If she regretted giving herself to him, then he would never speak of this moment again. He would respect her wishes, walk out of her life and leave her be. He might die of the loss, in that inevitable way one did, with little shreds of self crumbling away, day after day, until the lungs still breathed but the heart no longer beat. But Gemma would go on, and that was the most important thing.

But if he looked into those beautiful storm-cloud eyes and saw welcome? If she smiled at him and kissed him and said loving things? Then he would spend the rest of his days trying to be the man she believed he could be. He would rebuild himself whole even if he had to pack that damned ram's wool into the empty places until he could grow the wounds closed. For her.

He could feel again. He could hope again. Damn hope anyway, that sweet honey trickling though him once more, telling him that it could be done, he could be healed, he could be someone again. The wounds could become scars and the scars become stories and the stories become lessons in a life well spent.

A life spent with Gemma.

Then she shifted beneath him. His depleted cock slid from her warmth.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "The carpet."

Lysander couldn't help it. He'd been tragically planning his own demise from a broken heart. She'd been pondering much more domestic worries. He laughed.

It was a rusty, rasping sound, but his shoulders shook even as he wrapped her close to him and rolled over with her above him. When he looked up at her, still helplessly making that deep, appalling noise, he saw her eyes.

No pity or regret there. Only a sort of wry delight. She knew he was laughing at her, but she clearly didn't care. Her eyes gleamed with affection and enjoyment.

Lysander's heart began to beat again, not with the pounding gallop of lust and need, but with a steady strong pulse of utter devotion.

I love you, Gemma.

He didn't say it aloud. Not yet. He had no fear of exposing his heart, but only of startling her with too much, too soon. How could he love her? He could almost hear her say it. How could he love someone he barely knew?

I loved you before I kissed you, before I danced with you. I loved you before the pavilion fell.

How could he love someone wholly when he himself was broken?

That was a trickier question. Given time, he meant to work on the answer. He felt certain that she had begun to believe in him. Was it enough?

She grinned down at him. He smiled back, as best he could.

She dropped a kiss upon his chest and flopped wearily next to him, yawning and stretching to press herself to his side. "I never liked this carpet anyway."

Please, let it be enough.

CHAPTER 25

Chapter 25