“What?”

“I will make no more demands on you,” he said. “But for now, just this once, kiss me.”

“Why?” she asked.

He stared at her in incomprehension. Why? Why? “Does there have to be a reason?”

“There is always a reason,” she said with a quiet choke in her voice. “More fool me, for letting myself forget that.”

He felt his lips move, trying and failing to find words. He had nothing, no sweet poetry to make her keep forgetting. The light morning wind swept across his face, and he watched as one lonely tendril of her hair broke free of its braid, catching the sunlight until it sparkled like platinum.

How was she so lovely? How had he not seen it?

“Kiss me,” he said again, and this time it felt like begging.

He didn’t care.

“You are my husband,” Iris said again. Her eyes burned into his. “I will obey you.”

It was the fiercest of blows. “Don’t say that,” he hissed.

Her mouth clamped into a defiant line.

Richard closed the distance between them, his hand thrusting forward to grab her arm, but at the last minute he stilled. Slowly, gently, he reached out to touch her cheek.

She was so rigid, he thought she might break, and then, he heard it—a tiny whisper of breath, a small sob of acquiescence, and she turned, allowing his hand to cradle her cheek.

“Iris,” he whispered.

She brought her eyes to his, pale, blue, and impossibly sad.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to cherish her.

“Please,” he whispered, his lips coming within a feather’s breadth of hers. “Let me kiss you.”

Chapter Twenty-one

KISS HIM?

Iris almost laughed. The very thought of it had consumed her for the past few days, but not like this. Not when she was wet-cheeked and dusty and her elbow felt bruised from when she’d tripped over her own feet because she couldn’t even run away with dignity. Not when he hadn’t said a word of reproof in the tunnel, and he was being so bloody kind.

Kiss him?

There was nothing she wanted more. Or less. Her anger was the only thing holding her up, and if he kissed her . . . if she kissed him . . .

He would make her forget. And then she would lose herself, all over again.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, and his hand was so lovely and warm at her cheek.

She should pull away. She knew she should, but she could not bring herself to move. There was nothing in that moment but him and her and the way he was looking at her as if she were the very air he breathed.