Yes, but not in the manner you refer to.
“No.” Without thought, she brought his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it.
He was so strong, so tall and powerful, every bit of him lean and masculine, honed to perfection. And yet he was, just as Alessandro had said, a man broken. Broken on the inside.Estar roto.Shattered by what had happened to him. And he had attempted to paste his pieces back together with hatred instead of with love.
Could her love be enough to heal him, to make him whole? Was it possible? Or was she too late?
“Leonie?” Her name in his deep voice did not fail to have an effect upon her.
“Yes?” She kissed his hand again, unable to resist inhaling the scent of his skin. So familiar, so beloved. His hand was vital, filled with life and strength, and she clung to it, just as she clung to hope he would change his mind about facing her brother on the field of honor.
“I am sorry.”
Her heart swelled.
“For waking you,” he added.
The hope blossoming inside her wilted. “It was not your fault, my lord.”
He was silent for a moment, and she sensed he was attempting to calm himself and gather his wits. “I am also sorry for hurting you. I did not apologize to you earlier, when I had the chance, and I should have.”
The foolish hope was revitalized, like a dry flower given a much-needed drink of rain. “Thank you.”
She said nothing else, simply stood there in the darkness by his bedside, clasping his hand, pressing it to her cheek to absorb the heat and the vitality of him. For an indeterminate amount of time, he held on as if letting go meant she would fall from the edge of a cliff. And she held on, too, because she felt the opposite, that releasing him meant the end.
Of them.
Of everything.
But she was also the girl who should have died when she fell from the bannister all those years ago. She believed in healing and second chances. She believed in purpose and joy and meaning where it otherwise seemed there could be none.
So, she refused to let go. She needed to believe she could change the path upon which they found themselves. That hope remained for him to find his way back to her, and for her to await him, arms open. Vengeance was not the answer, and she knew it to her soul. Love was. It always had been. Freddy was right.
“Leonie?” he asked at last.
“Yes, Morgan?”
“Thank you for coming to me and waking me. Christ knows you ought to have let me suffer in my sleep. Not even I would have blamed you.”
She turned their hands as one, kissing his inner wrist, just where his heartbeat pulsed against her lips. “Iwould have blamed me.”
“Angel,” he said without heat.
“Not an angel,” she denied. “Merely your wife.”
“You do not owe me anything,” he was quick to say, his tone growing cool.
But she would not allow him to build up the walls between them with such unobstructed ease. “I am here because I care about you, Morgan. Not because I feel obliged to be here. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” Her response was instant. Perhaps too quick, and perhaps she revealed too much. But her response was already there, hovering in the thickness of the air between them. “I have never felt obligated where you are concerned. I have only ever wanted to be a good wife to you. I fear I have not.”
“Of course you have. You are the best wife a man could ask for, and the only wife I want. Never doubt how selfless and inspiring and wonderful you are, Leonie.” His voice was low, almost savage in its intensity. “Never let that be taken from you. You are the only good part of my life, and that is the absolute truth.”
“I wish I could believe that.” She could not keep the sadness from her voice, for it was there, pulsing, burning, a painful bud unfurling in her heart.
And yes, how she wished she could believe him. But she could not, could she?
