“It wasn’t like that.”
She dropped her gaze.
“Look at me,” he asked.
“No.”
“Look at me. Pen, love,pleaselook at me.”
The last of her resistance crumbled.
How could she resist him? A part of her wanted to hold him close. To clasp his face to her chest, smooth his hair down his back, and make him promise to never, ever leave again. She lifted her eyes.
He took a deep breath. “I am sorry. I am so, so deeply, and fully filled with regret, I’m sorry does not begin to express how I feel.”
Of course, she warmed all the way to her toes.
Cheverley had never apologized. Not as Chev, anyway. But any apology could only be grossly inadequate.
Sorry did not lighten the burden of her loss.
Sorry did not find her within the years she’d spent lost.
And sorry did not heal her greatest wound.
“You may be sorry for going to war. Sorry for your deceit. You may even be sorry that I believed you dead.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “But, have you changed? Can I trust you? Can you give me your trust?”
~~~
Was he capable of giving Penelope his trust? Last night, he’d believed so.
But her anger had punctured him, painfully extracting his essence. His soul filled the space between them, pulsing weakly, like a disembodied heart.
He’d spent six years with a woman who’d fed on his terror, who’d violated him in darkness, who’d cut off his hand.
Saw jaws rattled against his bones. Straps burned against his shoulders. Cave stench stung in his nose.
But he wasn’t in a cave.
He was in the duke’s sitting room.
With his wife, who smelled of midsummer lavender, even as she gazed down on him with a Fury’s anger.
He removed the warm, soapy towel from Penelope’s hand, and draped the fabric over the tip of his injured arm.
Could he give Penelope his trust?
Slowly, he soaped his cheeks. Warm water tingled on his skin. His beard spiked through the towel, rough against his scars.
He lost awareness of everything else but Penelope. With his left hand, he lifted the razor from the basket. A tremor ran through his fingers as he transferred the razor from his shaking hand to hers.
“Do what you came to do,” he said quietly.
Her eyes went wide. “Good heavens, Chev. You cannot be frightened of me! I’m angry. I’m notBedlam-mad.”
Hellyes, he was afraid.
His fear was a tar-like mess—thick, peaty, and hot—clinging and confining when everything in him was desperate to rise. He would be nothing, own nothing, have nothing, if he could not conquer his fear.
