Andrew Lord of Despair(112)

“I said,” Andrew began again, lowering his voice, “I said I loved you. You seemed to take that sentiment to heart.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she merely tossed another pair of shoes into a trunk made of dark wood, like an old coffin.

“And you said I was a decent enough sort of fellow…”

Apparently, those were not the right words, if right words even existed. She slammed the lid on the valise and folded her arms, her mulish expression speaking volumes.

“You said…” Andrew turned his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes, the pain of this parting lancing through him and lodging in his chest. “You said I was… honorable, and good, and… loving.”

“I did say that, but I don’t think you heard me, Andrew Penwarren Alexander.”

Oh, she was mad, all right. Use of his middle name meant matters were serious with Astrid.

“I heard you.” He shifted to stand before her, but using the advantage of his height was not appropriate somehow, so he sat on the bed and put himself below her eye level.

“I heard you,” he repeated more softly.

Astrid latched the trunk, the little snick of the locks sounding like manacles closing around Andrew’s heart. “Well, Andrew, what are you going to do about these words you heard from me?”

“What am I going to do?” Begging came to mind, but some stray male intuition suggested this was not what she sought from him.

She pushed past him to go to the wardrobe, and began pulling dresses off their hooks. “You are hopeless, Andrew, and I wash my hands of you.”

“You can’t,” he said, panic clawing at him. “I won’t allow it.” Inspiration struck. “You love me.” He seized her gently but firmly around the middle—she’d long since lost her waist—when she attempted to reopen the valise, and caused her to drop her load of dresses.

“Damn you. Take your hands off me,” she spat, plucking at his fingers.

“You love me,” Andrew growled now, his hold more firm. “You can’t just say those things, Astrid, not to me. A woman who loves her husband doesn’t leave him.”

“And a husband who loves his wife,” Astrid said in low, vicious tones, “doesn’t leave her.”

“I’m here, for God’s sake,” Andrew said, holding her more firmly still. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“You went to bed without me.”

He went still, insight rendering him mute and paralyzed. He’d made the Dreaded Worst Mistake; he’d committed that single unforgivable blunder every male with sense worries about. Not in his words, apparently, but in his deeds, or in what he’d failed to do.

“I see,” he said, turning Astrid loose and locking the door. As he crossed the room back to Astrid, he picked up the pile of gowns on the floor and tossed them over a chair. Then he stood before his wife, directly before her.

“I was trying,” he said in clipped, frustrated tones, “to be considerate of my exhausted, sleeping wife. The same wife upon whom murder had been attempted, if I recall. The wife who had borne the burden of a series of uncomfortable revelations from me just before weeping her heart out on my shoulder.”

Astrid’s gaze remained fixed on that shoulder.

“I awoke alone,” she said in a small, broken voice. “Again, Andrew. I fell asleep in your arms, and I awoke alone, alone. I can’t be married to you like this, I cannot.”

“And I,” Andrew said softly, “don’t want to be married to you like this either.”

She raised tortured eyes to his, and he feared—feared—what might come out of her mouth.

“For God’s sake.” Andrew’s right hand moved as if he would touch her, but then dropped back to his side. “Astrid, don’t go, please. I love you, and I want to make love with you. Always. I don’t want you to wake up without me—I don’t want to wake up without you. I don’t ever want to wake up without you again.”

He let her see into his soul. He let her see the vulnerability, the hope, and most of all, the love she’d found in him. He loved her, and a man who loved and who was loved was not at liberty to wander his existence away on foreign shores.

It was the hardest truth he’d faced, but he bore her scrutiny without flinching.

“Say it again, Andrew,” she said softly. “If you mean these words, prepare to say them often for the rest of your life.”

For the rest of his life…

Relief coursed through him, and joy—and lust—and love.

Most especially, love.

“You, Astrid Alexander, are the home my heart has longed for, and I would be the home your heart has craved as well. I will be the father of your children and your partner in all that life holds in the years to come.”