A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(26)

That picture looked damn near paradise to him—which meant it was unattainable. And he could imagine she wouldn’t see the charms.

“What about love?” she asked.

He jerked his head, surprised. “What about it?”

“Do you mean to love me? What about all these children you mean for us to create? Am I to believe you’ll laugh and play with them, be open with them, let them into that stony thing you call a heart?”

He stared at her. If he thought he could ever give her those things, he would have offered to do so. Months ago.

He said, “No one needs to believe love’s involved.”

“Of course they do. Because I would need to believe it.”

“Miss Taylor . . .”

“This will never work.” She rubbed her brow with one hand. “No one will credit that I’ve agreed to leave my friends, my work, my home, and my country behind. And for what? To cross the ocean and take up residence in a remote wilderness cabin with a man who can’t fathom the meaning of love? In Indiana?”

He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “We’re ill suited. I know that. I could never make you happy. I know that, too. I’m so far beneath you, the best I could ever offer would be a paltry fraction of what you deserve. I’m aware of all of this, Miss Taylor. You don’t have to remind me.”

Regret softened her eyes. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

“Save the apologies. You spoke the truth. I was only agreeing.”

“No, no. I can’t stand for you to believe that I’d . . .” She reached for him.

Holy God. She reached for him, and before he could duck or step back or fall on his sword to prevent it, her gloved hand was on his cheek. Her palm flattened there, warm and satiny. Sensation jolted through his body.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but strong. “You’re not beneath me. I’d never think that.”

Yes, you are beneath her, he reminded himself, bracing against the forbidden bliss coursing through his veins. And don’t dare imagine you’ll ever be atop her. Or curled behind her. Or buried deep inside her while she—

Bloody hell. The fact that he could even think such a thing. He was crude, disgusting. So undeserving of even this slight caress. Her gesture was made out of guilt, offered in apology. If he took advantage, he would be a devil.

He knew all this.

But he flexed his arms anyway, drawing her close.

“You’re worried you’ve hurt my feelings,” he murmured.

She nodded, just a little.

“I don’t have those.”

“I forgot.”

Amazing. He marveled at her foolishness. After all he’d said to her, she would worry about him? Within this small, slight woman lived so much untapped affection, she couldn’t help but squander it on music pupils and mongrel dogs and undeserving brutes. What was it like, he wondered, to live with that bright, glowing star in her chest? How did she survive it?

If he kissed her deeply enough and held her tight—would some of its warmth transfer to him?

“Wait,” came a call, echoing vaguely in the distance. “Hold still! Not yet!”

Perhaps the voice belonged to his conscience. He couldn’t bring himself to pay it any mind. All he knew was her touch and her caring and the raw, trembling force of his own need.

He drew her closer still. Her eyes went wide. Larger and more lovely than he’d ever seen them before. A whole world of possibility was opening in those dark pupils.

And then . . . Her gaze drifted up and a little to the side. Her lips fell apart in wonder.

A strange shadow appeared on her face.

A shadow that was round, and growing larger by the instant. As though some projectile were rapidly approaching from above.

Jesus, no.

Thorne had been here before, many times. Battle, sieges, skirmishes. Thought ceased, and instinct took over. His grip tightened on her shoulders. His already thundering heart pumped faster, powering strength to his limbs.

The word “Down!” tore from his throat.

He threw himself forward, wrapping her body in his arms and flattening her to the ground—

Just as the explosion hit.

Chapter Eight

It took Kate several seconds to register what had happened.

One moment she’d been staring, incredulous, as an object plummeted toward her from the sky. She’d stood transfixed by the sheer absurdity of it. This strange, roundish thing silhouetted against the sun, growing larger and closer . . . and greener.

The next thing she knew, she was on the ground. Corporal Thorne was on top of her. And they were both covered in wet, sticky melon pulp. Shards of rind littered the ground nearby. A pungent sweetness filled her heightened senses. Evidently, Sir Lewis’s adjustments to the trebuchet had gone awry.

Really, there was nothing else for it. She had to laugh. Softly at first, but soon her whole body shook with mirth.

Thorne didn’t share her amusement. He didn’t rise or roll to the side. He kept her in his arms, covering her with his body. His muscles had gone rigid, everywhere. When she sought his gaze, she found his blue eyes searching and unfocused. His nostrils were flared and his breaths were harshly won.

“Thorne? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he could answer.