My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(30)
“I quite understand. It is a very different life that I lead, and I am aware that there are few who would wish to travel such dangerous and difficult paths.”
“So you are not angry?” you ask.
“Of course not,” says Evangeline. “For if there is one thing I hope you have learned in our travels together, it is to always follow your heart.” She smiles bittersweetly. “You will, won’t you, my dear?”
“Oh I will!” you say with a gasp, embracing her warmly.
You rush back to the museum, escorted by the enormous form of María José. No one dares hassle you on the way, for fear of having their thorax ripped to shreds. As you enter through the solid doors, you are shocked to find that Kamal has righted the museum to its former glory. Everywhere you turn there are more treasures from the time of the pharaohs, each more exquisite than the last.
“Oh, Kamal!” you cry. “This is truly breathtaking!”
“You are very kind,” he says, blushing. “I am glad that you—”
He is cut off midsentence as you suddenly grab him by the shirt and cling on for dear life.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asks. You stare at him wordlessly and shake him slightly. He startles for a moment and then gives you a lingering look from the liquid pools of his intelligent, deep-brown eyes. His boyishly handsome face is still marked with bruises. “Miss?”
“I just want a normal life, Kamal,” you say, your voice growing stronger with every word. “A normal, happy, boring life, working with the beautiful objects you have filled this museum with. You must give me a job! Please, Kamal, I beg you!”
Kamal’s smile lights up his entire face, causing him to wince slightly because of the bruises.
“Of course! Nothing would make me happier.”
Thrilled beyond words, he excitedly thrusts out his hand to shake yours, upending some of his papers as he does so. A notebook falls to the floor. You are shocked to see that he has sketched your face lovingly in the margins, in the same delicate style he uses to draw all of his beloved artifacts.
“Oh, Kamal! What is this?” you ask, blushing.
“It…I…oh, miss, I am sorry. I am too forward. It…it’s just that…I…”
You realize that, in his own shy way, this is a confession of love. You stare at him in wonder.
Do you go for it with Kamal and his adorable bookishness? If so, turn to this page.
Or do you turn him down gently, because bookish fellows, however adorable, are not for you? If so, turn to this page.
You find Craven pacing the library with a snifter of brandy in hand, mumbling to himself in the soft, lurching tones of the tormented. His hair looks astoundingly (and attractively) unkempt, and he wears his shirt open to the navel. You have noticed that the more tortured he feels, the more skin he bares. This has a disorienting effect on you. You take several deep breaths before speaking.
“My lord.” Your voice escapes your throat in a harsh whisper. Before the words can leave your mouth, his lips are upon it.
“I thought you would never come again.” He kisses you hungrily, as though for redemption, for forgiveness, or for your body and soul. “I thought I had frightened you, had pushed you away.”
Apologizing slips a little lower on your to-do list, as you allow yourself to be pushed up against the damask-covered wall. Your fingers slide down his rippling chest, and you tease him by lowering your graceful yet filthy hand into the space between his breeches and body to feel his family crest. He shudders with desire. You quake with your own, but manage to break away from kissing his vital, dangerous mouth.
“My lord, I must…apologize.” Speaking plain, and at least at arm’s length, is your best course of action. “I am sorry for disrespecting the memory of your dead wife by teaching your son to parry and joust on the very site of her demise. It must have been a shock to see me there, especially after you had expressed wishes for me not to enter that area of the house.”
He stops kissing you as suddenly as he started. “Who. Told. You?”
“None but my own intellect,” you say, stunned at his shift in tone and more than a little irritated by it. “I merely observed—”
“Observed?” Craven shakes his head and begins to circle you as a lion would its cornered prey. “So you once more returned to the room in the wing I expressly forbade you from entering. Do they not give you enough to eat in the kitchens, girl? You seem hungry for my disapproval.”
“Please.” Now it is your turn to seethe and to circle him. “You could not disapprove of me if you tried.”
“You try me now.” He gathers you up in a sudden, too-tight embrace. “You have tried my patience and my strength since the day you set foot in Hopesend Manor. Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted you? I expected a governess, not a challenge to all I knew of women in this life.”
“And what should I have expected?” You snatch the brandy snifter and snift it at him for emphasis. “I came here to escape the life I knew, only to find myself living a life of never-ending happiness, of passion, of matched desire. All with a man who cannot keep his heart steady because he keeps his mouth shut!”
You place the snifter on the nearest bookshelf, your hand trembling like a leaf as you do so.