Page 118 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
Moving swiftly as a big cat on the hunt, Cal sat up, grasped my ankle—the man clearly had an elevated sense of freedom concerning my limbs—and pulled me down the bed. Retaining my wrist, releasing my ankle, he used his hand on my shoulder to push me flat on my back.
I, of course, was not silent during this maneuver. I said things like, “What? You . . . This isn’t . . . Cal, you can’t . . .”
Obviously, he could.
Friar Laurence said again, “I am not leaving these two worldly sinners!” But he wasn’t speaking toward the bed anymore, and he seemed muffled and flustered.
I lifted my head and saw Marcellus, Dion, and Holofernes hustling him out. With a solid thunk, the door shut behind them, leaving Cal and me alone.
Really alone.As alone as we’d been in the Montague garden when he’d maneuvered his way beneath my skirts and into becoming my betrothed. Now I had an inkling what he intended. . . although I still couldn’t comprehend what I’d done to provoke him.
“Cal, this is not a good idea.”
“Shhh.” His voice, so quiet, so soothing, was at odds with the fanatic gleam in his eyes. He did that looming trick of his, his shoulders blocking the light, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath.
I pushed on his chest with my free hand.
You’ll be surprised to know that didn’t work, but it did remind me that:
1.He’d been injured and he had a big bandage wrapped around the wound.
2.Other than the bandaging, his chest was bare.
I said, “You’ve been hurt, bleeding. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know.” His voice still held that soothing quality that I found slightly spooky, and his eyes gleamed as though possessed of a dark angel. “Yet somehow coming so close to death, I need to remind myself why Rosaline of the house of Montague continues to elude my capture.”
“I haven’t eluded your capture. You captured me much against my will, and we were betrothed. Since that evening, we have had adventures of many kinds, so rare for a prince who represents Verona in all its guises and a lady of . . . how shall I say this? Impeccable virtue.” I expressed myself adroitly, I thought. “Today, after you released me, Ichoseyou as my betrothed.” I thought it was a neat argument, one likely to defuse his odd mood and return him to sanity.
Not so much.
He still held my wrist, but his grip had eased and he stroked his thumb over my pulse point.
I said, “We’ve both sagaciously agreed to this marriage.” A sane argument, right?
He seemed oblivious to my sanity.
“You like my family, the possibility of my prodigious productivity, my house managing abilities, mytette—” I floundered on the knowledge that I should not have mentioned body parts.
“Tell me what you like about me.” His voice, low and deep, whispered across my skin.
I prickled with awareness, and floundered again, trying to think what I liked about him. “You’re dutiful. You . . . have a nice garden. I like your grandmother and your sister.”
“You don’t like to touch me. Are you repulsed by me?”
“No!”
“I’m scarred.” Taking my free hand, he used my fingertips to trace the ripples caused by the burns inflicted in the dungeon. “I limp.”
“I don’t even think of that.” True, I no longer noticed his scars. I studied him now, his mouth, his nose, his forehead. I skipped his eyes because of the way his lids drooped over his shadowed eyes as if to hide an inner hellfire of passion. I did know about that. I did believe it existed. Too much proof had been offered me. “The scars don’t matter; God did not bless you with a handsome countenance, anyway.”
He gave a crack of laughter.
“If you don’t want to know, you shouldn’t ask me.” I tried to shake off his grip and roll away.
He leaned closer, using his weight to restrain me, and placed my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve seen my body now. The marks of the whip on my back and the brand on my chest. What of that? Will intimacy with a man whose body bears the evidence of torment and defeat repulse you?”
“I’m not so shallow.” A strong, snappish reply, but I suppose he thought I was shallow, for Lysander was as glorious as the dawn. Didn’t Cal realize the sunshine of my love for Lysander wouldn’t have lasted if Lysander had been stupid, humorless, a brute?
