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His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. “There was so much blood. She'd been shot four times.”
Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured. “I wish I knew what to say, Blake. I wish there was something to say.”
He turned to face her abruptly. “Do you hate her?”
“Marabelle?” she asked, startled.
He nodded.
“Of course not!”
“You once told me you didn't want to compete with a dead woman.”
“Well, I was jealous,” she said sheepishly. “I don't hate her. That would be rather narrow-minded of me, don't you think?”
He shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject. “I was just wondering. I wouldn't have been angry if you did.”
“Marabelle is a part of who you are,” she said. “How can I hate her when she was so important in making you the man you are today?”
He watched her face, his eyes searching for something. Caroline felt naked under his gaze. She said softly, “If it weren't for Marabelle you might not be the man I—” She swallowed, summoning her courage. “You might not be the man I love.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and then took her hand. “That is the most generous emotion anyone has ever shown to me.”
She stared at him through moist eyes, waiting, hoping, praying that he'd return the sentiment. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but after a few moments he merely cleared his throat and said, “Were you working in the garden?”
She nodded, swallowing down the lump of disappointment that had just formed in her throat.
He offered her his arm. “I'll escort you back. I should like to see what you've done.”
Patience, Caroline told herself. Remember, patience.
But that was far easier said than done when one was courting a broken heart.
* * *
Later that evening, Blake was sitting in the dark in his study, staring out the window.
She had said that she loved him. It was an awesome responsibility, that.
Deep down, he had known that she cared for him deeply, but it had been so long since he'd even thought about the concept of love, he hadn't thought he'd recognize it when it arose.
But it had, and he did, and he knew that Caroline's feelings were true.
“Blake?”
He looked up. Caroline was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock again on the doorjamb.
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“I'm just thinking.”
“Oh.” He could tell she wanted to ask more. Instead, she smiled hesitantly and said, “Would you like me to light a candle?”
He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet. He had the oddest desire to kiss her.
It wasn't odd that he wanted to kiss her in and of itself. He always wanted to kiss her. What was odd was the intensity of the need. It was almost as if he positively, definitively knew that if he didn't kiss her that very minute, his life would be forever changed, and not for the better.
He had to kiss her. That was all there was to it.
