For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then a smile broke across his face—slow, stunned, and so beautiful that it nearly undid her.
“Beatrice,” he said.
Only her name.
He reached up, cradling her cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
“I love you,” he said.
“I should hope so. You’ve made a very grand speech on the matter.”
His smile deepened. “And still managed to understate it.”
Oh.
That was unfair.
She had no defense against that.
So she did the only sensible thing and kissed him.
Or perhaps he kissed her.
It hardly mattered.
His mouth met hers with such tenderness that her heart turned over entirely. This was not the desperate kiss in the park, nor the hungry, reckless heat of the sofa. This was slower. Deeper.
Deliberate and without doubt or guilt.
She touched his bare shoulder, careful of his injured arm, and felt him shudder beneath her fingers.
That pleased her.
Rather a lot.
Gideon drew her closer, and she went willingly, one hand sliding to the back of his neck while his good arm came around her waist. The kiss changed then, warmth gathering, restraint thinning. He made a low sound against her mouth, and without making a conscious decision to do so, she found herself seated on his lap.
“Gideon,” she whispered.
“Careful,” he murmured. “I have been shot.”
She drew back just enough to glare at him. “You pulled me here.”
“Yes.” His mouth brushed hers again. “A reckless lapse.”
“You are wounded.”
“Tragically.”
“I ought to be tending your arm.”
“You have done so already.” His lips moved along the corner of her mouth. “With tremendous competence.”
“Gideon.” She meant to scold him.
Truly.
Instead, she kissed him again.
