Page 87 of A Figure of Love

“I noticed my bed had none.”

“I’d hoped your bed would be superfluous.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Serena, my arm is about to fall off.”

She climbed in beside him and he gathered her up, his body long, hard, delicious smelling, and naked.

“Mmmm,” he nosed around in her hair. “You smell much better than you did earlier.”

She laughed into the smooth column of his throat. “I have to admit I wondered how you managed to touch me.”

His arms tightened. “I would have done the same had you been in that wretched hole twice as long.”

Her throat tightened. “Oh? What about three times as long?”

He hesitated before saying, “Hmmm. Perhaps not.”

She laughed, the tears spilling out before she could stop them.

He held her away and looked down at her, his handsome face suddenly reminding her of knights and their armor. His impassive expression was like a face plate on a war helmet. And tonight the plate had slid aside a little, allowing her a glimpse of an expression she’d never seen on his face before—tenderness mixed with confusion.

Serena did not think she could tell him the truth about why she was here. It would kill any chance of more looks like the one he was giving her.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I’m happy.”

He cocked his head. “I know I am a monumental dolt when it comes to reading other people, but aren’t tears a sign of sadness?”

“Not for me,” she said, following the words with a big sniff.

He made her cry harder by kissing away her tears. Oh, she could not bear it.

“Why are you being so nice to me? Why?” she demanded, thrusting him rudely away.

He leaned back and propped his head up with his hand, the action causing fascinating movements all up and down his naked torso.

“Why?” he repeated, mulling over her question in his serious, thoughtful way. “I cannot be certain, but I have come to believe the distracting emotions I’ve been experiencing lately might very well be that mythical thing called love.” He capped off this very Gareth declaration with a second smile in one evening, this one self-mocking.

“Love?” It was all she could manage, and even that came out strangled and squashed, as though it had been run through a mangle before leaving her mouth.

He nodded. “Yes. I think Gareth Lockheart loves you.”

∞∞∞

Gareth was genuinely alarmed: Emma Woodhouse had not burst into tears when Knightly declared his love for her. This crying, unlike her earlier crying, came in the body-wracking sobs of a young child—or a person mourning something terrible, like a death. Gareth could do nothing or say nothing that seemed to help. So, he held her, his chin on her head while she burrowed into him and cried until his chest was wet. Finally, the sobs turned to little gulps, and then rather aggressive sniffing. When he thought it might have ended, he gently put her away from him to look for clues as to her next mood.

“Oh, don’t,” she said, burrowing back in before he could see much other than a red tipped nose. “I’m so mortified.”

At least that was what he thought she said, although it sounded more like, “I’b zo bortivied.”

“Ah . . .”

“Will you tell be what habbened.”

Gareth deciphered this and assumed she meant this evening’s events rather than his emotional metamorphosis and embarrassing declaration.