Silk and Shadows (29 page)

Ironically, when she twisted away in a futile gesture of rejection, her movement was the stimulus that sent him over the edge into pounding, shuddering oblivion. But even the chaotic pleasure was not strong enough to eradicate his sudden anguished knowledge that this was disaster for both of them.

As reason returned in erratic patches, he rolled to his side and laid his face against Sara's, feeling her silken cheek against his. She was shaking in his arms, and he guessed that she was crying. "Damnation," he swore softly, as he gathered her closer and began stroking her back and neck. "I'm sorry, Sara. That was badly done."

Grimly he realized that it was an open question which of them was more upset. Because he had been drugged with desire, he had made an appallingly wrong assumption about her willingess, and while he did not think the result was quite rape, there had been a good deal less than full, informed consent on Sara's part. He had wanted to please her. Instead he had given her an unpardonably clumsy introduction to the delights of the flesh. Even as an inexperienced youth, he had never performed so badly.

He was furious with himself for what he had done to Sara, but even more furious over his ruinous loss of control. Though he had not had a woman for months, his roving life had often required lengthy periods of celibacy, so there was no excuse for the heedless, selfish passion he had just exhibited. Passion should be a man's servant, not his master, and being overwhelmed by it was profoundly disturbing.

His whole life had been built on discipline, on absolute focus. That was what had brought him so far; without it, he would be nothing. Literally nothing, for he might have died a hundred times over if it had not been for his finely honed, invincible will.

Sara stirred, and he clamped down on his bitter self-reproach. There would be time enough for analysis later; now he must try to make amends for his weakness. He lifted his head, wanting to see her face. "Sara?"

He thought she would be upset, perhaps distraught,and was prepared to comfort her, to apologize, to soothe her distress.

But her dark eyes were dry, and when he saw her diamond-cold sibyl's gaze, he knew that the situation was far worse than he had thought. The slim woman in his arms, who had at first yielded with such sweetness, had been transformed into one of the greatest challenges of his life.

Sara should have looked fragile and helpless lying on her back within the circle of Peregrine's arm, but she did not. Her quiet voice cutting with the force of a whiplash, she said, "Having compromised me, did you decide to finish the job of ruination so I would have no choice but to marry you?"

"Nothing so definite as a decision was involved." He sat up, thinking wryly that Sara might be innocent, but she was nobody's fool or victim. A lesser woman would have been weeping, ripe for soft words and reassurance, but Sara was ready to take his unworthy head off. "You might find this useful," he said, offering her his handkerchief. Then he turned away while she blotted the small amount of blood and put her drawers on again.

After Sara had adjusted her clothing, she said in a clipped voice, "Are you saying that what happened was an accident? I thought that you are not a man who permits accidents."

He knew beyond doubt that if he said one wrong word, she would refuse to marry him, and be damned to the consequences. And while it was true that he didn't need a wife—in fact, acquiring one would surely be disruptive—the idea of losing her was quite intolerable.

Uneasily he realized that she was far too intelligent and perceptive to let her judgment be blurred by easy apologies, so he would have to undertake the far more difficult task of honesty. He reached over and took Sara's hand. "What happened was not an accident, but a mistake. Because your body was ready for love, I thought, wrongly, that your emotions were, too."

Her fingers tensed under his. Part of her wanted to snatch her hand away while the rest of her wanted to slide into his arms, to beg for reassurance that everything would be all right.

It was not physical pain that had pushed her almost to the breaking point, for there had been little of that. But she had experienced a rapid and upsetting transition from wondrous joy to being overpowered by his fierce male strength. She had hated that feeling of helplessness—yet here she was, seeking comfort from the man responsible for her distress.

Quietly he continued, "I
wanted
to believe you were willing, but I was wrong, and for that I am profoundly sorry."

Reluctantly she met his gaze, fearing that she would find veiled triumph. Instead she saw remorse and self-recrimination, and the sight disarmed much of her anger.

Considering how wantonly Sara had behaved, she could not blame Mikahl for believing that she would withhold nothing, but she was furious with herself for allowing desire to destroy her will and sense. Even more infuriating was her suspicion that he had deliberately taken advantage of her confusion to seduce her so that she would have to marry him. It was one thing to be wooed, quite another to be coerced.

