Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(54)

A dish of burned-out candle stubs was set at the window.

After admitting fresh air into the room, Beatrix paced back and forth, muttering frantically to herself.

“He’ll probably kill me. Good, that’s better than having him hate me. A quick throttling, and it will be over. I wish I could throttle myself and spare him the trouble. Maybe I should toss myself out the window. If only I’d never written those letters. If only I’d been honest. Oh, what if he goes to Ramsay House and waits there for me? What if—”

She stopped abruptly as she heard a noise from outside. A bark. Creeping to the window, she looked down and saw Albert’s jaunty, furry form trotting around the building. And Christopher, tethering his horse near hers.

He had found her.

“Oh God,” Beatrix whispered, blanching. She turned and set her back against the wall, feeling like a prisoner facing execution. This was one of the worst moments of her entire life . . . and in light of some of the Hathaways’ past difficulties, that was saying something.

In just a few moments, Albert bounded into the room and came to her.

“You led him here, didn’t you?” Beatrix accused in a furious whisper. “Traitor!”

Looking apologetic, Albert went to a chair, hopped up, and rested his chin on his paws. His ears twitched at the sound of a measured tread on the stairs.

Christopher entered the room, having to bend his head to pass through the small medieval doorway. Straightening, he surveyed their surroundings briefly before his piercing gaze found Beatrix. He stared at her with the barely suppressed wrath of a man to whom entirely too much had happened.

Beatrix wished she were a swooning sort of female. It seemed the only appropriate response to the situation.

Unfortunately, no matter how she tried to summon a swoon, her mind remained intractably conscious.

“I’m so sorry,” she croaked.

No reply.

Christopher approached her slowly, as if he thought she might try to bolt again. Reaching her, he took her upper arms in a hard grip that allowed no chance of escape. “Tell me why you did it,” he said, his voice low and vibrant with . . . hatred? Fury? “No, damn you, don’t cry. Was it a game? Was it only to help Prudence?”

Beatrix looked away with a wretched sob. “No, it wasn’t a game . . . Pru showed me your letter, and she said she wasn’t going to answer it. And I had to. I felt as if it had been written for me. It was only supposed to be once. But then you wrote back, and I let myself answer just once more . . . and then one more time, and another . . .”

“How much of it was the truth?”

“All of it,” Beatrix burst out. “Except for signing Pru’s name. The rest of it was real. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.”

Christopher was quiet for a long moment. He had begun to breathe heavily. “Why did you stop?”

She sensed how difficult it was for him to ask. But God help her, it was infinitely worse to have to answer.

“Because it hurt too much. The words meant too much.” She forced herself to go on, even though she was crying. “I fell in love with you, and I knew I could never have you. I couldn’t pretend to be Pru any longer. I loved you so much, and I couldn’t—”

Her words were abruptly smothered.

He was kissing her, she realized dazedly. What did it mean? What did he want? What . . . but her thoughts dissolved, and she stopped trying to make sense of anything.

His arms had closed around her, one hand gripping the back of her neck. Shaken to her soul, she molded against him. Taking her sobs into his mouth, he licked deep, his kiss strong and savage. It had to be a dream, and yet her senses insisted it was real, the scent and warmth and toughness of him engulfing her. He pulled her even more tightly against him, making it difficult to breathe. She didn’t care. The pleasure of the kiss suffused her, drugged her, and when he pulled his head back, she protested with a bewildered moan.

Christopher forced her to look back at him. “Loved?” he asked hoarsely. “Past tense?”

“Present tense,” she managed to say.

“You told me to find you.”

“I didn’t mean to send you that note.”

“But you did. You wanted me.”

“Yes.” More tears escaped her stinging eyes. He bent and pressed his mouth to them, tasting the salt of grief.

Those gray eyes looked into hers, no longer bright as hellfrost, but soft as smoke. “I love you, Beatrix.”

Maybe she was capable of swooning after all.

It certainly felt like a swoon, her knees giving way, her head lolling against his shoulder as he lowered them both to the threadbare carpet. Fitting his arm beneath her neck, Christopher covered her mouth with his again. Beatrix answered helplessly, unable to withhold anything. Their legs tangled, and he let his thigh nuzzle between hers.

“I th-thought you would hate me . . .” Her dazed voice seemed to come from far away.

“Never. You could run to the farthest corners of the earth. There’s no place you could go where I wouldn’t love you. Nothing you could do to stop me.”

She shivered at what he was doing, his hands opening her clothes, sliding inside them. Her br**sts felt hot, the tips hardening as he touched them. “I thought you were going to murder me,” she said with difficulty.

A ghost of a smile came to his lips. “No. That wasn’t what I wanted to do.” He brought his mouth to hers, kissing her with rough, hungry ardor. Unfastening her breeches, he found the taut surface of her stomach. His hand insinuated farther into the loosened garment, curving around her bare hip. His fingers explored with a gentle but insistent curiosity that made her squirm, gooseflesh rising.