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Her words, the warmth of her soft hands surrounding his callused ones rendered him speechless. Before he could recover, she asked, “Have you missed me?”
Bloody hell, if he’d been capable of it, he would have laughed. Missed her? Only with every breath. Every heartbeat. Every day.
He had to swallow to locate his voice. “Sometimes.”
Her bottom lip trembled, threatening to smite him where he stood. And damn it, if he allowed himself to continue looking into her eyes, he’d fall on his knees before her and confess his ridiculous, impossible love. Probably beg her to love him in return.
That scenario all but made his blood run cold. And this damn conversation suddenly felt too personal and intense. Forcing himself to heave a put-upon sigh, he teased, “Even though you were horribly girly.”
“Girly?” She sounded outraged, as he’d known she would. She released his hand and planted her fists on her hips. “I was no such thing. Was I afraid to bait a fish hook?”
“Well, no. But then you rarely caught a fish.”
“Only because you splashed about so. Was I afraid to climb a tree?”
“No. But I recall you required rescuing on more than one occasion when your girly gown became caught in the branches.”
“Humph. I wouldn’t have required rescuing if you’d lent me a pair of your breeches as I requested.”
Most likely not. But he would have required rescuing. The mere thought of her wearing his clothing had all but stopped his heart.
“Very well,” he conceded. “You weren’t the least bit girly. Indeed, you were practically a man. Why, I’m surprised you didn’t grow a beard and take up smoking cigars.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care for either, thank you very much.” Then she raised her chin. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with being girly.”
“Especially if one is a girl.”
“You should have loaned me your breeches.”
“Your mother would have fainted.”
Eyes twinkling with amusement, she gave an elegant sniff. “Mother always had her hartshorn at the ready, and even if Father were to grab a weapon, he had dreadful aim.”
Not always. With a jolt he realized his fingers were brushing over his scarred cheek, and he lowered his hand. Shaking off the memories hurtling toward him, he crossed his arms over his chest and adopted his sternest expression. “Young ladies do not wear breeches. Ever.”
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “If I’d known you were such an authority on deportment, I’d have simply pinched them from your room.”
“Young ladies do not steal. Ever.”
“Stick-in-the-mud.”
“Impudent hoyden.”
Her lips twitched. “Guilty as charged.”
“Then it’s off to the gallows for you.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“Hardly a problem given your”-he gave her garment a pointed look-“girly attire.”
A quick laugh escaped her. “Hoist on my own petard.”
Her beautiful eyes glittered with amusement and his heart thudded, pleasure suffusing him just because she was near him. Ten years faded away, and he was once again twenty years old and simply enjoying the company of the girl he loved.
He inhaled and caught a subtle whiff of roses. And barely suppressed a groan. No matter what messy adventure they’d undertaken, whether it involved mud or sand or sea or lake water, she’d always smelled as if she’d just wandered through the flower garden.
Bloody hell, how many late night summer hours had he spent in Gateshead Manor’s rose garden, sitting with his eyes closed, breathing in the scent that to this day instantly called her to mind? Spi
The laughter slowly faded from her eyes and her gaze lowered, settling on his scar, a forcible reminder of what he’d momentarily managed to forget-that he looked very different now. And not for the better.
She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his ruined skin, and his every muscle tensed, bracing himself for the pity he knew he’d see in her eyes.
“Does it hurt?” she asked softly.
Not trusting his voice, he shook his head.
“You must have suffered a great deal.” Her gaze met his. “I’m so sorry, Ethan.”
As am I. For so many things…
Unable to speak, he simply stood still while her fingers continued to lightly stroke his cheek. It required a Herculean effort not to turn his face and press a kiss into her palm. Snatch her into his arms and kiss her until he couldn’t think any longer. Couldn’t remember all the reasons that he shouldn’t.
“How did this happen?”
“I was cut,” he said, his tone curt. He stepped away from her and started walking along the shore. She fell into step beside him, with T.C. trotting at her heels. In an effort to forestall further questions about his face he said, “I have others.”
“Other what?”
“Scars.”
“And how did you come by those?”
While he didn’t particularly want to have this conversation, she’d said she wanted to know about his life, so he might as well just get it over with. “After I left Gateshead Manor, I joined the army. I was injured at Waterloo. In a fire.”
Memories he’d firmly locked away bombarded him. The screams of men and horses. Weapons discharging. The roaring blaze, men trapped. Rescuing one…but then the flames too hot, the smoke too thick. His coat catching fire. Shocking, scalding heat.
He glanced toward her and found her looking at him with a combination of horror and sympathy. “Dear God, how awful.” She paused, then said, “You never spoke of a desire to join the army.”
Because he’d never had one. Since he hadn’t much cared if he lived or died after he left Gateshead Manor, he figured he might as well die doing something useful, and the army seemed the quickest way to accomplish that. And by God, he’d done every reckless thing he could think of to get himself killed, volunteered for every dangerous assignment, but instead of dying, he’d survived and received damn medals and commendations.
“I decided someone had to put that bastard Napoleon in his place.”
“You succeeded.”
“Finally. But the cost was…” He shook his head and shoved back the encroaching memories. “Many good men died. Too many.”
“I’m grateful you weren’t one of them.”
“I wasn’t.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. And just as he always had, he ended up confiding things to her that he’d never shared with anyone else. “Between the bone-deep exhaustion and the pain from my injuries, I prayed more than once to go to sleep and not awaken.”
A lengthy silence followed his words. Finally she broke it by asking, “How did you manage to go on?”
He debated how honest to be with her, then shrugged. No point in not telling her-she’d be gone tomorrow. Yes-taking another slice of your soul with her, his i
“I thought of you. Of all the times you’d convinced me I could do things I was sure I couldn’t. Like when you taught me sums. And how to waltz. And sew a button on my coat. And learn all the flowers in the garden.”
He paused to pick up a small rock, toss it into the waves, then continued, “I remembered what you said, what you did, when my father died. How you held my hand and told me, ‘You’re not alone, Ethan. Your father will always live in your heart. And I will always be your friend. And both he and I know that you are the very best of men.’” He looked at her. Saw her staring at him through huge eyes. “Those words helped me through some very difficult times over the years.”
“I…I’m glad. And surprised. And touched that you remembered.”
“I remember everything, Cassie.” Every touch. Every smile. Every tear. Every heartbreak.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “As do I.”
He forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the sand in front of them, and they walked in silence for several minutes, not pausing until she found a shell she liked. After brushing the sand off the pale pink treasure, she asked, “How did you come to own the Blue Seas I