Her love? He thought he would happily take a bullet again just to hear her refer to him thus.
“As if I was shot,” he grumbled, his voice still rough.
“Oh, my darling.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I thought I had lost you forever.”
“I thought the same…of you.” Words took a great deal of effort out of him. He reached for her again, needing the reassurance of touch. He wondered how in the hell she had gotten him out of that school. Wondered how in the hell she had come to attend him on his sickbed.
She seemed to sense his need, tangling her fingers in his and giving him a squeeze. “You saved my life, Benedict, and in the process, you almost lost yours.”
“Told you,” he said, feeling his energy seeping from him. God, he was weak as a babe. “The definition of…love.”
She squeezed his fingers tighter, as if she feared he would slip away forever if she released him. “Oh, Benedict. You never should have put yourself in danger for me.”
“I love you,” he told her.
Because that was the only explanation he needed. And because he was growing weaker by the moment. His eyelids felt as if they had been weighed down with coins for a journey across the River Styx.
She raised his hand to her lips, giving it a fervent kiss, then rubbing it on her cheek. “I love you too, my darling man. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me for doubting you?”
His eyes slid closed. “Forgiven, darling. As long as you…love me, too.”
“I do, Benedict. I love you so very much.” Soft, womanly fingers stroked his hair.
He wanted to move toward that touch like a grateful cat, but the energy was not in him. He was weary to the bone. But not too weary for the question he needed to ask her most. “Marry me?”
“Yes, my love, my wonderful, fearless duke. It would be my honor to be your wife.” He did not think he imagined the tremble in her voice as she spoke the words.
But he was too exhausted to open his eyes and test his theory. He managed a smile. “I will…hold you to your…promise.”
Her lips fluttered over his brow. “I would expect nothing less. Sleep now, my love. You need your rest to heal.”
He obeyed his future duchess. Queen Mab claimed him.
Isabella woke to morning light and an aching back.
The last few nights had been spent in the chair at Benedict’s bedside. Between herself and Callie, they had tended to him without fail. He had never been alone. To her credit, Callie had not argued about propriety. Certainly, it was shocking for an unmarried lady to be tending to the sickbed needs of a man who was not her husband. But Isabella had vowed she would not go. Not until Benedict was well again.
She owed him her life.
He had saved her.
His bravery still astounded her, days later as she stretched in the uncomfortable chair, raising her arms over her head and stifling a yawn. Her gaze took in his supine form, making certain—as she had done hundreds, if not thousands, of times—that his chest rose in steady, even breaths beneath the bedclothes.
After days of being in and out of consciousness, it had truly seemed in the depths of the night that he had turned a page. It had been the most lucid she had heard him since he had been wounded. His gaze had been clear, and his brow had not been feverish.
She prayed he was finally returning to himself. She would never have forgiven herself if he had died to save her. Especially after the manner in which she had doubted him. Thinking of the way she had treated him now filled her with shame. His past had been none of her concern. And in truth, she had allowed Lady Entwhistle to prey upon her own feelings of inadequacy.
She had been wrong. So wrong. And as a result, she had almost lost the man she loved. Twice over. She would do everything in her power to keep that from happening again.
Gently, she placed her hand on his forehead, making certain it was not too hot to the touch. In sleep, he looked so innocent, almost youthful. She traced over his brow, then brushed his golden hair back from his forehead. Touching him was a gift. There had been a time when she had not been certain she would ever be able to touch him again. When his life had been hanging in the balance.
The bullet had traveled straight through his shoulder, but the damage had been significant. He had lost a great deal of blood. All to save her.
He had made the ultimate sacrifice. For her.
“Oh, Benedict,” she murmured. “What am I to do with you?”
“Marry me,” he said, his eyes opening to reveal the startling, sky-blue orbs she had fallen into so many times before.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked, trailing her fingertips over his cheek next. His whiskers had grown a great deal over the time he had been an invalid. The coarse stubble pricked her fingertips. She relished it, as she relished him. He was so vital, so alive, and she was so incredibly thankful.
“Long enough to know you must be deuced uncomfortable in that chair,” he told her, smiling boyishly. “Join me?”
“That is positively scandalous, Your Grace,” she told him teasingly.
They both knew they were well beyond the bounds of propriety. Had there been any remnants, they had been thoroughly banished by her presence here at his sickbed. She did not care.
“Humor me.” His expression turned serious. “I thought I had lost you forever. All I want now is to feel your body against mine.”
“I thought the same thing.” Without hesitation, she rose from the chair, ignoring the ache in her lower back, and settled upon the bed at his right side. “I still cannot believe you were willing to give your life for mine. That
