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He should have pulled out and spilled his seed on the bed linens. She planned to marry another man, and he’d already taken what was not his to take.
But he could not.
If in nine months Priscilla gave birth to a child, he would forever wonder if the babe was his.
It would eat him alive.
Yet, it would still not be enough of a punishment.
With one final shuddering thrust, he gave in to his weakness and surrendered himself fully.
Warmth suffused him, not only from Priscilla’s body wrapped in his arms, but from the emotion rising from the fires within his chest like a phoenix. He would deal with it later, or more likely ignore it. Priscilla was the only thing that mattered at the moment.
After settling next to her, he placed gentle kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, and her lips.
Radiant in the flush of afterglow, she was the image of a woman truly and completely loved. Strands of her blond hair had fallen from the restraint of their pins and draped haphazardly across his pillow. Pink colored her cheeks. Her lips were red and swollen from their kisses. The aftermath of lust still darkened her blue eyes.
And his dead heart roared to life.
He stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Was it what you wished for? Hoped?”
“Hmm.” The word came out like a sensual purr. She wiggled next to him, burrowing closer to his body, then laid her head on his chest. “Timothy, I lo—”
With lightning speed, he touched his finger to her lips. “No. Don’t say it.”
Muscles in her arms tensed against him. “If it’s because you don’t return my affection, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”
He supposed he had. And it had wounded her. But she was wrong. It wasn’t that he didn’t return her affection. The emotions he’d buried were clawing their way up from the ashes and protesting the falsity of that notion.
No, if he were honest with himself, which he tried desperately to avoid, hecouldlove her—if he allowed himself. But he couldn’t say it. Giving voice to it would make it real, would give her hope of a future with him when there was none.
Silence stretched between them, cold and uncomfortable, and he struggled for the words to ease the hurt he’d inflicted.
“It isn’t you.” The words landed with a dull, resonatingthud, and he cringed at their absurdity. He couldn’t let things stand between them like this, not after what they’d shared.
He called forward the words to explain in the only way he knew how. “You asked once what had precipitated my aversion to passion—to love.”
She stared at him with her blue eyes, wide and trusting, and he wanted to believe she would never betray him like . . .
“There was a woman named Merilee. I was hopelessly and completely in love with her, as I believed she was with me.” He shook his head. He’d never spoken of this to anyone, not even Bea or Laurence.
“What happened?” Priscilla’s whispered words tickled the hair on his chest.
“The day I’d planned to propose, I found her with another man.” Unable to meet Priscilla’s eyes when he confessed the rest, he tucked her head tightly against his chest. “You asked about my scar. The bullet was from the other man’s gun, inflicted during a duel.”
Disregarding his hold on her, she shot up and out of his arms, fire blazing in her eyes. “He shot you! I pray he rots in hell, the cur!”
As painful as recounting his past was, a sad smile tugged at his lips at the ire in her voice. “Priscilla, do you understand how duels work?Ichallengedhim.”
“But he shotyou!”
If only he had a glass of whisky handy. “He did, but that wasn’t the worst of it. I had planned on firing at his feet, perhaps getting in a lucky shot and inflicting a minor wound. Even then, I had dreams of becoming a physician—of healing people, not causing injury or”—he gulped, preparing to choke out the next word—“death. When the bullet struck me, it threw me back and my gun discharged, the trajectory much higher than I had planned. I killed him, Priscilla.”
Suspicious wetness formed in his eyes, and his throat clogged, inhibiting the next words he needed to say. “When it was over, she ran to him—not me. Her cries and the image of her body draped over his in grief still haunt me in my sleep. She never loved me. Mylovekilled a man, and it was all for naught. That’s what love, what passion does.”
Moments dragged on, and he held his breath, waiting for her response.
“No wonder we are at cross purposes.” She traced the puckered scar with her fingertip, the lightness of her touch a healing balm. “You deny yourself happiness because a woman betrayed your love. Whereas I desire it because a woman betrayed mine.”
