“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, and she realized that she hadn’t even realized she’d felt this way until the words had left her lips. But something wasn’t right between them, and she had to know why.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired, and I want to go to bed.”
“You are. I’m sure you are.” Her voice was rising with conviction. Now that she’d said it, she knew it was true. He tried to hide it, and he’d become quite accomplished at apologizing when it slipped to the fore, but there was anger inside of him, and it was directed at her.
Michael placed his hand over hers. Francesca gasped at the heat of the contact, but then all he did was lift her hand off of his arm and allow it to drop. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.
And then he turned his back on her. Walked away.
“No! You can’t go!” She dashed after him, unthinking, unheedful…
Right into his bedroom.
If he hadn’t been angry before, he was now. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“You can’t just dismiss me,” she protested.
He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you leave.”
“Not until you explain to me what is going on.”
Michael held himself perfectly still. His every muscle had frozen into a hard, stiff line, and it was a blessing, really, because if he’d allowed himself to move-if he’d felt even capable of moving-he would have lunged at her. And what he would do when he caught her was anyone’s guess.
He’d been pushed to the edge. First by her brother, and then by Sir Geoffrey, and now by Francesca herself, standing in front of him without a bloody clue.
His world had been overturned by a single suggestion.
Why don’t you just marry her?
It dangled before him like a ripe apple, a wicked possibility that shouldn’t be his to take.
John, his conscience pounded. John. Remember John.
“Francesca,” he said, his voice hard and controlled, “it is well past midnight, and you are in the bedchamber of a man to whom you are not married. I suggest you leave.”
But she didn’t. Damn her, she didn’t even move. She just stood there, three feet past the still-open doorway, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.
He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she was wearing her nightclothes. They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a tantalizing peek at her toes.
Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her toes. What had his life come to?
“Why are you angry with me?” she asked again.
“I’m not,” he snapped. “I just want you to get the h-” He caught himself at the last moment. “To get out of my room.”
“Is it because I wish to remarry?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “Is that it?”
He didn’t know how to answer, so he just glared at her.
“You think I’m betraying John,” she said accusingly. “You think I should spend my days mourning your cousin.”
Michael closed his eyes. “No, Francesca,” he said wearily, “I would never-”
But she wasn’t listening. “Do you think I don’t mourn him?” she demanded. “Do you think I don’t think about him each and every day? Do you think it feels good to know that when I marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”
He looked at her. She was breathing hard, caught up in her anger and maybe her grief as well.
“What I had with John,” she said, her entire body shaking now, “I’m not going to find with any of the men send-ing me flowers. And it feels like a desecration-a selfish desecration that I’m even considering remarrying. If I didn’t want a baby so… so damned much…”
She broke off, maybe from overemotion, maybe just at the shock of having actually cursed aloud. She just stood there, blinking, her lips parted and quivering, looking as if she might break at the merest touch.
He should have been more sympathetic. He should have tried to comfort her. And he would have done both of those things, if they had been in any other room besides his bedchamber. But as it was, it was all he could do just to control his breathing.
And himself.
She looked back up at him, her eyes huge and heart-stoppingly blue, even in the candlelight. “You don’t know,” she said, turning away. She walked to a long, low bureau of drawers. She leaned heavily against it, her fingers biting the wood. “You just don’t know,” she whispered, her back still to him.
And somehow that was more than he could take. She had barged her way in here, demanding answers when she didn’t even understand the questions. She’d invaded his bedchamber, pushed him to the limit, and now she was just going to dismiss him? Turn her back on him and tell him he didn’t know?
“Don’t know what?” he demanded, just before he crossed the room. His feet were silent but swift, and before he knew it he was right behind her, close enough to touch, close enough to grab what he wanted and-
She whirled around. “You-”
And then she stopped. Didn’t make another sound. Did nothing but allow her eyes to lock onto his.
“Michael?” she whispered. And he didn’t know what she meant. Was it a question? A plea?
She stood there, stock still, the only sound her breath over her lips. And her eyes never left his face.
His fingers tingled. His body burned. She was close. As close as she’d ever stood to him. And if she were anyone else, he would have sworn that she wanted to be kissed.
Her lips were parted, her eyes were unfocused. And her chin seemed to tilt up, as if she were waiting, wishing, wondering when he would finally bend down and seal her fate.
He felt himself say something. Her name, maybe. His chest grew tight, and his heart pounded, and suddenly the impossible became the inevitable, and he realized that this time there was no stopping. This time it wasn’t about his control or his sacrifice or his guilt.
This time was for him.
And he was going to kiss her.
When she thought about it later, the only excuse she could come up with was that she didn’t know he was right behind her. The carpet was soft and thick, and she hadn’t heard his footsteps over the roaring of blood in her ears. She didn’t know all that, she couldn’t have, because then she never would have whirled around, intending for all the world to silence him with a scathing retort. She was going to say something horrid and cutting, and intended to make him feel guilty and awful, but when she turned…
He was right there.
Close, so close. Mere inches away. It had been years since anyone had stood so close to her, and never, ever Michael.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but breathe as she stared at his face, realizing with an awful intensity that she wanted him to kiss her.
Michael.
Good God, she wanted Michael.
It was like a knife slicing through her. She wasn’t supposed to feel this. She wasn’t supposed to want anyone. But Michael…
She should have walked away. Hell, she should have ran. But something rooted her to the spot. She couldn’t take her eyes off of his, couldn’t help but moisten her lips, and when his hands settled on her shoulders, she didn’t protest.
She didn’t even move.
And maybe, just maybe she even leaned in a little, something within her recognizing this moment, this subtle dance between man and woman.
It had been so long since she’d swayed into a kiss, but it seemed that there were some things a body did not forget.