“She’s the woman you argued about with your father, right?”
Grace was almost too perceptive. “Yes.”
“So, you couldn’t marry her.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the words lanced through him.
He sagged against the bulkhead, not two feet from Grace. “I asked her. I defied my father, but she refused.” All the pain of that refusal came back in an instant.
“That must have been difficult for both of you. Do you know why she refused?” She put a hand on his arm. Luc stared into the past. “Her family were crofters, dependent on the largess of the landowner for whom they labored. They were poor, and the loss of a family member would make them poorer. Grainne had a marriage proposal from a local squire. He was a good enough man, but he didn’t love her, nor she him, as she told me years later.”
“Why would the man marry her if he didn’t love her?”
“Grainne was uniquely attractive. She was tall, about your height. Her face was longer than that of a classic beauty. She had hair like red flame, eyes the green of Ireland’s misty hills, skin of alabaster, and a smile that could melt stone.”
“No,” Grace whispered, and put her fingers to her lips, again.
He tilted his head.
“My aunt,” she breathed, her small statement shaky.
“Sarah Alden,” Luc said.
“She often told me my smile could melt stone.”
“Your smile is very like Grainne’s. It hurts me sometimes to look at you.” He closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice was closer. Her hand stroking his cheek forced his eyes open. He stared down into those misty green pools, filled with unshed tears. So much like that moment before he and his love had parted in Ireland. Luc couldn’t resist.
His arms went around her, pulling her to him, and he tilted his head.
Grace must’ve lifted on her toes, because their lips met. Her hands gripped his shoulders. He let himself drown in sweet passion. She fit him perfectly in every way. Her breasts pillowed on his chest.Her hips cradled his. Her woman’s heat matched the growing fire in his loins.
Too soon she pushed on his shoulders and stepped away.
What he saw in those mist green eyes was nothing like the raw lust he felt.
Tears dripped down her cheeks, one by one. Her body shook, but not with desire.
“You’re afraid,” he said. “Of me?”
“Yes, no, partly.” Grace bit her lower lip and twisted her hands. “I don’t know. I do know that I can’t do this. Not with you. Not tonight.”
“Some other time?” A man could hope.
She looked away, staring at the far bulkhead. “Don’t ask me that.”
“As you wish.” Luc leaned back against the near bulkhead and waited. Watching carefully for the smallest clue to her thoughts and feelings. Feelings he should’ve been able to sense.
Questions about why he could not would have to wait. He concentrated on Grace.
Her head moved from side to side, as if she sought some direction or answer, but what was the question?
What was she afraid of?
He shouldn’t—couldn’t—ask.
Could he?
