He took a step closer, towering over her. “Aye, lady, you did. You are still uncertain of me, are you not?”
Her smile faded, her cheeks flushing as she gazed up at him; smooth, brown, beautiful. “I…. I never said that,” she stammered.
“You did not have to. I can read it in your eyes.”
“I am thinking nothing of the sort,” she said quickly, hoarsely. “I was merely…. thinking.”
“About what?”
She paused a moment. As with her other bold qualities, she had never been lacking in the trait of honesty. Gazing into his eyes, she felt compelled to answer his question. “You.”
His eyebrows flickered slightly, a faint smile creasing his lips. “I would have never guessed. What, may I ask, are you thinking?”
She cocked her head thoughtfully, her gaze trailing down his armor. “I am thinking that you confuse me.”
“And you confuse me.”
Her eyebrows rose with surprise. “I do? How?”
He did not say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, a mailed hand came up to gently grasp a blond tendril. Ivy froze, feeling the heat from his flesh through the steel gauntlet as if it were searing her tender skin.
“Because you are the only woman I have met that seems to be willing to make an attempt to know me before passing judgment,” his onyx eyes were soft. “Have you decided whether or not to damn me?”
She cocked an eyebrow, slowly. She had been pondering that very dilemma since their introduction. “And if I do not?”
The corner of his mouth twitched as he continued to rub the silken strands of hair between his fingers. “Then you would be the first. And I find that confusing.”
“Why?”
He chuckled softly. “Because I have grown accustomed to rejection, I suppose. I would not have the first idea how to handle feminine acceptance.”
Ivy gazed at him, uncertainty in her eyes. “No woman has ever accepted you as you are? Not one?”
He shook his head, the brilliant stars reflecting in his raven-colored eyes. “Look into your heart and answer your own question, demoiselle. Not even you have accepted me as such,and your reaction to my color has been considerably mild in comparison to some.”
Ivy swallowed, feeling ashamed as well as confused. “I…. I believe I must grow accustomed to your color before I can truly accept you as my betrothed,” she met his gaze again, her brow furrowing in thought. “Truthfully, how can you resent women for being shocked with your appearance? Certainly, there are very few English women who have seen a man of color before.”
His smile faded. “I resent those who overlook the soul of a man simply because he is different.”
She did not say anything for a moment, pondering his words. “Your bitterness is causing you prejudice against the entire English race as the result of a few who have judged you on the basis of your skin.”
He stared at her a moment, seeing a seed of truth in her words. Sound, intelligent words from a woman who was beginning to understand him just the slightest. “Mayhap I do indeed harbor more than my share of bitterness. But more than a few have judged me by my color,” his voice was faint. “I am only human, demoiselle. Bitterness is a negative quality of the human character.”
She continued to gaze at him, a lengthy, thoughtful pause. “So is stupefaction.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “And you refer to me?”
Looking deep into his black eyes, she could feel all doubt, all reserve fading. Never had she met with such honesty, such aching desperation for acceptance. Before her was a man of uncommon patience and grace, of uncanny emotion and wisdom. In the short time she had come to know him, it was the most obvious of his qualities. More obvious than his dark skin. The fog was lifting in Ivy’s mind and the truth was as bright as the sun.
“Nay,” she whispered. “I was referring to me.”
She stopped fighting herself, giving in to the acceptance, the approval that had been struggling to break forth. For once in her life, her stubborn nature was conquered by her inner convictions. Ivy de Fluornoy was finally growing up.
His brown lips, smooth and glossy, drew her open stare. She found herself wondering what they would feel like, mingled with her own pink. As quaking heat flooded her limbs, she was unaware when the odd weakness caused her to sway in his direction.
Ali was aware indeed; had he not reached out to grasp her, she would have pitched forward. His mailed gloves bit into her arms, holding her steady, noting the heated expression with disbelief. Had he not known better, he would have thought she was intending to seduce him.
“You truly do not know how to handle feminine acceptance?” Ivy heard her own breathy voice, aware she wanted him to kiss her in the very worst way.
