Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(102)

To Annabelle’s chagrin, she awoke quite late the next morning, struggling to gather where she was and what had happened. The moment her thoughts touched on Simon, she floundered out of bed, paying no heed to her handsome surroundings as she padded barefoot into the hall. She crossed the path of a house-maid, who looked mildly startled by the appearance of a woman with wild, unbound hair, a scratched and reddened face, and an ill-fitting nightgown…a woman, who, in spite of a thorough washing the night before, was still strongly scented of foundry smoke.

“Where is he?” Annabelle asked without prelude.

To the housemaid’s credit, she comprehended the abrupt query and directed Annabelle to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

Coming to the open doorway, Annabelle saw Lord Westcliff standing by the side of the huge bed, where Simon was sitting up against a stack of pillows. Simon was bare-chested, his shoulders and torso swarthy against the snowy linens that had been pulled up to his midriff. Annabelle winced as she saw the profusion of plasters affixed to his arms and chest, having some idea of the discomfort that he must have endured in having so many metal pellets removed. The two men stopped talking as soon as they became aware of her presence.

Simon’s gaze locked on her face and held with unnerving intensity. An invisible swell of emotion filled the room, drowning them both in acute tension. As Annabelle stared into her husband’s granite-hard face, no words seemed appropriate. If she spoke to him just then, it was either going to be puerile hyperbole or inane understatement. Absurdly grateful for Westcliff’s presence as a temporary buffer, Annabelle addressed her first comment to him.

“My lord,” she said, inspecting the cuts and burns on his face, “you look like the loser in a tavern brawl.”

Coming forward, Westcliff took her hand and executed an impeccable bow over it. He surprised her by pressing a chivalrous kiss to the back of her wrist. “Had I ever participated in a tavern brawl, madam, I assure you that I would not have lost.”

That drew a grin from Annabelle, who could not help reflecting that twenty-four hours ago, she had despised his arrogant aplomb, whereas now it seemed almost endearing. Westcliff released her hand after giving it a reassuring squeeze. “With your permission, Mrs. Hunt, I will withdraw. No doubt you have a few things to discuss with your husband.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

As the earl left and closed the door, Annabelle approached the bedside. Simon looked away from her with a frown, the bold structure of his profile gilded with sunlight.

“Is your leg broken?” Annabelle asked huskily.

Simon shook his head, concentrating on the ornately flowered paper that covered the bedroom wall. He spoke in a smoke-ravaged voice. “It will be fine.”

Annabelle’s gaze touched on him, lingering on the heavy musculature of his arms and chest, the long fingers of his hand, the way a lock of dark hair fell over his brow. “Simon,” she asked softly. “Won’t you look at me?”

His eyes narrowed as he turned to pin her with a hostile stare. “I’d like to do more than look at you. I’d like to throttle you.”

It would have been ingenuous for Annabelle to ask why, since she already knew. Instead, she waited with forced patience, while Simon’s throat worked violently. “What you did yesterday was unforgivable,” he finally muttered.

She gave him a startled glance. “What?”

“Lying there in that hell-pit, I made what I thought would be the last request of my life. And you refused.”

“As things turned out, it wasn’t your last request,” Annabelle replied warily. “You survived, and so did I, and now everything is fine—”

“It is not fine,” Simon snapped, his face darkening with rising fury. “For the rest of my life I will remember how it felt to know that you were going to die along with me, while I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop you.” He averted his face as his breath turned harsh with unwanted emotion.

Annabelle reached for him, then checked herself, her hands suspended in the air between them. “How could you ask me to leave you there, hurt and alone? I couldn’t.”

“You should have done as I told you!”

Annabelle didn’t flinch, understanding the fear that seethed beneath his anger. “You wouldn’t have left had it been me on the foundry floor—”

“I knew you were going to say that,” he said in savage disgust. “Of course I wouldn’t have left you. I’m the man. A man is supposed to protect his wife.”

“And a wife is supposed to be a helpmate,” Annabelle countered.

“You were not helping me,” Simon bit out. “You were putting me through agony. Dammit, Annabelle, why didn’t you obey me?”

She took a deep breath before replying. “Because I love you.”

Simon continued to look away from her, while the soft words sent a visible shock through him. His large hand tightened into a fist on the coverlet as his defenses began to crack visibly. “I would die a thousand times over,” he said, a tremor in his voice, “to spare you the slightest harm. And the fact that you were willing to throw your life away in a completely pointless sacrifice is more than I can bear.”

Annabelle’s eyes stung as she stared at him, while need and inexhaustible tenderness gathered like an ache in her body. “I realized something,” she said huskily, “when I was standing outside the foundry, watching it burn and knowing you were inside.” She swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. “I would rather have died in your arms, Simon, than face a lifetime without you. All those endless years…all those winters, summers…a hundred seasons of wanting you and never having you. Growing old, while you stayed eternally young in my memories.” She bit her lip and shook her head, while her eyes flooded. “I was wrong when I told you that I didn’t know where I belonged. I do. With you, Simon. Nothing matters except being with you. You’re stuck with me forever, and I’ll never listen when you tell me to go.” She managed a tremulous smile. “So you may as well stop complaining and resign yourself to it.”