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“Good things?”
“Now you’re just looking for compliments.”
“Charlotte,” he said warningly.
Her lips curved. “Marvelous, wondrous, extraordinary things.”
Lyle should be happy. After all, not long ago, the thought that she wouldn’t have him under any circumstances had tormented him. Hell, not much more than a day ago, she’d baulked at letting him into the house.
Now she’d given him a promise of marriage and commended his lovemaking. He was a fool to want more, but for one luminous moment, he’d hoped she might declare her love.
“It’s your first time,” he said in a gloomy voice. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling a wee bit floaty.”
She stared hard at him. “First time or hundredth time, I believe it’s something remarkable between us that made it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like the beauty tore my soul into pieces.” Her voice was husky.
His heart crashed against his ribs at her confession. Surely that was enough. Why couldn’t he accept what she offered? She told him everything he wanted to hear—except the most important words of all. “That’s just pleasure.”
She gave him the familiar unimpressed look. “I’m no expert, Ewan, but I’m pretty sure that pleasure alone wouldn’t make me cry.” She bit her lip, and her eyes deepened to dark honey. “Only love could make me cry.”
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Charlotte felt like she ripped out her heart and placed it like a sacrificial offering before him. Even now, after their breathtaking passion, she wasn’t sure whether Ewan was likely to stamp on it or treat it as a trophy.
Or say the words she longed to hear.
He liked her and wanted her. And for some absurd reason, he’d decided to marry her even before they met. None of that added up to love. Or at least the sort of love she felt for him. The persistent, passionate, painful kind.
Particularly painful when a girl took the awful risk of declaring her feelings to a lover. And that lover treated her like some scientific oddity. And drew away as if afraid that too much contact might encourage false conclusions.
“Say something,” she forced out, already bracing for an unfavorable reaction. Annoyance. Or amusement.
Or worst of all, pity.
Ewan still looked odd, as if he hadn’t quite understood what she’d said. “You love me?”
She supposed she could pretend it was a joke. By now, he must be used to her sarcastic ways. He might almost believe her. And if he did, it would salve her pride, if not the gaping wound inside her.
But she’d ventured this far. She wasn’t coward enough to retreat. With shaking hands, she dragged the sheet up to cover her nakedness, hoping the fragile linen might armor her against the hurt she’d invited. She pressed back against the bedhead. “Yes.”
The blue eyes continued to measure her with almost detached curiosity. “I’m….I’m astonished.”
Better than pity, she supposed. At least it should be. “You don’t have to love me back. After all, it’s absurd to fall in love in the space of a few days.”
To her chagrin, a ghost of a smile played around his lips. “Absurd.”
Anger came to her aid. Thank goodness. She’d much rather feel angry than vulnerable. “This doesn’t have to make you feel uncomfortable. I won’t cling, or pine, or make scenes.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said steadily. His expression remained enigmatic.
“Well, good,” she said, at a loss. Her fingers tightened on the sheet. What on earth happened now? Had she expected him to tell her he loved her too?
The shaming truth was that somewhere deep inside her, she’d hoped that if she was henwitted enough to crash headlong in love with him, he might love her back. If only a little.
