Her small palms found his shoulders, guiding him downward, and he allowed it. The action took him back to the day he had come upon her in the salon at the Kirkwood ball, and their roles had been reversed. That day, he had been the one to see she was suffering and in need of aid.
She sat beside him, one arm going around him as her other hand found his, and she laced their fingers together. “Take slow, deep breaths, Morgan.”
He did as she ordered, inhaling through his nose and exhaling from his mouth. His grip on her fingers tightened. He did not want to need her. Did not want to take comfort from her. And yet, he was helpless. If he had needed further proof she was an angel, here it was. She alone could calm him. She alone could force the violence and the memories and the madness away.
She alone could save him.
But did he want to be saved?Couldhe be saved? Or was it too late?
“Will you tell me?” she asked softly. “I want to know what happened to you so I can help you.”
“I do not want your help,” he forced himself to say. “The only thing that will help me is facing Rayne on the field of honor and putting my bullet in him.”
She flinched.
He ought to be ashamed of the virulence within him, the hatred festering and seething for the Earl of Rayne. The man was Leonie’s half-brother, after all. But it was how he felt. He hated Rayne with the scorching intensity of a thousand blistering suns. Bloodlust surged inside him, replacing the sick sense of anxiety.
“How can you truly believe harming anyone will make you whole?” Leonie demanded.
Her hand still clasped his, and her arm was still around him, holding him to her. And damn it if he did not take comfort in it. Inher.
“Nothing can make me whole,” he told her truthfully. “What happened to me…it changed me. I will never again be the man I was. You saw the evidence of what they did to me, Leonie, and that is not nearly the half of it.”
“Tell me,” she urged.
He forced himself to look down into her upturned face. She was so trusting. So bloody caring, even when he did not deserve it. He could not be certain which was worse, her silence or her nearness. Both were torture in equal measure.
“I killed a man,” he found himself saying, lost in the depths of her gaze. Lost in her.
“Death is a part of war.” Her hand clasped his more tightly in reassurance. “You were a soldier, Morgan.”
“You misunderstand, Leonie.” He paused, a violent surge of nausea stealing his breath for a moment. “The night I escaped from the enemy soldiers holding me captive, I killed my guard with my bare hands. He had come to do violence upon me, the sort you cannot imagine, the sort I have no wish for you to ever know…and I could not bear it. I choked him, and I watched the life leave him. I faced many soldiers on the field of battle but this was different. They broke me that night. I became a monster.”
“You did what you needed to do to survive.” Her tone was fierce, and a tear clung to her long, golden lashes. “There is no shame in any of your actions, Morgan. You were brave, so very brave to free yourself.”
He caught the tear on his forefinger. “Do not weep for me. I am not worthy of your sadness.”
He had hurt her. Lied to her. Manipulated her. He had married her with the intention of meeting her half-brother in a duel. He was plagued by demons, covered in scars. There was no good in him. And yet, Leonie looked upon him with such tenderness. No pity, no sympathy, just…
Love.
Naked and raw, pure and true,love. Her love for him was written on her face. So real, such a force, he almost believed in it. Almost believed love could be real, that it could heal him, and thatshecould heal him, if he only let her.
“But you are worthy, Morgan. If you would only look inside yourself, you would see that.” She kissed the tip of his finger, and the wetness of her tear clung to her lips.
Something inside him snapped. His mouth was upon hers in the next breath, his tongue tracing the seam of hers, licking the saltiness of her sorrow from her lips. She opened for him without hesitation, and she tasted sweeter than she ever had. Bittersweet.
He cupped her face, angled her to where he wanted her, and deepened the kiss. Need for her burst forth, flooding him. He was helpless. He forgot about the duel. Forgot about Rayne. Forgot about the awful, ugly sins of his past. And he kissed his wife. He kissed her as if she were his last meal, laid before him, as if he could consume her.
Suddenly, he no longer wanted dinner. To hell with food. To hell with anything but Leonie. They kissed and kissed, breaths mingling. Her heartbeat was so fast and strong he felt its flutter beneath his fingertips.
Yes, this was what he had been missing for the past two days. What he had been missing all his life. Just this woman, this one incredible woman who loved so fiercely, whose heart was so good, who knew suffering well enough to understand what he needed before he knew it himself. And he wanted everything she had to give him. When he kissed her, she chased away the darkness. When he drank her in, she washed away the pain, the memories.
She shook him. Rocked him to his very core. Humbled him, too. After everything he had done to her, after everything he had said—each cold word and colder deed—she was still showing him such tender concern.
She tore her mouth from his, and he allowed it. Gave her the space she needed, respected her boundaries. “It is too much, Searle,” she whispered. “Too fast.”
He nodded and released her, because he understood, and he did not want to push her. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel forced into returning to his bed. He had sent her from him, and he deserved her punishment now. He deserved her silence and her reticence.Christ, he deserved her scorn, which she had yet to truly show him. Perhaps she was too good, incapable of experiencing the rancor which led him to the brink of madness on a daily basis.
