"The conqueror of Algiers. I've spent my entire military career trying to live up to my father's reputation . . . all the while knowing he was little better than a murderer. It is not something for which I'm proud."
"I know." And she did. She had known Gervase for many years. He was a kind man, a caring man. Nothing at all like his father the general. "You are not responsible for your father's sins, Gervase, any more than you are to blame for what happened to me. Besides, you did your best to rescue me. I haven't yet thanked you for that."
"Thank me for failing you? I would prefer that you didn't." The bitterness in his tone was harsher now.
"You did not fail me."
"I agreed to abandon you to him. What do you call that, if not failure?"
"I call it courage for making a difficult choice. I call it concern for the lives of your men. I call it plain, old- fashioned, much-welcomed common sense."
"Ah, Alysson . . ." He moved toward her then, eliminating the distance between them. Drawing her close, he folded her into his arms. She let her cheek rest against the comforting wall of his chest and gave a sigh as she felt him stroke her hair.
"I want you to know," Gervase said in an unsteady voice, "none of this changes what I feel for you. I still love you. I still want more than anything to marry you."
Alysson shut her eyes. He might look older than when she'd last seen him, but she felt older. So much older. And perhaps she was. She was no longer a mere girl, no longer an innocent in matters of the heart. She knew now the anguish of loving and being unloved in return.
Her newfound knowledge made her view Gervase's dilemma with compassion. And it made her all the more reluctant to say what had to be said.
"I can't marry you, Gervase," she declared softly. "It would not be fair to you. I shared his bed."
There was a long pause. "I suspected as much. Mon Dieu. Alysson, I would have given anything if I could have spared you that. It must have been a nightmare, being forced to endure his—" Gervase broke off, incapable or unwilling to complete the thought.
Unable to bear the anguish in his tone, Alysson drew back and raised her fingers to touch his cheek comfortingly, holding his gaze with her troubled one. "He didn't force me, Gervase. I . . . went to him willingly."
There was another long pause while Gervase regarded her in haunted silence.
"So you see . . . I can't marry you."
"You must, Alysson," he said finally, quietly. "You will likely be shunned by society, otherwise."
In response, she stepped back and shook her head. "I am well accustomed to being the subject of gossip and censure. What society says or does has never carried much weight with me. The only people whose good opinion I care about are the ones I love. And those people—my uncles- mean to stand by me."
"As I will. I trust you know that. You will always have my good opinion . . . my love."
Alysson felt her throat tighten with unshed tears. She had not expected Gervase to be so generous, that his love for her ran so very deep. He was still willing to marry her, even after her damning confession that she had acted the wanton with the stranger who had carried her off. Gervase was offering to give her the protection of his name. He was prepared to face the dishonor and disgrace that would surely follow once the scandal of her abduction became known. Despite his apparent willingness, though, she could never allow him to make such a sacrifice.
She reached for his hands and held them in her own smaller ones. "I would be grateful to keep your friendship, Gervase. And I am honored, believe me, that you still want me for your wife. But I cannot accept your proposal."
His face assumed a wounded look. "You do hold me to blame, is that it? I can only try to make it up to you—"
"No, of course I don't blame you! Not at all. I told you that."
"I can be a good husband to you, coquine,"
"I have no doubts on that score. But I very much fear I could not be a good wife to you . . . not the kind of wife you deserve."
"Zut!" He pulled away from her, breaking the contact between them. In agitation he ran his hand through his dark hair. "I won't accept your refusal! I intend to change your mind. All I need is time to persuade you."
"I won't change my mind, Gervase."
"How can you be certain? You once were willing to give me a chance."
Alysson hesitated. She did not want to say the words that would only cause Gervase more pain, but it was perhaps the only way he would accept her refusal.
"Because I love him," she answered quietly, and was rewarded by the unmistakable, unbearable look of defeat in Gervase's dark eyes.
She loved, and was unloved in return. That was the bitter truth that Alysson tried desperately to ignore during the following days.