Chapter 23
They laid before the dazzling fire, her head tucked upon his shoulder. Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin as their hands entwined.
The feel of her soft skin beneath his was heaven.
Tonight, he had been admitted into Paradise. Would he be allowed to stay? Surely, yes. After so much suffering, Paradise was his.
But he knew the vagaries of life. Surely such wonder and happiness could not last.
He shook the thought away. Yes, he was well acquainted with the precariousness of life and it would be idiotic of him to think of anything but this moment.
The feel of her against him. The way their bodies fit so perfectly together.
A log popped and the fire burst with bright cinders that floated upward into the chimney. It was the only sound in the room save for their breaths.
They had been thus for hours. Neither had wished to break the spell.
He had brought over his thick counterpane and wrapped them up. The silver tray that bore a decanter of red wine and two goblets had sustained them through the hours.
The urge to sleep escaped him entirely. This was a night he wished to last forever.
She turned in his arms, propping herself on an elbow. Almost reverently, she placed her palm on his cheek then slowly drew her forefinger over his jaw. “I ken yer heart. I ken yer soul, Max, Duke of Raventon.”
He kissed the tip of her finger, savoring this newfound affection.
“Tell me something I do no’ ken.”
He blinked then stared up at his ceiling, searching for some banal answer. Something she did not know? Where was he to begin? Could he begin? The vast vault of secrets he kept was largely unshared. Only the pertinent people knew. People who had to know.
“I don’t understand,” he replied instead. Unwilling to open a door which might lead to things he couldn’t anticipate.
“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. “I shall help ye. Ah! Ye could tell me the name of yer favorite dog. Or horse. Or why ye went to Paris.”
The ease which had relaxed him just moments before began to slip away and he hated that. He hated that it was already dissolving. He wished he could beg her to not ask. To leave all questioning aside. But how could he do such a thing? It was unreasonable. For she was his wife.
“My favorite dog was a Setter named Rosie. She was most loyal and affectionate. I did not have favorite horses though I find them to be beautiful. No. I preferred walking to riding. And Paris?”
He swallowed. How honest should he be? For he could give her an answer which took but a moment, or he could speak the rest of the night.
Clearing his throat, he replied simply, “I went to Paris because, while I agreed with the Girondist movement of the revolution, I saw that the extremists of the Jacobin party were going to slaughter anyone who stood in their way.”
She waited silently, leaning patiently over him.
Did she expect him to reveal more? And as the silence stretched, he realized that yes, yes she did.
“My darling,” he said softly. “The past. . . the past is the past and I don’t particularly like to dwell on it.”
She gazed down upon him, her eyes wandering over his face as if she could somehow will him to share himself with her, but she did not beg or recriminate. Instead, a sadness that was not there before shadowed her gaze.
“I understand, Max,” she said gently and without censure.
“You do?” he asked, stunned. Was it truly to be so simple? And yet. . . something felt amiss.
“I do,” she assured softly. “There is a part of ye that will always be hidden from me.”
The words hit him like solid blows. They were made worse by the fact that he could not deny them. They were made brutal by the fact that he was certain she did not intend to cause him pain with them.
“I—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’ve chosen ye, Max. I. . . I love ye. I can choose to rage against yer secrets. To feel as though ye dinna trust me. But that will only leave me bitter. So, I must do what I must. I must accept the mon that ye are. Ye are a mon of secrets. Ye always will be. And while ye will be mine, there will always be a part of ye that never is.”
Each word cut like the slash of a saber against his once guarded heart. How he longed to argue, to protest. Yet, he couldn’t. Was he prepared to bare himself to her?
No. For so long, he had hidden himself. For so long, he had kept his secrets. They were a part of him.
How could he ever tell her that he was The Hawk?
How could he explain that, even now, his entire life was devoted to secrecy and to setting about souls to save people from disaster?
How could he ever bring himself to speak of Tommy Adams, who had taken half of Max’s heart with him when he had died in battle?
If she could accept who he was, the secrets he kept, then surely, they could be happy. Couldn’t they?
But even as he thought this, he knew that their happiness would never be complete. It would mirror her lack of possession of him. A part of him would always remain elusive, and so would their happiness.
He closed his eyes, realizing, as she realized that he had chosen a life of service, that it would always come first, as it always had done.
Yet, for some reason, she was willing to make the sacrifice, even though he could sense her pain.
Why did he suddenly suspect that his life’s work might now prove to be the source of his greatest disappointment?
She did not leave him when his silence continued. She did not pull away. On the contrary, she laid down and rested her head against his shoulder.
“I love ye, Max,” she whispered.
As those words slipped through the night air, he felt them drawing them apart, instead of bringing them together as they should have done.
Paradise disappeared in that moment, as he knew it would do. And while he held her in his arms, he knew that he had lost something truly dear. And it was no one’s fault but his own.