He should be gentler, should approach her with caution. Even now she might be afraid of what had been said about him. But he was weary—so very, very weary—of things being taken from him.
He wasn’t going to lose her as well. Not if he could help it.
He halted inches from her. “Weren’t we, Lily? More than friends?”
Her lips parted as her breath quickened, but she showed no fear of him. “You know we were.”
“Then that hasn’t changed.”
She laughed, incredulous. “Are you insane?”
“That was the charge.”
“Don’t hide behind quips.” She shook her head impatiently. “Everything has changed. You… you’re an aristocrat. A viscount—someday a bloody earl. I’m the bastard daughter of a drunken actress and an illiterate porter.”
He took her shoulders, barely refraining from shaking her. “I’m the same man I was when I labored in the garden. The same man you were so kind to when I was mute.”
“No, you’re not!” Her breasts were heaving now with the force of her ire. “That man was of my world. He was simple and… and kind and he wasn’t a bloody aristocrat!”
She balled her fist and hit his chest with the last word.
“You don’t know,” he choked. “You don’t know who I am.”
“Then tell me!”
He stared into her eyes—those beautiful green eyes—and something seemed to break inside him.
Four years of torment and loss.
Four years of being told what he was and what he wasn’t.
Four years of limbo. Of life suspended, lost, abandoned as he lay half dead in a stinking cell.
He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t going to lose any more of life.
“I’m everything you thought me,” he whispered, his voice broken. “The gardener and the aristocrat and the madman. I endured Bedlam and it was a crucible to my soul, burning what I was before and reshaping me. I wouldn’t have survived it had I not let myself be remolded.”
He looked at her helplessly and she stared back, her eyes wet, her lips parted.
He laid his forehead against hers. “In truth I don’t know what sort of man I am anymore, newly smelted, newly poured into some strange and original mold. I was still too hot to the touch for discovery. But I know this: whatever strange creature I have become, I am yours. Help me, Lily. Unmold me and take what form I am in your hands and blow the breath of life into me. Make me a living being again.”
He had no more words to convince her, so he did what he’d wanted to do since he’d first seen her this evening: he slid his lips down to her mouth.
THE KISS WAS so sweet, so tender, that for a moment Lily couldn’t think at all. All she could do was feel—the heat of his mouth, the puffs of his breaths on her cheek, the gentle touch of his palms on her face. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and she suckled it, wanting more.
She stood on tiptoe and thrust her fingers into his hair, pulling off the wretched tie and freeing his wild locks—freeing Caliban from Lord Kilbourne.
And then she remembered: no matter what he might call himself, she was still mad at him.
She pulled back and murmured, “I’m still mad at you.”
“Are you?” His wounded voice had descended into Stygian depths. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her jaw.
“Yes.” She yanked at his hair in emphasis.
He grunted, but her grip didn’t prevent him from lowering his mouth to hers again. He nipped at her lips and then licked at them, softening the sting. “I’ll have to see what I can do to regain your good graces.”
His hands left her arms and seized her waist instead, and before she could think, he was lifting her bodily, walking with her as if she were as light as a kitten. He pivoted and then she was falling onto the bed, with him right on top of her.