“I will say this only once,” Edward said, his steadiness a clear contrast to the pandemonium erupting inside her. “Once you enter the room, our marriage is final.”
Nervous laughter bubbled through her throat. “Don’t be silly. You’re hardly going to ravish me this afternoon.” Then it occurred to her that she might have just insulted his manhood. “Er, at least not before your bath.”
“You know as well as I that it does not matter when I take you to bed,” he said, his eyes burning down on hers. “Once we enter that room together, as a married couple, you will be compromised.”
“You can’t compromise your wife,” she tried to joke.
He swore, the single word emerging in a low, frustrated growl. The blasphemy was utterly out of character, and enough to startle Cecilia into taking a step back.
“This is nothing to make light of,” he said. Again, he seemed to be holding himself scrupulously still, but this time he was betrayed by the pulse beating furiously in his throat. “I am offering you the opportunity to leave.”
She felt her head shaking. “But why?”
He looked up and down the hall before hissing, “Because I’m bloody well damaged.”
It would have been a shout if they were not in so public a place, of that Cecilia was sure. The intensity of his voice would be seared on her mind for an eternity.
And it broke her heart.
“No, Edward,” she tried to reassure him. “You must not think that way. You are—”
“I am missing a piece of my mind,” he cut in.
“No. No.” It was all she could seem to say.
He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers biting her skin. “You need to understand this, Cecilia. I am not whole.”
She shook her head. She wanted to tell him that he was perfect, and that she was a fraud. And that she was so so sorry for taking advantage of his condition.
She would never be able to make this up to him.
He let go of her abruptly. “I am not the man you married.”
“I’m probably not the woman you married either,” she mumbled.
He stared at her. He stared at her for so long that her skin began to tingle. “But I think . . .” she whispered, only just figuring it out as the words left her lips. “I think you might need me.”
“Jesus God, Cecilia, you have no idea.”
And then, right in the middle of the corridor, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her.
He hadn’t planned to do it. For Christ’s sake, he’d been trying to do the right thing. But she’d been staring up at him with those seafoam eyes, and when she’d whispered that he needed her . . .
The only thing that could have made him harder was if she’d said she needed him.
He had no strength. He’d lost at least a stone and could not even make it up the stairs on his own, but by God he could kiss his wife.
“Edward,” she gasped.
He tugged her through the door. “We’re staying married.”
“Oh God.”
He had no idea what she meant by that, but he didn’t think he cared.
The room was small, with a bed that took up nearly half the floor, so it wasn’t difficult for him to find his way to the edge of the mattress and sit, pulling her along with him.
“Edward, I—”
“Shhh,” he commanded, taking her face in his hands. “I want to look at you.”
“Why?”
He smiled. “Because you’re mine.”
Her lips parted into a delectable oval, and he took that as a sign from above and kissed her again. She did not respond at first, but she did not push him away. Rather, he had the sense that she was holding herself very still, holding her very breath, waiting to see if the moment was real.
And then, just when he thought he must pull himself away, he felt it—a tiny movement of her lips, the sound of her voice through his skin as she made a small moan.
“Cecilia,” he whispered. He did not know what he had done these last few months, but he had a feeling it had not been something to be proud of. It had not been pure, and lovely, and everything he saw when he looked in her eyes.
When he kissed her, he tasted the promise of redemption.
He brushed his mouth over hers, softly, like a whisper. But it wasn’t quite enough, and when she let out a little mewl of desire, he nipped her, his teeth scraping gently along the soft skin of her inner lip.
He wanted to do this all afternoon. Just lie next to her on the bed and worship her like the goddess she was. It would be just a kiss; he was hardly capable of anything more. But it would be an endless kiss—soft, slow, and deep, each caress melting into the next.
It was so strange—desire without urgency. He decided he liked it—for now. When he was strong, when he once again felt like himself, he would make love to her with every piece of his soul, and he knew enough of himself—and of her—that the experience would take him to the edge.
And then push him right over.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured, and then, because it seemed so important that she knew he saw the beauty she held within, he said, “and so good.”
She stiffened. It was the tiniest motion, but his every sense was so attuned to her he would have known it if she had breathed differently.
“We must stop,” she said, and although he heard regret in her voice, he did not hear a lack of resolve.
He sighed. He wanted her. He felt it inside like a growing plume, but he could not make love to her in this state—unwashed, exhausted. She deserved far more, and frankly, so did he.
“Your water will grow cold,” she said.
He glanced over at the tub. It was not large, but it would do, and he knew that the steam rising from the surface would not last long.
“I should go downstairs,” she said, awkwardly coming to her feet. The dress she was wearing was a soft, dusty pink, and her hand seemed to melt into it as she clutched at the skirts, twisting the material between her fingers.
She looked utterly mortified, and he could not help but find it adorable.
“You should not feel embarrassed,” he reminded her. “I am your husband.”
“Not yet,” she mumbled. “Not that way.”
He felt a smile rising inside.
“I really should go,” she said without actually taking a step.
The smile spread into a fully fledged grin. “Do not leave on my account. I believe in medieval times, bathing one’s husband was considered an important wifely duty.”
At that she rolled her eyes, and a warm happiness began to roll out within him. She was amusing when she was embarrassed, but he liked it better when she was holding her own against him.
“I could drown, you know,” he said.
“Oh please.”
“I could. I’m very tired. What if I fell asleep in the tub?”
She paused, and for a few seconds he thought she might actually believe him. “You’re not going to fall asleep in the tub,” she finally said.
He gave a dramatic sigh, as if to say—You never know, but he took pity on her and said, “Come back in ten minutes.”
“Only ten?”
“Is that a comment on my general level of filth?”
“Yes,” she said quite plainly.