“To offer you my support. I knew that whatever was in London pained you, even though I had no idea what I’d find there. I just wanted to be there for you. That’s all.”
He gave a small smile. “You make it seem like that’s such a small throwaway thing. No . . . I made it seem that way. I took your act of caring and kindness and threw it in your face,” he said bluntly, his jaw rigid.
“I know it made you feel exposed. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve had to protect her for a long time,” he said suddenly, following a long pause.
“I know. Anne told me,” understanding he referred to his mother.
He frowned. “It was Grandmother who told me I was being a selfish, stubborn ass. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week when I confessed some of the things I’d said to you for showing up at the Institute. She’s never done that before,” he said, his brow furrowed as if he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what to make of his loving, very elegant grandmother calling him an ass.
Her heart stuttered in grateful surprise at the news of Anne’s support. “I wasn’t there to judge. Even if I were, there would have been nothing to put on trial but a very sick woman and a son who loves her and hopes for her, despite everything.”
He jerked his chin, staring at the far wall.
“I treated you unfairly . . . wrongly. I like to punish you for sexual excitement, but I never truly want to hurt you. But that day on the plane—I did. Not completely, but part of me wanted to—”
“Make me hurt like you were hurting?”
His gaze flashed guiltily to her face. “Yes.”
“I understood, Ian,” she said softly. “It wasn’t what happened in the plane’s bedroom suite that upset me. You didn’t hurt me, and you must know I took pleasure in it. It was that you walked away from me afterward.”
She sensed his rising tension.
“I was ashamed. Of her. Of your seeing her. Of myself for still having that damn feeling rise up in me of not wanting others to see her. Why should it matter now?” he bit out.
The bitter words seemed to hang in the air between them, an expelled toxin, secret words that he’d carried deep inside his spirit since he was a child, perhaps the most crucial, powerful words he’d ever said to her . . . to anyone.
Francesca walked over to him and put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his white shirt. Inhaling his unique male scent, she hugged tight. She clenched her eyelids shut as emotion washed over her. She understood how difficult this was for him to say these things, a man who ritualistically guarded against vulnerability, who remained stoic and strong because he believed he had no other choice.
“I love you,” she said.
He captured her chin with his fingers and lifted her face to his. He brushed his finger over her jaw. She noticed his frown as he studied her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“I didn’t give myself permission to fall in love with you.”
She laughed softly when she absorbed his starkly spoken words. So like him to say something like that. Love swelled in her breast, so great and so pure, it verged on pain. “You can’t control everything, Ian, least of all this. Does that mean that you do? Love me?” she asked hesitantly.
“I think I might have loved you even before we met, since I first realized it was you who captured me on canvas . . . you who treated my pain with such a knowing hand. It shamed me, what you saw, but I couldn’t help but want you to see more of me. You’re too good for me,” he declared roughly. “And I’m sure I don’t deserve you. But you’re mine, Francesca. And for what it’s worth . . . I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”
The words rattled and rocked her world, setting her off balance. But then his mouth settled on hers, and she found her center.