Who Will Take This Man?

dirty.”

“Thank you. I’m a fool for such flattery, you know. However, the bath is for you.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? I cannot bathe in your home!”

If he’d been capable of it, he would have smiled. His decorous Meredith was back. “You most certainly can. A warm soak will help relieve the soreness in your muscles.”

Her lips flattened into a prim expression. “My muscles are not sore.”

“Perhaps not now, but they will be. We hit the ground with a most resounding thump. Besides, you calling me dirty is rather like a dog calling a cat hairy.”

“Oh, dear. You mean I’m-”

“Filthy. I’m afraid so.”

She tried to sit up, but he gently pushed her back on the cushions. “Do not distress yourself. I need to examine and clean the scrapes on your face. After you’ve bathed, I’ll bandage you. While you’re bathing, I’ll arrange for your gown to be cleaned and repaired.” When she seemed about to protest, he rested his fingers upon her lips. “No arguments. Let me take care of you.”

Meredith looked into his brown eyes, so earnest, so serious, so filled with concern and guilt, she couldn’t refuse his request. Besides, she still felt rather shaky. And her cheek stung like the devil himself had set fire to her skin.

Let me take care of you. She could not recall anyone, ever, having uttered those words to her. It was an odd notion, giving herself over to someone else’s care, his care, but certainly not an unpleasant notion. And one that allowed her to postpone for a few more precious minutes the words that would forever deprive her of him.

With a nod, she relaxed back into the cushions, torn between her desire to shut her eyes and simply absorb the feel of him touching her, and keeping her eyes wide open, to watch him, memorize his features, for this would be her last opportunity to do so.

Opting to keep her eyes open, she watched him carefully clean, then examine, her cuts and scrapes. He worked carefully and methodically, his eyes intent, his hands steady. A lock of dusty, disheveled hair fell over his forehead, and her fingers itched to brush the strands back. But he wasn’t hers to touch.

Her gaze lowered to the scrape on his chin, and her stomach dropped. Dear God, he’d risked his life to save her. With that same heroic spirit he’d exhibited the first day she’d seen him outside Madame Renee’s shop. Had that only been a matter of days ago? Impossible. She felt as if she’d known this man her entire life. And had yearned for him all that time. She longed to dampen a strip of linen and press it to his hurt chin. But he wasn’t hers to heal.

Her gaze then focused on his mouth. That beautiful, sensual mouth that had kissed her with both tender perfection and white-hot passion. A flood of memories of that beautiful mouth touching hers swamped her, remembrances she would never be able to erase from her mind. Her lips tingled with the overwhelming desire to kiss him. But he wasn’t hers to kiss.

He touched a piece of dampened linen to her bottom lip, yanking her from her reverie. Her gaze flew to his, and she saw his attention was riveted on her lips as he dabbed. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she realized that he was suffering from her nearness just as she was suffering from his. The knowledge should have appalled her, but instead a completely inappropriate wave of feminine satisfaction raced through her. A minute later he turned to place the used linen back on the tray. He took a moment to cleanse his own face, then dab some sort of ointment from the ceramic bowl onto his scraped chin. When he returned his attention to her, their gazes locked, and her breath caught at the intense, compelling look in his eyes. He went perfectly still and she heard him swallow.

“I’m finished,” he said in a husky voice. “Neither the scrape on your cheek nor the cut near your temple are serious, thank God, nor is the bump on your chin.” He held up the small blue ceramic bowl. “This is one of Bakari’s concoctions. It will aid in the healing process. I don’t know how he makes it, but it works wonders.” Still kneeling next to the sofa, he gently dabbed on the cream, which stung a bit at first, but then seemed to evaporate the burning sensation from her scraped skin. When he finished, he set the bowl aside, then asked, “How do you feel?”

“Much better, thank you.” She smiled to show him she was telling the truth. “But what about you? That scrape on your chin-”

“I’m fine. I’m-” He blew out a long breath and raked his hands through his hair. “No, I’m not fine. I’m sick inside that you’re hurt, that you were very nearly killed. Furious that someone is trying to hurt me by hurting everyone I care about. Frightened that he might somehow inflict more damage before I can stop him.” Taking her hands, he pressed her palms against his chest. Through the soft material, she felt his heart beating, hard and fast.

“You were almost lost to me today, Meredith. Before I ever had a chance to tell you all the things I want to tell you. It brought home the sobering fact that we never know what the future holds. Every minute is a gift, and should not be squandered, for it might well be your last. I therefore refuse to waste so much as another second.” His brown gaze locked with hers, and he pressed her palms more firmly against his chest. “I love you, Meredith. With all my heart. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Seventeen

Meredith had known since last night that he intended to ask her to marry him, and she was prepared to answer him. But she had not anticipated a declaration of love. I love you, Meredith. Those words, spoken in that deep, serious voice, left her reeling.

Hot tears pushed behind her eyes and she bit down on the inside of her cheeks in an effort to gain control. She wanted to scream, to rail at the fates and circumstances that would rob her of her chance of happiness with this man… this man she loved. Who, incredibly, loved her in return.

But he doesn’t truly love you, Meredith, her inner voice interjected. How could he? He doesn’t really know you. The real you. The lying, cheating, stealing you. The you that your respectable, matchmaker persona hides. You tell him the truth, and his love will disappear.

And, she realized with a sinking heart, she would have to do just that-tell him the truth-all of it, thus extinguishing the tiny flame of hope that she might be able to convince him of their incompatibility without revealing her past. But she knew him well enough to realize that as long as he harbored the belief that he loved her, she would never convince him that a marriage between them was impossible. And if his heart wasn’t free of her, he would not pursue another woman. So she’d have to prove to him that he didn’t love her after all. Give him back his heart. So he could give it to someone else.

Feeling far too vulnerable in her reclined position, she said, “I’d like to sit up, please.” He helped her, his hands warm and firm on her shoulders. Once she was upright, he poured her a tumbler of water, from which she gratefully sipped. Then she looked down at her forest-green gown and grimaced at the dirt marring the material, a fitting symbol of the mess her life had recently become.

She turned toward Philip, who now sat next to her, his eyes serious. And hopeful. Gathering her courage, she met his gaze and forced herself to speak the words her heart wanted so desperately not to say. “Philip, I cannot marry you.”

“May I ask why not?”

How she longed to snap out, No, you may not. But she owed him the truth. Unable to sit still under his regard any longer, she slipped her hands from his, then rose. Drawing a bracing breath, she lifted her chin. “I’m afraid I have not been entirely honest with you, Philip. There are things about me, about my past, that you do not know. Things that prevent me from considering marriage.”

“Such as?”

She began to pace in front of him. Her muscles protested, but she simply could not remain still. “We are not just simply from different social backgrounds, Philip,” she began. “I’m afraid that my past is the sort that, if the circumstances were to come to light, would cast shame and scandal upon your family’s name and render us both outcasts. I… I left my home at an early age. It was an unhappy place from which I could not wait to escape. I made my way to London, but unfortunately I did not realize the hardships I would face on my own. My meager funds quickly ran out, as did my choices. My options narrowed down to dying of starvation or doing what I had to in order