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Slayde swallowed, pressing his lips into her hair. “Yes, sweetheart. A miracle—and more.”
“I love you.” With that, she slept.
Wide awake, he held her, staring across the room and watching the one tiny window as it transformed night to dawn, berating himself all the while.
What in God’s name had he done? What had he been thinking? The answer to the latter was obvious: he hadn’t been thinking. He’d been wanting, feeling, and—the biggest miracle of all—needing.
And, in the process, taken something from Courtney he had no right to take.
If Arthur Johnston were alive, he’d call Slayde out in a heartbeat, defend his daughter’s honor—and with every right.
The irony was that, were Slayde anything but a Huntley, no defense would be necessary. He loved this woman and, by the very miracle that brought them together, he’d give his soul to escort her down the aisle, place a ring on her finger and, before God and man, claim her as his.
Thereby condemning her to what—a lifetime of solitude and imprisonment?
And if he relinquished her? his heart argued back. What would he be condemning her to then? A lifetime of loneliness and despair? Unthinkable. He’d known both those emotions for years, and he’d never subject Courtney to either. Her glowing heart would be extinguished, her spirit crushed.
Which left—what?
Courtney was a woman who could love but once. Slayde knew that as surely as he knew the timeless certainty of his own feelings. She could never give herself to another man—physically or legally—not after what they’d just shared; not even before, having blessed Slayde with the one-time gift of her heart.
And her old life was gone—her father murdered, her home destroyed. So what could the world offer that would strengthen Slayde’s conviction to set her free, obliterate the urgent voice that commanded he bind her to him forever, make her his wife and the black diamond be damned?
“Papa!”
Slayde jolted from his musings with a start, all his attention focused on Courtney, who was now struggling to free herself, shoving at his chest as if he were the obstacle that stood between her and her father. “No…let me go…Papa!”
“Courtney.” Slayde shook her, first gently, then more firmly until her eyes snapped open. “Sweetheart, wake up.”
“Slayde?” She looked totally disoriented, her entire body trembling with memory.
“Shhh, yes.” He caressed her back until the trembling stopped. “ ’Twas only a dream.”
“A dream,” she repeated, sagging weakly against him. “It seemed so real.”
“It always does.” Slayde’s jaw set. How well he remembered those hellish nights following his parents’ murders: awakening in an icy sweat, reliving those inescapable moments of discovery again and again.
Drawing a shuddering breath, Courtney leaned back, searched Slayde’s face. “Was it like this for you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“The very worst thing possible: submerged it. Somehow I believed that by burying the memories, I could make them vanish. I was a fool. It wasn’t until I met you that I realized pain can be shed only by sharing it.”
She smiled faintly through her fear. “You really have changed.”
His thumbs caressed her cheeks. “I owe that to you.”
“And to Aurora,” Courtney amended. “She’s been attempting to coax you out of solitude for years.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t listening.”
“Perhaps you should. Your sister understands you better than you think. She’s not a child anymore, Slayde. She’s a woman—a very special woman. Isn’t it time that you got to know her?”
Tenderness surged anew. “Another gift, my beautiful miracle?”
“No, my lord. Merely a suggestion.”
