Page 103 of Again, Scoundrel

“Thank you.” He inhaled again. “In return for knowing your hopes and dreams, I will tell you every single one of mine.” He reached for her hand. “But it won’t take long, because the only thing I want is you.”

She shook her head, her tendrils of hair falling around her.

“Alistair,” she said.

“And,” he added quickly, before she could say more, “I want to know what is holding you back from me, so you can let it go. It is the one area where I excel—letting things go—so let me help you in that, love.”

She opened her mouth to say all the things that had been running through her mind these last weeks. How she had to return to New York and build her hospital. How she worried that her presence, or lack of it, would cause him to drink. How she could not let herself give in to emotion like she had the night James had died.

But none of those words felt true anymore. Something had shifted within her when she’d healed Darius. She’d already let go.

She squeezed the hand that grasped hers. She could build her hospital here or in New York or in Timbuktu. It didn’t matter; the world was full of patients.

Alistair worked hard to quit drinking, and while it might always be a struggle for him, it was his struggle, not hers. She would not use it as an excuse.

And she let go of her guilt over James. Not all of it, she’d never rid herself of all of it. But enough for her see it for what it was: an excuse to be cowardly in love. An excuse to never again face losing someone she loved as much as she loved James.

Alistair brushed a thumb against her calluses, and she marveled at how familiar that small movement felt.

“I love these,” he said, and what she heard was I love you.

What she thought was, I love you too.

It was the thought she had pushed away on that long horseback ride to Kent. That she loved him. That she was in love with him. Her body knew, her heart knew, and her mind now knew it too. All of her in accord for once.

Their eyes locked, his so dark they were almost black and hers a bright, bright blue.

“Violet,” he said in his most tender whisper. “Tell me what it is that you want.”

“I want you,” she said.

And then she closed her eyes and dropped into a dreamless, contented sleep.

Mrs. Weatherington stayed for another week, nursing Violet and Darius back to health.

“They’ll both be right as rain in another day or two,” she said to Alistair as he showed her out and tried to press a bag of coin into her hand.

“No need, my lord. The bill’s been settled, and fairly at that.”

She took her leave, and Alistair turned to find his mother in the hallway, standing behind him.

“Thank you,” he said, “for the midwife.”

His mother smiled at him. “It wasn’t my doing.”

“Was it Darius then?”

“Of course not. He’s just risen this morning.”

She stared for a moment at his confused reaction and then patted him lightly on the arm.

“Alistair,” she said, “you should speak with your father. He’s been waiting for you.”

Chapter

42

Alistair ducked his head briefly into Violet’s room and saw that she was sleeping, so he made his way to his father’s study as his mother requested.