“I’m sure you don’t, but you will have to. If not today, then soon.”

“I already said I would agree to your ungodly plan.”

“Not in so many words.”

She whipped back around to face him. “You’re going to make me say it out loud? My little announcement at breakfast wasn’t enough?”

“I need your word, Iris.”

She stared at him, and he couldn’t quite tell whether it was with disbelief or horror.

“I need your word because I trust your word.” He paused for a moment to let her reflect upon that.

“You are my husband,” she said without emotion. “I will obey you.”

“I don’t want you to—” He cut himself off.

“Then what do you want?” she burst out. “Do you want me to like this? To tell you I think you’re doing the right thing? Because I can’t. I will lie to the entire world, apparently, but I won’t lie to you.”

“It is enough that you will accept Fleur’s baby,” he said, even though it wasn’t. He wanted more. He wanted everything, and he would never have the right to ask her for it.

“Kiss me,” he said, so impulsively, so suddenly that even he did not believe he’d done it.

“What?”

“I will make no more demands on you,” he said. “But for now, just this once, kiss me.”

“Why?” she asked.

He stared at her in incomprehension. Why? Why? “Does there have to be a reason?”

“There is always a reason,” she said with a quiet choke in her voice. “More fool me, for letting myself forget that.”

He felt his lips move, trying and failing to find words. He had nothing, no sweet poetry to make her keep forgetting. The light morning wind swept across his face, and he watched as one lonely tendril of her hair broke free of its braid, catching the sunlight until it sparkled like platinum.

How was she so lovely? How had he not seen it?

“Kiss me,” he said again, and this time it felt like begging.

He didn’t care.

“You are my husband,” Iris said again. Her eyes burned into his. “I will obey you.”

It was the fiercest of blows. “Don’t say that,” he hissed.

Her mouth clamped into a defiant line.

Richard closed the distance between them, his hand thrusting forward to grab her arm, but at the last minute he stilled. Slowly, gently, he reached out to touch her cheek.

She was so rigid, he thought she might break, and then, he heard it—a tiny whisper of breath, a small sob of acquiescence, and she turned, allowing his hand to cradle her cheek.

“Iris,” he whispered.

She brought her eyes to his, pale, blue, and impossibly sad.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to cherish her.

“Please,” he whispered, his lips coming within a feather’s breadth of hers. “Let me kiss you.”

Chapter Twenty-one

KISS HIM?

Iris almost laughed. The very thought of it had consumed her for the past few days, but not like this. Not when she was wet-cheeked and dusty and her elbow felt bruised from when she’d tripped over her own feet because she couldn’t even run away with dignity. Not when he hadn’t said a word of reproof in the tunnel, and he was being so bloody kind.

Kiss him?

There was nothing she wanted more. Or less. Her anger was the only thing holding her up, and if he kissed her . . . if she kissed him . . .

He would make her forget. And then she would lose herself, all over again.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, and his hand was so lovely and warm at her cheek.

She should pull away. She knew she should, but she could not bring herself to move. There was nothing in that moment but him and her and the way he was looking at her as if she were the very air he breathed.

He was a consummate actor; she knew that now. He had not fooled her completely—she took some pride in the fact that she’d known that he’d been hiding something—but he’d been good enough to make her think she could fall in love with him. And for all she knew, he was faking this now.

Maybe he didn’t want her. Maybe all he wanted was her compliance.

But she wasn’t sure that mattered. Because she wanted him. She wanted the touch of his lips and the soft brush of his breath on her skin. She wanted the moment. That sacred, suspended moment before they touched, when they only stared, wanting.

Needing.

Anticipation. It was almost better than a kiss. The air between them was heavy and expectant, warm and thick from the heat of their breaths.

Iris held herself still, waiting for him to gather her into his arms, to kiss her and make her forget, if only for a moment, that she was the world’s biggest fool.

But he didn’t. He was still as a statue, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He was going to make her say it, she realized. He would not kiss her until she granted him permission.

Until she admitted her desire.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He did not say a word. He did not even move.

“I can’t,” she said again, nearly choking on the short sentence. “You have taken everything from me.”

“Not everything,” Richard reminded her.

“Oh, yes.” She nearly laughed at the irony. “You’ve left my innocence intact. Very kind of you.”

He stepped away. “Oh, for God’s sake, Iris, you know why—”

“Stop,” she cut in. “Just stop. Don’t you understand? I don’t want this conversation.”

And she didn’t. He would only try to explain himself, and she didn’t want to listen. He would tell her that he’d had no choice, that he was acting out of love for his sister. And maybe all that was true, but Iris was still so damned angry. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He didn’t deserve her understanding.