But perhaps her worst fears were wrong; if she was reading him correctly, he was offering her the fragile, painful gift of vulnerability, for he was not a man who would easily admit or accept error in himself. Wanting to meet him halfway, she said hesitantly, "I did not really know what I wanted, so it is not surprising if you did not know what I wanted either "

"But it was my responsibility to know. I wanted it to be right for you, and I failed." He sighed and turned his head so that she saw only his taut profile. "Passion makes fools of men, though it has never happened to me before. Quite simply, I lost control because I desired you too much." A muscle jerked in his cheek. "I think I hurt your spirit more than your body, and that kind of injury is the hardest to heal. I wish that my error could be undone, but it cannot. Have I alienated you beyond forgiveness, Sara?"

She sensed that he would have sooner confessed to murder than loss of control. From her own experience, she knew that people were often most inept where they cared the most. Perhaps, God willing, that was the case here. Her fingers tightened on his. "Not quite, though it was a near thing." She smiled faintly. "You didn't fail entirely. Up to a point, it was… very right."

"You have a generous nature." He faced her again, his thumb restlessly stroking her palm. "Will you marry me, Sara? In spite of my mistakes?''

Quite coolly, almost as if she were outside her body, Sara considered the situation. In his way, she believed he was sincere, but she also believed that whatever impulse was driving him to offer marriage was a fleeting one. If she accepted him, she would pay a high price for whatever joy she found, for the odds were overwhelming that someday he would tire of England and Sara, and leave them both.

Yet because he desired her enough to lose some of his cherished control, and because she hoped that that loss meant that somewhere in his heart was a frail spark of caring that could be nourished into a flame, she took a deep breath and said, "Yes, I will marry you."

In the silence that followed, she heard a thrush throwing its heart to the heavens in song. Then Mikahl gave her a smile that took her breath away.

"I am so very glad." He did not kiss her, but reached out with his free hand to brush back a strand of fallen hair, the back of his hand caressing her cheek.

"I cannot promise that I will make you happy, but I swear that I will try.''

"Trying is the most one can ever do." That was not a very romantic thought, Sara ruefully acknowledged to herself, but romance was singularly lacking in this odd courtship.

"How soon can we be married?'' After a moment's hesitation, he added, "For practical reasons, the sooner the better."

Sara supposed that the chance that she had conceived today was slight, but given nature's perversity, it was not a gamble she wanted to take. "It is possible to marry immediately with a special license, but that would seem scandalous," she said, thinking aloud. "Three weeks would be best—that is the length of time it takes to read the banns."

"Excellent." Lithely he got to his feet, then took her hands and lifted her easily to hers. "Shall we go to the house and break the news to your relatives? I realize that it is a little late to do the proper thing and ask your father's permission, but I'm willing to go through the motions if you think that would help appease him."

Sara bit her lip, considering. "I think it will be better if I speak to him alone."

His dark brows arched. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she replied. "I don't know what mood my father will be in today." Having Mikahl at her side was a tempting thought, but if the duke was still angry, there might be an unpleasant scene. And Sara did not want to enter marriage with her husband and her father at daggers drawn.

From his expression, she suspected that her new betrothed had guessed her motives, but he said only, "As you wish."

"Come for dinner tonight," she suggested. "By then, all the guests will have left, and there will be just family here."

"In other words, all the fur will have flown and the feathers settled?" He gave her a teasing smile. "I promise that I will be on my very best behavior."

"Don't overdo it," she said, an answering smile tugging at her lips. "Otherwise no one will recognize you."

He pulled on her hands, bringing her close to his chest. "As long as you recognize who I am, sweet Sara."

Mikahl bent for a kiss, his green eyes laughing. As she lifted her face, Sara knew she could never forget him. Even if he vanished in a puff of smoke at this very instant, he was already etched on her heart and soul for all time.

Since anyone seeing her rumpled and grass-stained self would have no doubts about what she had been doing, Sara took great care to slip into her room unobserved. She seemed to have spent quite a lot of time sneaking around lately. And to think that she had always led such a blameless life.

Without ringing for her maid, she changed to a more presentable gown and repaired the damage to her coiffure, then went off to break the news to her family. She was relieved to find that the other houseguests had left; it was quite enough to be facing her relatives without also facing the world. Characteristically she decided to start with her father, since that would be the most difficult interview.

The Duke of Haddonfield was in the library writing a letter, and he greeted his daughter with the same remote civility he would have given a stranger.