret and frustration and an understanding that there was no way to erase the past. That the only possibility for their future lay in forgiveness.
If she could ever forgive him.
If he could ever forgive himself.
And so he did what he could do, holding her for long, sorrow-filled minutes, until she quieted, and their tears slowed, and they were left with nothing between them but the sun and the breeze and the past. He pulled away enough to look at her, enough to cradle her face—more beautiful than he’d ever seen it, tearstained and stung with grief—and look deep into her eyes.
“I was late, Angel,” he said, the words coming on a near beg, unashamed. “I’ve always been too late. I’ve always missed you. I had no plans to come to Highley for the summer. I was headed to search for you again. I will never stop missing you.” He took her lips, the kiss soft and lingering, a salve.
She had always been his salve.
He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, loving the long exhale of her breath, as though she’d been waiting for years for this moment. And hadn’t he been waiting, as well?
“Don’t make me miss you today,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes at the words, and for a moment he thought she didn’t feel it. The keen, unbearable need, as though there was air and food and them, now. Here.
And then she opened her eyes, and he saw it there. She needed him, too.
They needed each other.
He lifted her into his arms, and carried her home.
Chapter 22
Marriage on the Mend? Maybe!
They did not speak on the ride home, and Sera was grateful for it, grateful for the chance to stay in Malcolm’s lap, the scent of him consuming her, fresh earth and spice, encircling her along with his strong arms, like a promise. She knew there was no possible way that he could make good upon that promise.
Promises were never theirs to offer.
Not even now, wrapped in each other, the movement of his horse beneath them the only reminder of the world beyond.
She turned her face to his chest, loving the warm strength of him there, loving, too, the way he pulled her closer and pressed his lips to her temple, whispering words there that were lost to the wind.
She did not care that they were lost—they were better there, because if she’d heard them, she might have loved them. And she might have loved him. But there was no room for that. Everything she had ever loved had been ruined. So she knew better than to let herself fall into the emotion again. They had loved each other at the start, and it had been a battle nonetheless. It would always be a battle between them. Always a game. And never enough.
But that afternoon, as they had unlocked their past and confessed their sins and their regrets, it did not seem to matter that love was not their future. Instead, all that mattered was that each somehow understood the other.
It was that understanding that spurred them toward Highley, Malcolm choosing the back entrance to the manor house, helping her down from the horse and following her without speaking and without hesitation, taking her hand and leading her through the kitchens, ignoring the servants pretending not to notice them as they took to the back stairs and down the long, wide, dark hallway to his rooms. To their rooms.
All without speaking, as though giving voice to words would give voice to the rest—the doubt and fear and the fight and the world beyond. But there, in silence, as she entered his bedchamber and he closed the door behind her, there was only the two of them. Alone, finally. Together, finally.
Just once.
She walked to the center of the room, her heart pounding, knowing that she should speak. Knowing she should remind them both of who and where they were and what the future held.
Except when she turned to face him, his back pressed to the closed door, his gaze unwavering, she did not want to speak. She only wanted to touch. She only wanted to love.
Just once.
And so she reached for him.
He was already coming for her, but he didn’t do what she expected. He didn’t take the lead, did not set her aflame with his kisses and steal her breath with the passion that too often consumed them both. Instead, he went to his knees, bowing his head to their joined hands—a knight pledging fealty to his queen.
And there, on his knees, he pressed kisses to their entwined fingers, and whispered her name until she could no longer bear it, and she took his face in her hands, tilting him up to face her, staring deep into his eyes before joining him, kneeling before him.
He kissed her then, his fingers threading into her hair, scattering hairpins as he rained kisses over her cheek and jaw and lips, eager for her, following one kiss with another, another, another until she was meeting him caress for caress, drawn to him, starving for him.
The kiss was beautiful and honest—nothing frantic or angry. A meeting of lips, a quiet silken slide of breath. Her name. His. Her sigh. His. He lifted his lips from hers, just enough to whisper, “I love you.”
And, for the first time since the start of their time together, she let it come, let him wrap her in it. They shared the twin aches of their sorrow and pleasure, past and present, and she took everything she’d ever dreamed. And he gave it to her, as though they had never shared another life.
And it was glorious.
His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or perhaps she was pulling him to her. For all the days and weeks of chasing, of battle, of pretending not to want him, of him pretending not to want her, it was a gift to meet in the middle, here, on their knees, in their rooms.
Just once.
He tilted her chin up and set his lips to her cheek, to her ear, and following the ridge of her jaw to the column of her neck, following it down to the place where it met her shoulder, leaving soft, welcome kisses in his wake. His tongue swirled there until she sighed, her hand coming to his head, finding the soft hair there, holding him to her.
He lifted his head and took her lips again, long and slow and sinful, as though they had spent a lifetime kissing and had another lifetime to offer. She met him kiss for kiss, breath for breath, until he sucked her lower lip between his teeth, biting gently before following the little sting of pain with a devastating lick of pleasure.
She gasped at the sensation and he released her, kissing across her cheek to her ear, where he took the lobe between his teeth, sending a thrill through her. “Mal,” she whispered, the first word since he’d lifted her onto his horse and brought her here, home. He stilled at it, then—dear God—he trembled, as though his name in that moment, on her lips, gave him immeasurable pleasure.
Which was possible, of course, as it gave her the same.