“And as you'd be my wife, he would have to keep his fury to himself because
he would no longer have authority over you,” Christopher pointed out.
Katerina considered the possibility. The image of life as Christopher's wife washed over her. No fear. No beatings. Just a good man who cared for her. It was
too pretty a picture to be real. And of course, she would bring her damaged, cowardly self to the equation. This is impossible. Her voice when she spoke sounded harsh. “How can I in good conscience allow you to do this? You want
me to be your… sweetheart, maybe even your wife someday, and I just want to
be rescued.”
He grinned, not the unreserved smile he normally gave her, but one with a hint of humor despite the darkness of the situation. “Rescuing the damsel and marrying her is a fine English tradition, love. What comes after is up to you. Do
you want to spend the rest of your life destroyed by the terror of your youth?”
“Of course not.”
“Then take the opportunity. We could do well together, you and I.”
She looked into his eyes. He's so sincere, so open, and I'm a morass of dark
and fearful impulses, little more than an animal, running and hiding. How could
I ever be a true wife to him? “I don't think I'm able to trust.”
One hand lifted to cup her cheek. “Of course not. Not yet. That takes time.
Give yourself the time. Eventually, you'll see I won't harm you.”
“You're taking a huge risk,” she reminded him, leaning into his touch.
“I know. I'm willing.”
“You make everything seem possible. How can I say no?”
“Don't.” As persuasion, he kissed her again.
There had been not one kind touch in her life in the decade since her
mother's death. Christopher's mouth on hers represented every embrace she had
missed because her father loved alcohol and control more than he loved her.
Unable to resist her suitor, she lifted her aching arms and slid them around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands left her hip and face to encircle her waist.
He squeezed her.
Katerina screamed in agony as his arms pressed the bruised flesh of her
lower back. She felt a deep scab split open and a trickle of blood ran down her
left buttock.
His grip eased instantly. “Oh God, what? What happened?”
“It hurts,” she sobbed. The pain of her offended bruises, her own
mortification and the dizziness of tight laces conspired to shatter her calm.
Christopher's jaw clenched. “Just how badly are you injured?” he asked
again.
She couldn't answer. She was shaking too hard.
Carefully he lifted her, one arm under her knees, the other behind her
shoulders, and carried her out of the parlor. He brought her to a retiring room down the hall. After ensuring their privacy with a deft turn of the key in the lock, he laid her gently, face down, on a black velvet chaise in the corner.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice far from steady.
“I have to know, love,” he replied.
“Please, Christopher,” she begged. “I don't want you to see.”
“I'm sure you don't.” But that didn't stop him. He opened the fastenings of her dress.
