Page 69

Had He?

Mercy wanted more.

More of Ronan.

More of them.

Mercy wanted…God above…she actually wanted to know Ronan in the way only a man and a woman can really know one another, to be one flesh with him in the Biblical sense.

That’s what your mother thought too.

Was it?

Had her mother been seduced by a charming rapscallion? One who made her forget everything but the sensation of being in his arms?

If so, Mercy could not afford to make the same mistake her mother had. No matter that it might break her heart to reject Ronan. Nevertheless, she’d vowed long ago to never give herself to a man outside the sacrament of matrimony.

That thought had the same effect as diving into the Atlantic in February. At once, reason flooded her, and an icy bleakness enshrouded her soul.

“We cannot, Ronan. I’m sorry.”

Face averted, she pulled away from his embrace. Sadness assailed her for what could never be.

Mercy had never dreamed a kiss could tilt her world on its axis. Nay, spin it like a child’s toy top. Her reaction only confirmed that she was well on her way to losing her heart to Ronan Brockman.

“You’ve done absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Mercy.” Ronan scraped a hand through his sun-streaked hair, his expression a contradictory mixture of regret and confusion. “It is I who should be begging for your forgiveness. Please believe me when I tell you I hadn’t intended to kiss you.”

Rising, she willed her heightened senses to return to a semblance of normal. To do that, she needed to put distance between them. She could still feel the heat of his body beckoning her and smell the subtle scent of his cologne.

Sidestepping until she stood a respectable distance away, Mercy tried to ignore the shadow that passed across Ronan’s features. Making a pretense of smoothing her skirts, she eyed the closed door.

“This is wrong, Ronan. We both know nothing can come of…”

She waved her hand back and forth, helpless to define what exactly had transpired between them. She didn’t want to make more of the kiss than what it was. Likely, he’d kissed dozens of women before her. It wasn’t his fault that his kiss was her first.

Sighing, Ronan also stood.

“I agree that wasn’t wise timing on my part, but I cannot—won’t—regret kissing you, Mercy.”

Helplessness enshrouded her at his words. Words that made her want to run into his arms once more and relish the safety and comfort she found in that solid embrace. To nuzzle her face into the hard wall of his chest and stay there forever.

That was nonsensical codswallop—fairy tales and fables. Whimsical fancies.

“Ronan…”

He held his hand up. “Please. Let’s not say anything that we might regret, but instead, agree to finish the conversation when the issue of your parentage has been settled.”

Because who her parents may or may not be made a difference to him?

If not him, then his family?

Besides, they were making a habit of postponing discussions that needed resolutions. Procrastinating served no one well. Mercy bit her lip, her heart and mind wrestling for dominance.

No. This must be resolved now. Delaying would only lead to misunderstandings, confusion, and even awkwardness between them. She couldn’t bear the latter.

She collected her tattered dignity. “Ronan, I think—”

“Ronan?” Lord Trentholm thundered in the corridor, his voice rising an octave on the last syllable.