“Steve?” He glanced up, firelight reflected in his eyes as he met her gaze with a quizzically lifted brow. “Steve, I want honesty from you. I want you to tell me only the truth.”

“Haven’t I always?”

Irritation knifed through her, displacing the serenity. “No, you haven’t, as you very well know. Always before we’ve degenerated into recriminations or excuses. If I ask you something that’s very important to me, will you give me an honest answer, even if you don’t want to?”

His hand stilled, heat and hardness against her thigh. “If it’s important to you, it’s important enough to me to be honest with you, Ginny.”

“A politician’s answer.”

“Christ, Ginny. Yes, I’ll answer honestly. What do you want to know?”

She thought of Elizabeth Cady Burneson, but could not bring herself to ask him about her. Instead, she thought of all the times he had made her feel so powerless, so helpless and at the mercy of his whims.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t come to London for the children? Would you have looked for me?”

“Yes.” His thumb rotated against the sensitive curve of her knee for a moment before he glanced up at her. “I did come after you, but you’d already fled Stamboul, remember?”

“Yes, I remember you telling me that.” It was an answer yet not an answer. Disconcerted, she closed her eyes again and gave herself up to the soothing sensations he created with his massage.

“Ginny, if you’re worried that I’ll drag you somewhere you don’t want to go, or make you do something you don’t want to do, I won’t.”

Not daring to open her eyes, she murmured, “What’s happened to change you?”

“All the times I forced you to go with me, made love to you when you fought me—yes, even raped you—I was wrong. My grandfather nearly disowned me because of how I treated you, and he was right. I can’t undo everything I’ve done, but I won’t force you to do anything against your will ever again.”

Her eyes slowly opened. Steve was staring at her, his eyes level with hers, his hands still now, resting on her knees. Then he leaned forward.

He drew his hand down her face, his fingers lightly skimming the sculpted bones of her cheeks, then the slope of jaw. He dragged his thumb over her mouth, smearing moisture over the curve of her lower lip. The fire crackled and popped, curls of smoke drifting skyward, and the sound of the waterfall was a constant drumming rhythm.

“I want to kiss you, Ginny.”

His whisper fanned against her cheek, and she tilted her face upward.