Page 65 of To Hunt the Hunter

His face darkened and he turned away from her. “Do not make me spell it out. You know as well as I do.”

“Tell me, then. Tell me why I must walk away from the only man I shall ever love without knowing what it was to lie with him.”

She watched his face closely, what little she could see of it, the haughty angle of a high cheekbone, the golden sweep of thick lashes cast down, the hard set of his jaw.

“Because you were not destined to be alone, Matilda. I will do everything in my power to ensure you can still marry well, have the family you long for―”

“No!” she cried out, the idea of another taking his place too impossible, too painful to contemplate.

“Yes,” he said, and he spoke between clenched teeth. “I will not ruin you. I will not take what I cannot have without dishonouring us both.”

“No!”

That one word was cried with frustration this time as she heard his cool, reasonable tone and wanted to shake him for it. She had always wanted that, she realised, to shatter his control, to make him give in to his emotions. She’d succeeded, she supposed, up to a point. Now he was drawing a line in the sand, this far and no farther, for at that point he would betray his honour. A sob rose in her throat as she realised he would not change his mind, would not give her what she wanted. He would force her to save herself for a man that would never exist, for there was no man that could take his place in her heart, in her life. Though she knew he acted for the best, though she understood his reasoning and respected it, it did not soften the blow. Regret and a bone deep sense of loss was all she could feel.

Matilda set the candle down, her hands trembling too hard to hold it steady now. The sobs racked her body, though they were silent cries, shaking her as another corner of her heart broke free, smashing to pieces. It would all be gone before this was over, but she’d known that.

“My love, please don’t….”

As he came closer to her, she realised she’d gotten her wish. The facade had shattered, his expression betraying everything, laying open his heart, the tears in his eyes the mirror of her own. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck and breathing in deep.

“Don’t hate me,” he begged her. “Please don’t. I know you should, but I cannot bear it. Let me love you the best I can, let me give you all I can allow myself, but don’t make me hate myself for having loved you.”

Matilda gave a choked laugh. “I could never hate you.”

He took her face between his hands and looked down at her, amusement glittering in the silver.

“Little liar,” he murmured. “You hated me once.”

She laughed again, even as the tears streamed down her face and she shook her head, denying it. “I did not. I hated Montagu, I hated that damned title, and I hate it still, for it keeps us apart. I never hated you, Lucian, not from the first moment I realised who you really were.”

“I am Montagu,” he said, his words gentle but firm. “Don’t separate us, for we are inextricably twined. Two flawed halves of a whole, and wholly in love with you, God help me.”

“Yet you would see me wed another,” she said, the pain of his words still raw.

“See it?” he repeated, his voice harsh with bitterness. “No. Not that. I should die before I saw the man who had what I could not. But you will marry, because your heart is too generous not to be kind to some poor fool who falls at your feet and begs for your hand. You’ll marry and have children and, in years to come, I will be a memory that you take out from time to time and recollect like a story from a book you once read, a long, long time ago.”

She wanted to rail at him for thinking her capable of that but he took her hand and held it tight, raising it to his mouth. She gasped as his lips pressed against her pulse, knowing it must flutter under the kiss like the wings of a panicked bird.

“You wanted memories,” he murmured against her skin. “I shall give you something to remember.”

Lucian lifted her up, sweeping her into his arms, and Matilda no longer wanted to argue the point. All she wanted was that this night should not end. She put her arms about his neck as he carried her to the bed, some distance this time as the room was large and opulent. It was not poor Mr Bennet with his modest income and the best room he could afford that held her, but the Marquess of Montagu, a powerful, wealthy man who was feared and admired in equal measure: Lucian, the man who had survived the ordeal of his childhood and kept his heart intact, and had given it to her.

He laid her down on the bed, the silver in his eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. She watched as he walked away and picked up the candle she’d brought, and then set about lighting every lamp and candelabra.

“I want to see you,” he said in response to her enquiring gaze.

She ought to have blushed at that, she supposed, but she wanted to see him too. Her attention was avid as he stripped the shirt from over his head, wincing a little but moving easier that he had before.

“The wounds are healing nicely,” she observed.

Lucian glanced down. “Yes.”

“You’ll have heroic scars to bear.”

He laughed, a rather bitter sound.

“If only these little marks were the only ones.” His eyes settled on her as he reached for the buttons on the fall of his trousers. “The deepest scar will be well hidden, but you will know it’s there, love.”