He lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. Regret and guilt shimmered there, and he wanted to wipe both away for her. “Would ye have preferred ye die?” Before she could answer, he asked, “Would ye have preferred he killed Jane?”
She shook her head.
“Then ye did what ye must. Dunnae ever feel guilt for doing what ye must to defend yerself or those ye love.”
“So ye have nae ever felt guilt after ye killed someone?” Her gaze searched his.
He should not answer. He should not reveal a piece of his soul. Yet he could not resist doing so. No man alive would have been able to resist his wife in this moment. She was temptation incarnate with her sweetness, her vulnerability interwoven with her strength, her caring nature.
“Guilt, nay. Sorrow, aye. Bone deep. I see their faces many times when I close my eyes—the faces of the men who stood against the king, men I begged to put down their arms but who refused, men I had to cut down so they’d nae cut me down, kill my men, or worse, kill women or children.”
Her lips parted on an exhalation. “Ye’ve killed women and children?”
“Nay. But I’ve killed their husbands, their fathers. And when ye take the life of someone that another loves, the person left alive dies a bit. Oh, they are still breathing, but a part of them is dead.”
She lowered her head to his chest and pressed her lips to his heart. He stared down at her in shock and wonder. He had never felt as connected to anyone, not even Arabel, as he did to Patience in that moment.
“Ye speak from personal experience.” Her voice was but a whisper between them.
He could have denied what she stated, what she’d keenly ascertained, but he found he did not want to. If he was taking this one instance to let her in, he would gorge on the moment. It was the only one he could allow. “I do,” he said.
She turned her head and set her ear against his heart.
He stilled, thinking she’d say something, but when she did not, he asked, “What are ye doing?”
She looked up at him with eyes full of undeniable hope. “I’m listening to see if the part of ye that’s dead can be revived.”
Her words sent a shaft of longing through his heart and straight into the depths of his soul. As he drank her in, a Siren with the heart of an angel, he knew without a doubt that no adversary he had ever faced had been as dangerous to him as his wife was now. He was at war with himself, and in this moment, he was losing. So he did what any savage slayer would do: he made a plan to avoid defeat.
