“Oh, no,” she gasped. “I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen her be killed.”
“I didn't,” he said flatly. “I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she didn't return on schedule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her.”
“I'm so sorry.”
His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. “There was so much blood. She'd been shot four times.”
Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured. “I wish I knew what to say, Blake. I wish there was something to say.”
He turned to face her abruptly. “Do you hate her?”
“Marabelle?” she asked, startled.
He nodded.
“Of course not!”
“You once told me you didn't want to compete with a dead woman.”
“Well, I was jealous,” she said sheepishly. “I don't hate her. That would be rather narrow-minded of me, don't you think?”
He shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject. “I was just wondering. I wouldn't have been angry if you did.”
“Marabelle is a part of who you are,” she said. “How can I hate her when she was so important in making you the man you are today?”
He watched her face, his eyes searching for something. Caroline felt naked under his gaze. She said softly, “If it weren't for Marabelle you might not be the man I—” She swallowed, summoning her courage. “You might not be the man I love.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and then took her hand. “That is the most generous emotion anyone has ever shown to me.”
She stared at him through moist eyes, waiting, hoping, praying that he'd return the sentiment. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but after a few moments he merely cleared his throat and said, “Were you working in the garden?”
She nodded, swallowing down the lump of disappointment that had just formed in her throat.
He offered her his arm. “I'll escort you back. I should like to see what you've done.”
Patience, Caroline told herself. Remember, patience.
But that was far easier said than done when one was courting a broken heart.
* * *
Later that evening, Blake was sitting in the dark in his study, staring out the window.
She had said that she loved him. It was an awesome responsibility, that.
Deep down, he had known that she cared for him deeply, but it had been so long since he'd even thought about the concept of love, he hadn't thought he'd recognize it when it arose.
But it had, and he did, and he knew that Caroline's feelings were true.
“Blake?”
He looked up. Caroline was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock again on the doorjamb.
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“I'm just thinking.”
“Oh.” He could tell she wanted to ask more. Instead, she smiled hesitantly and said, “Would you like me to light a candle?”
He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet. He had the oddest desire to kiss her.
It wasn't odd that he wanted to kiss her in and of itself. He always wanted to kiss her. What was odd was the intensity of the need. It was almost as if he positively, definitively knew that if he didn't kiss her that very minute, his life would be forever changed, and not for the better.
He had to kiss her. That was all there was to it.
He walked across the room as if in a trance. She said something to him, but he didn't hear the words. He just kept moving slowly, inexorably to her side.
Caroline's lips parted slightly in surprise. Blake was acting most oddly. It was as if his mind were somewhere else, and yet he was staring at her with the strangest intensity.
She whispered his name for what must have been the third time, but he made no response, and then he was right in front of her.
“Blake?”
He touched her cheek with a reverence that made her tremble.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he murmured. “No.”
“Then what—”
Whatever she'd meant to say was lost as he crushed her to him, his mouth capturing hers with ferocious tenderness. She felt one of his hands sink into her hair as the other roamed the length of her back before settling on the curve of her hip.
Then he moved to the small of her back, pulling her against his body until she could feel the force of his arousal. Her head lolled back as she moaned his name, and his lips moved to the line of her throat, kissing their way to the bodice of her gown.
She let out a little squeal when his hand slipped from her hip to her buttocks and squeezed, and the sound must have jolted him out of whatever spell he was under, because he suddenly froze, shook his head a little, and stepped back.
“I'm sorry,” he said, blinking. “I don't know what came over me.”
Her mouth fell open. “You're sorry?” He kissed her until she could barely stand and then he stopped and said he was sorry?
“It was the strangest thing,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“I didn't think it was that strange,” she muttered.
“I had to kiss you.”
“That's all?” she blurted out.
He smiled slowly. “Well, at first, yes, but now…”
“Now what?” she demanded.
“You're an impatient wench.”
She stamped her foot. “Blake, if you don't—”
“If I don't what?” he asked, his grin positively devilish.
“Don't make me say it,” she muttered, turning a rather bright shade of red.