“Why are you being so cruel?” she whispered.
“The last time a woman thought to protect me…”
His voice faded away, but Caroline needed no words to understand the stark grief etched on his face. “Blake,” she said softly, “I don't want to argue about this.”
“Then promise me something.”
She swallowed, knowing that he was going to ask something to which she couldn't agree.
“Don't put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I—I couldn't bear it, Caroline.”
She turned away. Her eyes were growing teary, and she didn't want him to see her emotional response to his plea. There was something in his voice that touched her heart, something about the way his lips moved for a moment before he spoke, as if he were searching in vain for the right words.
But then he said, “I can't let another woman die,” and she knew this wasn't about her. It was about him, and the overwhelming guilt he felt over the death of his fiancée. She didn't know all of the details surrounding Marabelle's demise, but James had said enough for her to know that Blake still blamed himself for her death.
Caroline choked down a sob. How could she compete with a dead woman?
Without looking at him, she stumbled toward the door. “I'm going upstairs. If you have anything more to say to me you can say it in the morning.”
But before she could wrap her hand around the doorknob she heard him say, “Wait.”
Just one word and she was helpless to resist. Slowly, she turned around.
Blake stared at her, unable to take his eyes from her face. He wanted to say something; a thousand words crashed through his mind, but he couldn't think of a single sentence. And then, without realizing what he was doing, he took a step toward her, and then another, and then another, and then she was in his arms.
“Don't scare me again,” he murmured into her hair.
She didn't reply, but he felt her body growing warm and softening against him. Then he heard her sigh. It was a soft sound, barely audible, but it was sweet and it told him she wanted him. Maybe not the way he wanted her—hell, he doubted that was possible; he couldn't remember ever wanting a woman with this white-hot brand of need. But still, she wanted him. He was sure of it.
His lips found hers and he devoured her with all the fear and desire he'd been feeling all evening. She tasted like his every dream and felt like pure heaven.
And Blake knew he was damned.
He could never have her, never love her in the ways she deserved to be loved, but he was too selfish to let her go. Just for this moment he could—and would—pretend that he was hers, and she was his, and that his heart was whole.
They tumbled onto the sofa, Caroline landing softly on top of him, and he wasted no time in exchanging positions with her. He wanted to feel her squirming beneath him, writhing with the same force of desire that was consuming him. He wanted to watch her eyes as they darkened and smoldered with need.
His hands stole under the hem of her skirt, daringly squeezing her supple calf before sliding up to her soft thigh. She moaned beneath him, a delectable sound that might have been his name, or it might have just been a moan, but Blake didn't care. All he wanted was her.
All of her.
“God help me, Caroline,” he said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “I need you. To-night. Right now. I need you.”
His hand went to the fastening of his breeches, moving frantically to free himself. He had to sit up to get them undone, though, and that was just enough time for her to look at him, to really look at him. And in that split second her haze of passion cleared and she lurched up off the sofa.
“No,” she gasped. “Not like this. Not without—No.”
Blake just watched her go, hating himself for coming at her like such an animal. But she surprised him by pausing at the door.
“Go,” he said hoarsely. If she didn't leave the room that instant, he knew he would go after her, and then there would be no escape.
“Will you be all right?”
He stared at her in shock. He had very nearly dishonored her. He would have taken her virginity without a backward glance. “Why are you asking?”
“Will you be all right?”
She wasn't going to leave without a response, so he nodded.
“Good. I'll see you tomorrow.”
And then she was gone.
Chapter 13
dith-er (noun). A state of tremulous excitement or apprehension; also, vacillation; a state of confusion.
Just a word from him sets me in a dither, and I vow I do not like it one bit.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
It was Caroline's fiercest desire to avoid Blake for the next fifteen years, but as luck would have it, she quite literally bumped into him the following morning. Unfortunately for the sake of her dignity, this “bump” involved her spilling about a half-dozen rather thick books onto the floor, several of which hit Blake's legs and feet on the way down.
He howled in pain, and she wanted nothing more than to howl in embarrassment, but instead she just mumbled her apologies and dropped to the carpet so that she could gather her books. At least that way he wouldn't see the bright blush that had stained her cheeks the moment she'd collided with him.
“I thought you were limiting your redecorating endeavors to the library,” he said. “What the devil are you doing with those books out here in the hall?”
She looked straight up into his clear gray eyes. Drat. If she had to see him this morning, why did she have to be on her hands and knees? “I'm not redecorating,” she said in her haughtiest voice, “I'm bringing these books back to my room to read.”