“Well, it may be nothing to you, but it nearly broke my heart.” She shifted, as if preparing to stand. “You must be thirsty. Let me—”
He grabbed her hand and stopped her with a force that surprised even him. “Don’t leave. Please.”
She slowly sat back down, silent.
He opened his eyes farther. The candlelight flickered on the precious angles of her face. How well he could read each twitch. She was trying to smile, but an element of fear lingered in the depths of her changing expression. Her chin trembled, and as if aware of it she bit her lower lip.
He squeezed her hand. “I want to make sure that you are really here.”
She said nothing but covered his hand with her other one. “The surgeon says you’ll recover. The bullet went through. Do you remember any of it?”
The image of Walstead’s pistol pointed in his direction would forever be imprinted on his mind. But there had been a second shot. He recalled seeing Walstead on the floor. “Is Walstead dead?”
“Yes.”
Details began to return. “And Timmons?”
She rubbed her fingertips over the back of his hand. “Amestook it upon himself to fetch the magistrate, and they took a group of men to the cottage right afterward. Apparently he saw Walstead already in the village after he left Hollythorne House with the letter and grew suspicious. I’ve heard no update.”
Anthony’s stomach tightened as he remembered the sight of his friend tied and bound in the cottage. He didn’t want it to be that way.
Conflicting emotions warred in his chest. He’d loved Timmons as a brother. Respected Walstead like a teacher. They were both exposed now. And neither was who he’d thought they were.
The soft caressing of her fingers on his hand brought him back to her. “Where’s Henry?”
“With Sutcliffe. He is sleeping. He’s had quite a day.”
“I shouldn’t keep you from him.” Anthony released her hand. “You have waited a long time for him.”
“Henry and I have many years together ahead of us. It is you I am worried about now.”
He studied her again for several moments—the beauty of her dark lashes. The curve of her slightly parted lips. Fierce protectiveness clawed through him. He was ready to jump up and fight for her again. He would never stop doing so.
She seemed oddly hesitant in this moment of privacy, but he was emboldened—by years of loneliness, by years of yearning for her, by the closeness of death and the brevity of time. His head pounded, his shoulder throbbed, and he did not trust his voice to speak, yet he’d never felt more at peace or more certain about what needed to be said.
“I’ve cheated death twice. For some reason, I’m still alive. Iwant to wake up to you every day, not just this one. You have years ahead of you with Henry, and I’m happy for it. But I would gladly give you every day I have left, if you would have them. For another chance at life would mean nothing without you in it.”
Her eyes, rid-rimmed and dark, met his.
She drew a shaky, thin breath, and a tear fell down her cheek. She lifted his hand and pressed her lips to it. “I’ve been so frightened. And how I’ve missed you. Every day I’ve missed you and thought I would never see you again. But I-I-I’m so different now. I’m so broken. How can—?”
“Charlotte.”
She fell silent at his word.
“You may feel broken now, but you—every part of you—is beautiful to me. You and Henry.”
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “It’s just with everything that has happened, I don’t know where I belong or even where to begin.”
“With me, Charlotte.” He reached for her hand and looked her directly in the eye. “You belong with me. And I belong with you.”
She scooted close and leaned into him, gently at first and then burying her face into his neck. He wrapped his good arm around her, cursing the fact that his other arm was not free to embrace her properly.
This.
This moment.
This was what he had fought for, strived for, dreamed of, even when he didn’t know what was before him.
