"Nothing," he said. "Only that you would let me see you."
"Then perhaps it would do us better if we do not say anything for now," Alethea said.
She was more concerned about keeping him warm. Without hesitation, Alethea was at his side again.
"Shall we get you changed out of these wet clothes?"
Oliver slowly peeled away his sodden coat and shirt, Alethea laid a soft blanket over his knees. The skin of his arms was flushed with cold. She brushed damp strands of hair from his face, and his eyes opened to meet hers but she avoided his gaze.
Her hands shook a little, though she tried to pretend they didn't. When at last she straightened, their eyes met.
It was Oliver who broke first.
"I never meant to hurt you," he said. "I need you to know that. I have spent every day since you left wishing I could take it all back."
"And what is it you wish you had said?" She took a careful breath, willing her composure to hold.
"That I love you." His voice cracked on the last word, and his hands clenched in the blanket as though he needed something to hold him steady.
Alethea's eyes blurred with tears. He reached for her hand, and when she did not pull away, he held it steadily.
"But I do not understand a love where you only consider your own wishes," she admitted with a sigh.
"I understand how it may come across as that to you," Oliver hung his head low. "I suppose I can only explain my reasonings to you, and hope that you see why I said what I did."
Alethea was quiet. She did not dare hope yet, for she knew how much it hurt to be disappointed. Instead, she just waited for him to continue on.
"You asked me once if I could ever want children," he said. "I told you no. I did not realize at the time that I was hurting you by saying that."
"By denying me," she corrected for him.
"By denying you," he smiled. "But you should understand that I said so only because I was afraid of failing you, or perhaps the child that we would have."
"Failing me?" Alethea looked up at him, surprised. Of all the things she had expected him to say, this had not been one of them. "You are perfectly capable of fatherhood, and I cannot imagine why such a thought would even occur to you."
"You cannot say that. For I am not yet a father," he smiled. "In my mind, I thought if I failed you and any child you might bear me, it would be the final proof that I was never enough."
He met Alethea's stunned gaze with a comforting one.
"Give me a chance to explain myself," he drew in a sharp breath. "When my parents died, everything was chaos. Both of them left us earlier than we had ever expected them to, and I was only nineteen when it happened."
"That is too young an age," Alethea conceded.
"Yes but you know what followed it," he continued. "Suddenly, it was all mine: the title, the estate, the responsibility for my sisters, who were still only children. I had no idea how to be the man everyone expected."
"You were only a boy," Alethea whispered. "That needs to be said, even though I know you shall try to resist it."
She knew him well enough to say that now. Oliver had never really allowed himself to be seen as someone who depended on others. Only as the carer and protector.
"Yes." His smile was hollow. "But it does not matter really when you have to fill in shoes that are far larger than yourself. So I tried to solid, reliable, untouched by any weakness. And I suppose part of me never stopped trying."
A tear slipped down her cheek. Her heart ached for him, almost as though it was her who had gotten through this trauma. He brushed it away with the back of one shaking finger.
"I thought the only way to protect my siblings was to never let myself want anything too badly," he went on. "Because then it could not be taken from me. So when you came into my life, so warm and certain, I didn't know how to be anything but afraid."
"I wish you had told me," Alethea's voice broke.
"I know." His thumb traced her cheekbone, lingering for a second. "And I am sorry. I have made a ruin of everything by trying to pretend I did not care as much as I did."
