He was silent for a long moment, his fingers stroking the curve of her cheek. When next he spoke, his voice was husky with memory. “Sometimes, when I was standing on the deck of a ship at midnight or driving alone along some deserted moonlit road, I’d feel the oddest sensation. A sharp tug pulling at my heart. As if a thread was anchored there, linking me to some other person, somewhere out there in the wide world. I always imagined it was you. Imagined it, and wondered if you felt it, too.”

A rogue tear slipped down Maggie’s cheek. “I did feel it. I still do.”

He brushed the tear away, cursing himself for provoking it. “I’m sorry, Maggie. So sorry that I’ve hurt you. That I didn’t keep my promise.”

“I waited for you. For so long.”

A burning prickle stung at the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wanted to come home, but…there was no way back to you. Not as the boy I was. Not as Nicholas Seaton.”

“You make him sound like he was quite another person.”

“I’ve come to think of him as such. A young, unfortunate fellow who I laid to rest somewhere in Italy.”

Fresh tears threatened. “And Lord St. Clare?”

“Born in the same place. From Seaton’s ashes, you might say. The man I was meant to be. Who I would have been, had things been different.” He realized how nonsensical he must sound. “It’s all become so bloody complicated.”

“It has, rather.” She set a slim hand on his bare chest, her palm sliding upward, brushing over the decade-old scar from Fred’s whip. Her fingers curled around his neck. “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters to me at the moment.”

He bent his head and kissed her very softly on the mouth. Their breath mingled, their lips parting and clinging. His pulse throbbed. It took all of his strength of will to draw back from her. “Can you ever forgive me? I know I don’t deserve it—”

“Of course, I forgive you. I only wish you’d had the good sense to confide in me earlier. To trust me enough to explain who you really are.”

“Who I really am,” he repeated with a wry huff. “It’s more complicated than you might think.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” She frowned. “Lord Allendale’s son, James Beresford—the man you claim is your father… He truly was your father, wasn’t he? He was Gentleman Jim.”

St. Clare’s fingers stilled on the curve of her cheek. He felt a disconcerting mixture of relief and alarm. “How did you know?”