Page 8 of Snowed-in with Scandal
But she couldn’t stop. Not when she was this close to him, not when she could see the war raging behind his carefully controlled expression.
“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Not for a single day. Not for a single moment.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or hope. Then his face hardened again.
“Lies,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Pretty lies to?—”
“No.” She reached out, her fingers barely brushing his sleeve. “Not lies. Never lies about this.”
The touch seemed to break something in him. With a sound that was half-groan, half-sob, he reached for her, his hands framing her face with desperate tenderness.
“Arabella,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding and achingly familiar.
She melted into him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his coat as five years of longing and regret poured into that kiss. He backed her against the wall, his body pressing against hers as the storm raged outside, forgotten.
“I tried to hate you,” he murmured against her throat, his lips trailing fire along her skin. “God help me, I tried so hard to hate you.”
“I know,” she gasped, her head falling back as he found that sensitive spot just below her ear. “I know, my darling. I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
His hands roamed her body with reverent desperation, reacquainting themselves with curves and hollows he had dreamed of for five long years. When he lifted her and carried her to the small bedchamber beyond, she offered no resistance.
They fell together onto the bed, mouths and hands seeking, claiming, remembering. Rain drummed against the windows as they shed the barriers between them—first clothing, then the careful walls they had built around their hearts.
“Tell me,” he whispered as he worshipped her with kisses, his voice rough with emotion. “Tell me why. Tell me what happened.”
For a moment, Arabella tensed. But then his hands were on her again, gentle and loving, and she felt something ease in her chest. If Nicholas loved her—and the tenderness in his touch proclaimed it more clearly than words—then surely he would forgive her when she told him the truth. When this desperate mission was over and she was free to explain everything.
“Soon,” she promised, pulling his head down for another kiss. “Soon, my love. But not now. Now there is only this. Only us.”
And for the next hour, there was nothing else in the world but the two of them, rediscovering the passion that had never truly died, healing old wounds with whispered endearments and desperate caresses.
Afterward, they lay entwined in the narrow bed, listening to the rain gradually ease to a gentle patter.
“I cannot lose you again,” Nicholas said quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. “Whatever happened before, whatever drove you away, we can face it together now.”
Arabella smiled as tears pricked her eyes at the simple faith in his voice. How she longed to tell him everything, to unburden herself of the weight she had carried for so long.
“Yes,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Together.”
Soon, she promised herself. Very soon, there would be no more secrets between them. She just needed to complete this one last task, retrieve those damning documents, and then, when all danger was past, she could tell him everything.
Finally, they could have the happiness that had been so cruelly denied them.
As if sensing her thoughts, Nicholas tightened his arms around her. “No more running, Arabella. Whatever troubles you face, we face them together from now on.”
She nodded against his chest, not trusting her voice. If only he knew that by tomorrow, she would be gone again. But this time, it truly would be the last time. This time, she was running towards their future, not away from it.
The storm outside had passed, leaving only the gentle sound of water dripping from the eaves. But in the little pavilion, two hearts that had been broken were slowly beginning to heal, wrapped in each other’s arms and the promise of tomorrow.
CHAPTER 7
Nicholas woke to pale morning sunlight streaming through the windows of his bedchamber, and for the first time in five years, he felt truly at peace. The events of yesterday afternoon in the pavilion seemed almost like a dream—Arabella in his arms, her whispered confessions of love, the way she had melted against him as if she had never wanted to be anywhere else.
He stretched languidly, his body still humming with remembered pleasure, and allowed himself a smile. Today, he would ask her properly. Today, they would plan their future together. Whatever had driven her away before, whatever secrets she harboured, they would face them as one. She had promised him that much.
The clock on the mantel chimed eight, and Nicholas frowned. Usually, the sounds of the household stirring would have reached him by now. He must have slept deeply.
He dressed quickly, eager to see Arabella again, to reassure himself that yesterday had not been some fevered dream born of longing and desperation.
