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“I hate that you make deranged look beautiful,” he whispered, already loathing his pathetic self before he even finished getting the words out.
“Rafe, I…” Her words drifted away, and she just stared helplessly up at him. And he saw everything he’d been feeling since their row in her cottage in her eyes. “I’m so angry with you,” she finally said softly.
Her hands landed on his waistcoat, pressing into his abdomen.
She blinked rapidly. “You’re so thin.” Her attention fell to his splint. “So frail.”
He turned away harshly, scowling at the far wall filled with books. “Yes, that tends to happen when you are unconscious and abed for weeks without any sustenance. And let’s not forget lame.” Frail. Weak. Pathetic.
Everything he’d worked so hard to never ever be again. And here he was. Everything his father had looked down on him for, he’d reverted back to.
Fingers slid over his chin and turned him back to face her. They trailed into the hollow he now had in his cheeks, her gaze following their path. “But alive.” Her eyes clashed with his. “I didn’t think I was going to find you alive.”
“And now that you have? What, Theodora?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone. She could breathe easily now. He wasn’t dead. She could bound back off to Ironcrest, relieved of the burden of mourning him.
Her hand fell away, and he immediately wanted to snatch it back. Frustration burned through him, and he knocked the back of his head against the door. He hated himself. He hated her. He hated all of this.
Because she’d hurt him. Grievously so. Yet, he still loved her. Would still jump—or hobble, he supposed—at the chance to be with her.
“I think we both may have said things…” she said slowly, “that perhaps wounded more deeply than we’d intended.”
“I’m not so sure. Your rejection seemed fairly intentional from where I was standing.”
Her eyes sparked. “Yes, and your possessive and proprietary claim over me did as well.”
Yes, well. What was he supposed to think? She didn’t want to be solely with him. He’d seen Mr. Turner. He hadn’t failed to miss the similarities between himself and the blacksmith. And now—after his accident?
“I suppose now Mr. Turner is a much more appealing option.”
“Oh my bloody God. I swear to all that is holy, Raphael Charles Sinclair, I could shake you!”
Her hands gripped his face, cool metal pressing against his skin. Her fingers dug in, and she did give him a slight shake.
“You’re still holding the pistol.”
“You’re still being a lobcock, so I might still be in need of it.”
He wanted to do something absurdly foolish, like stick his tongue out at her. Or kiss her.
Her grip tightened. “You do not get to claim me. You cannot get jealous over another man and marry me just to make it so that I can only ever be yours! I am not a possession for you to stow away. I won’t ever be yours.”
“Yes, so you’ve said,” he bit out. “Asking you to marry me was an affront to your sensibilities. I haven’t forgotten.”
She growled. “When you ask because you’re trying to put me on a little shelf with the rest of your collectibles, yes, it’s an affront!”
“And now I’m the one who could shake you!” He reached around and fisted her chignon, and, yes, his grip was possessive. “I didn’t ask you to marry me so you wouldn’t sleep with anyone else ever again.”
She rolled her eyes.
He groaned. Fine, perhaps there was an element of that. “Yes, I lashed out. And yes, I’m jealous. Yes, I’m possessive.”
He stiffly slid his splinted arm around her back, pulling her tight against him, uncaring of the dull pain radiating through his forearm. He’d gladly bear any amount of pain if it meant being close to her.
“I don’t want another man to ever lay hands on you ever again. And I don’t want another woman to lay hands on me ever again. I don’t know what to do with all of that—all of this. It’s been hard enough for me to come to terms with. But that’s not why I asked you to marry me.”
She glared at him. “And why did you ask me then?”
“I asked you to marry me because I fucking love you, you foolish bull-headed, bloody brilliant woman!”
