Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(76)

He looked just the same, sure of himself, confident of his own ability. “I love you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Finally, the Harlequin’s True Love bowed her head, folded her hands, and prayed to the saints and angels and God himself for the Hope she needed to save the Harlequin from the ugly fate that entrapped him. She prayed until the moon rose that night; then, gathering the Cord of Love, the Vial of Sorrow, and her own Hope about her, she rose and ventured out, her path set for St. Giles…

—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

Winter knew at once that he’d made a tactical error. He scrambled mentally, trying to think. There was no use attempting to cover his mistake. When you’ve exposed a weakness in battle, attack, don’t retreat.

It was too soon, he knew that, but there was no help for it now. He inhaled, catching his breath, and then looked her in the eye. “Will you marry me?”

Her eyes were already wide in shock, but her sweet mouth actually dropped open at his words. If the situation weren’t so dire, he’d have laughed.

“Are you mad?”

As it was, he couldn’t prevent his lips from twitching. “Some would no doubt think me so.”

“I can’t marry you!” He’d been expecting the blow, but it still hit him hard. Her face was so incredulous.

At least he no longer felt the desire to laugh. “Actually, you can. I am not promised to another; you are not promised to another. I have said I love you, and you have already given yourself to me.”

They were still locked together, his erection not entirely subsided. She could hardly deny the point.

And yet she still did.

“I didn’t give myself to you,” she huffed, her face still flushed prettily from their lovemaking. “This was a moment of sport, nothing else.”

She was a strong-willed woman, older and of a rank far above his. If he let her, she would ride roughshod over him. This, then, was where he needed to make a stand, cast a template for how they would get along in the future.

For he fully intended to be with her in the future—legally and sanctioned by the church in public, intimate and loving in private. He’d never bared his soul to another as he had to her. She saw his animal and had the temerity to pet it.

He loved her.

And he believed she loved him—even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it yet. If he let her drive him away, they would never find this bond again. They’d be what they were before: two souls drifting, alone and isolated, apart eternally from the people around them.

He couldn’t live like that again, and he wasn’t about to let her return to that limbo.

So he leaned into her, using his greater strength and height to emphasize his words. Oh, and the rude flesh still embedded in hers. That he used as well.

He shoved his hips against her, reminding her of what they had just done, and said, “I had never bedded a woman before you. I made that plain. Did you think I let you seduce me lightly? No, I did not. You made a deal with me the moment you gave me entry into your body.”

“I made no such deal!” Her eyes were angry—and frightened—but he would not let her make him back down.

“Precious Isabel,” he whispered. “You made a deal with your heart, your soul, and your body, and you sealed it with the wash of your climax on my cock.”

She blinked, looking dazed. He’d never used such words before, especially not with her, but their bluntness was necessary.

“I… I can’t marry you,” she murmured almost to herself. There were tears in her eyes and she looked trapped. He mourned the anxiety this was causing her, but he would not let her go. “You’re nothing but a poor schoolmaster. What makes you think I’d marry you?”

Her words were hurtful and he did not appreciate them, so his answer was crude and to the point. He tilted his pelvis into hers, sliding his reawakening erection against her slippery passage.

She gasped, her eyes locking with his, and he saw the moment when all her specious arguments fell away. When her hope of getting out of this easily died.

“I’m barren.”

The words were stark, bitter. He heard them and then he heard nothing else for a little bit. He watched her sad face, pinched and somehow lonely as she told him.

“By the third miscarriage, I knew I’d never birth a live child,” she was saying when his hearing came back to him. “Despite all the doctors that Edmund brought in. But it was the fourth miscarriage that was the worst. I bled for a very long time, and the doctors said I was lucky to live, but there was a price, they said. I was damaged beyond repair internally.”

She said it calmly, but he knew she must’ve screamed and wailed at the news, for his Isabel was not a passive woman. She would’ve fought the verdict. Would’ve died trying to have another child. Thank God that was impossible.

Winter knew that soon, very soon, he would need to mourn the children he would never have. At the moment, though, he had but one goal.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said when she stopped to draw breath.

She looked at him almost scornfully. “Of course it matters. All men want children of their blood, and I cannot provide you with them. I can never have what other women have so easily. A baby—children—are lost to me.”

“It is a loss, I agree,” he said, gently withdrawing from her.