Beatrice’s insight permeated his consciousness. It illuminated his darkest corners, pushing back the shadows of his shame. It seemed so simple, the way she said it.
“Even if her death was not my fault, I wish I had acted more honorably,” he said gruffly.
“You made mistakes.” She looked him in the eyes, not letting him off the hook. “But you were a young man back then, and the important thing is that you’ve changed, grown up. Knowing you as you are now, I can vouch for the fact that you are a true gentleman, one with a keen sense of honor.”
“You think I’m honorable?”
After baring his ugliness to her, he didn’t believe it possible.
“Iknowthat you are.” She brushed her fingers against his jaw, her touch like a benediction. “Wick, you’re the first to give aid when someone is in need. You intervened when that man assaulted me at the masquerade, and you stormed a burning barn. You’re doing your damnedest to protect me and my property even though it is against your company’s interests.”
“I would never let anything happen to you,” he said fiercely.
“I know because that is the kind of man you are. A man who not only protects others but who shows kindness to people who are different—who, indeed, need compassion the most.”
He was stunned by her assessment of him. Her words resonated like a church bell, expanding his chest with wonder. With the knowledge that somehow, despite his failures, she still saw the best of him.
“And let’s not forget that your honor prompted you to propose to me, and you’ve been hounding me about marriage ever since.”
Her smile told him that she was teasing.
“Would you mind if I hounded you right now?” he murmured.
With his thumb, he traced the path of her scar, felt her tremble as he followed that heart-shaped curve. Reaching the bottom, he continued upward, creating his own invisible line until the heart was complete.
Whole…the way she made him feel.
“I want to marry you, Beatrice,” he said, his voice roughened with emotion. “Not just because of honor but because…I care for you.”
21
I care for you.
His words and touch penetrated her like warm rain, seeping through years of disappointment and pain, landing on the parched surface of her heart. He didn’t profess his undying love, and she was glad because she didn’t know if she would have believed him. But the wonder in his voice, the way he turned her scar into something beautiful and whole caused hope to bloom within her.
“Beatrice?” He dropped his hand, his brows edging together. “How do you feel…about me?”
Now that she knew about his past, she understood his uncertainties. Wick’s problem, as she saw it, wasn’t a lack of honor but anexcessof it. He’d made mistakes in his youth, and his noble nature made it difficult for him to forgive himself, even when he’d clearly spent years making amends and turning a new leaf.
He’s such a good man, she thought achingly.
“I care about you,” she whispered. “So very much, Wick.”
He let out a breath, one that she hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You do?”
She nodded, her eyes dampening.
“Enough to marry me, lass?” He didn’t miss a beat in pressing his advantage, but then she liked that about him. Liked that his will and determination were a match for her own. “You know my faults, the mistakes I’ve made. But know this too: if you take me on, I will do my best to be a man who is worthy of you.”
He was offering more than she’d hoped to have, the promise of something lasting and true. Even though she recognized the risk—the danger of trusting in happiness—how could she resist this magnificent male?
“Yes, I will,” she said. “I will marry you.”
No sooner had she said the words then he was kissing her. She kissed him back, joy and desire combusting inside her. Then he was carrying her to the bed, her arms looping around his neck as he claimed her mouth with masterful thoroughness.
He tossed her onto the mattress, the primal light in his eyes making her giggle. He reached for the belt of his robe: apparently now that they’d laid themselves bare, it was time to bare other parts of themselves as well. In a flash of insight, she understood that it hadn’t been easy for Wick to expose his emotions to her—and now he meant to re-assert his manhood in other ways.
She was gleaning that beneath her husband-to-be’s civilized exterior lay the dominant instincts of his ancient Scottish ancestors. As Wick stripped, bearing all those hard, lean edges and sleek muscular bulges, she could well imagine him as a Highland warrior and she a product of his midnight raid. The fantasy shivered through her as he stood before her, proud and strong, so fiercely virile.
