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He laughed, ducked as Kathryn pretended to aim a sugar bowl at him, and he caught her in his arms. She laughed softly, put down the bowl, and curled her arms around his neck.
"My thoughts are anything but pure this morning."
"Is that so?" he said, smiling.
Her cheeks pinkened. "Well, to tell the truth, this is the first time I ever made breakfast for a man who's wearing nothing but his trousers."
Matthew grinned. "Am I a distraction?"
She laughed. "You know you are."
His smile faded as he raised her face to his. "This has been a night of firsts for you, sweetheart, has it not?"
Kathryn's color deepened. She nodded. "I suppose I should have told you, but—"
He stopped her words with a kiss. When it ended, he drew her head to his chest.
"It has been a night of firsts for me, as well," he said softly, "for I have never been so happy or..."
"Or what?" she asked, smiling.
The smile died on her lips when she looked up and saw his face. "Matthew? What's wrong?"
Everything, he thought, dear God in heaven, everything was wrong! He let go of her, walked blindly out onto the terrace, to the railing, and wrapped his hands around it until the bones of his knuckles showed white beneath his skin.
Or so much in love.
That was what he'd almost said, but it was impossible. How could he be happy? Or in love? The curse would not permit it. That was what he had wished on Cat Russell, all those years ago; it was what had gone full circle and been visited upon him as he lay dying.
A hand seemed to reach inside his chest and squeeze his heart.
All along, ever since he'd understood that he had damned himself with his own words, he had thought he understood his fate. He would be alone, through eternity. Last night, in a moment of treacly, self-indulgent nonsense, he'd built upon that conviction, imagining himself carrying the image of this idyll with Kathryn on his lonely journey.
Now, with a clarity that made him want to pound his fist through the wall, he understood.
What he would carry with him was the pain of a heart torn and bleeding. He had found joy with Kathryn, yes, and passion, but he had found much, much more. He had found love—love so powerful it filled his heart with each beat it took.
That he, of all men, could love so deeply—and be loved as deeply in return—was beyond imagining.
And that was to be his torment.
The darkness that had once surrounded him would be blessed release, compared to what lay ahead.
He was doomed to forever remember and mourn that which he could not have. Kathryn, whom he loved. Kathryn, who loved him...
"Matthew?"
Her hand fell lightly on his shoulder but it made him flinch.
"Please," she whispered, "what is it?"
He shook his head laid his hand over hers. He knew what he should do. What was it the surgeon who had tended Atropos's casualties had said, just before he'd applied a red-hot blade to a sailor's wound that would not stop bleeding?
"Don't flinch," he'd muttered. "The best way to deal with pain is to accept it." Then, whether or not the rum or the laudanum had taken effect, he'd jammed the hot blade against the man's flesh and let him scream.
That was the way to handle this. A man of honor would not flinch. He'd send Kathryn back to her world before she became any more deeply involved in his. He'd lie and say, Kathryn, this was pleasant but now it is over.
He took a deep breath. His hand tightened on hers. With the words on his lips, he turned and faced her.
