“I came.” He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly he was afraid he might break her. “I am here. I am not leaving. Never again.”
She pulled back just far enough to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shining.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“I know.”
“You smell of horse and rain—and at least three days without bathing.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
His heart seemed to crack open.
“I love you too.” He cupped her face in his hands, marvelling at the reality of her—warm and solid and here, truly here, not a dream or a memory but flesh and blood within his reach. “I love you, Fiona. I ought to have said it every day. I ought to have—”
She kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was fierce and desperate and tasted of tears, saying everything words could not. It saidI forgive you,andI missed you,anddo not ever leave me again.
Christian kissed her back with all the desperate relief in his heart.
When at last they parted, both breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Marry me,” he said. “Please, Fiona. Marry me. Let me spend the rest of my life making amends for the weeks I wasted. Let me prove that I can be the man you deserve.”
“You already are the man I deserve.” She smiled through her tears. “You merely needed a little time to see it.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a yes, you impossible man.” She kissed him again, more gently this time. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
Christian laughed—a wild, unrestrained sound he scarcely recognised as his own—and swept her into his arms, spinning her about until they were both dizzy.
He had come for her. At last, he had found his courage.
And nothing—not society, nor scandal, nor all the fear in the world—would ever part them again.
Chapter Twenty
They stood in Fiona’s chamber for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither willing to let go.
Christian breathed her in—the scent of lavender and sleep and something that was simply Fiona—and felt the last of his walls crumble. He had spent so long convincing himself that he did not deserve this.
But here she was. Warm and real and solid in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, her tears drying on his shirt. She had said yes. She had forgiven him. She was going to be his wife.
The thought sent a thrill through him that bordered on terror.
Wife. Fiona is to be my wife.
“You are trembling,” she murmured against his chest.
“I am terrified.”
She pulled back to look at him, her brow furrowing. “Of what?”
“Of everything.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, marvelling at the softness of it. “Of facing society. Of announcing our engagement. Of giving them all the opportunity to whisper and stare and remind me that I am not fit to touch you.”
