She knew there was more to this question, and she felt guilty. He must have been worrying all night.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m feeling much better. No more fainting, no blood.”
He let out a breath and nodded.
“Come in,” he said in a whisper. “Welcome.”
She followed him up the stairs into the parlor of a small, dark, pleasant suite of rooms. There were flowers in a vase on a table and plants hanging from the windows. The walls were lined with books and framed drawings of Adam’s children. She saw their toys scattered here and there.
“Would you like anything? Tea?” he asked.
“No,” she said quickly. She felt odd being in his home, with his family’s things all about. She supposed she’d thought of him as a lover who melted into the ether when he left her realm. She had not pictured the quotidian part of him, the man who paid a landlord every month and owned chairs and tables and watched his children play with blocks as he read books.
“Let’s talk in my study,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t wish to wake the children.”
She followed him to a small room strewn with papers.
“Sorry, wasn’t expecting company,” he said, moving piles of architectural drawings and design books from the chairs in front of his desk. “Here you are. Sit, please.”
He addressed her with a courteous formality that made her certain he was nervous, but even despite it there was an authoritative grace to him as he moved about his home. Like he was more himself here.
She wondered why she had never thought to visit him. Well, he had never asked her to. But then, why would he, when she’d have certainly declined?
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No, I was up, working.” He gestured at papers scattered across his desk. She noticed a copy of her second volume sitting beside them.
“So you’ve read it,” she said, pointing at her book.
He nodded. “Twice.”
His voice was gentle. Kind but reticent. Like he did not wish to say too much until he’d given her space to tell him what she’d come to say. Which she supposed she should get around to doing, given it was a quarter past twelve.
“I had forgotten that your firm’s name would be printed in my book. I was shaken when you left my house and it did not occur to me to warn you when you told me about Pendrake. I’m sorry that it came as a surprise. And that it caused trouble for you.”
He shook his head. “It’s all right.” He shuffled some papers on top of his desk and held one up. “I wrote a letter to the newspaper tonight reaffirming my commitment to the apprenticeship scheme. I’ll deliver it in the morning.”
“Won’t that . . . cause more trouble?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said calmly.
She looked at his face for signs of bitterness or resentment, but his mouth was relaxed.
“Then would it not be . . . unwise?” she prodded.
“It would be utterly reckless,” he affirmed.
He was so, so very calm that it was making her uneasy.
He reached out and picked up her book and turned through the pages. He held up the page containing her account of the day she lost her child.
“This passage broke my heart for you.”
She swallowed. “Thank you. It was a difficult time.”
He nodded slowly. “I wish you had told me about it when I came to see you. I know what it’s like, you know. That pain. How it never goes away.”
She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t.”
“And I wish you had told me about Pendrake. Who he was to you.” His voice held no reproach. He said it like he might have said I wish I had worn a warmer coat.
She suspected he sensed she wanted to leap out the window and fly out of this room, that she would rather suffocate than talk openly about these topics. That he was calibrating his words to ease her, like he would address a skittish kitten.
“It did not seem relevant,” was all she could force herself to say.
Why was it so hard to put her feelings into words? She could feel them, churning inside her, wanting to be said, and yet . . . she could not articulate them through the rush of fear. It was so much easier to say nothing.
Adam was quiet for a minute. He got out of the chair and knelt down before her and took her hands in his. “How could you think I would not find it relevant?” he asked softly.
This, she could answer.
“Because you explained very clearly why you could not be associated with me, and your reasons were . . . sound. It seemed to me that you had made your decision. And that knowing my story would only make it more difficult for you, without changing your circumstances.”
“So you were protecting me?”
Protecting him? Was that what she had done? He made it sound noble and brave. But really she’d been scared. She’d been protecting herself.
“I have lost people I’ve cared about to Pendrake before. I did not want to face that again. I suppose I thought it easier for both of us if you did not have to make such a choice.”
“I would have chosen you,” he said fiercely. “I do choose you.”
She looked down at the floor. “But, Adam, you can’t.”
He tipped up her chin. “Actually, I can.”
“But everything you said, about your work and debts—”
He nodded. “Those things are true. But did you hear any of the other things I said? That I am in love with you, Sera? Had I known about Pendrake, about the baby, I would have—”
Done the stupid thing. For her. And resented her later.
“But, Adam, that’s just it. I can have a baby on my own. You can come to visit if you like but you don’t need to destroy your future over it. The baby should not change—”
“I was talking about your daughter,” he said. “The babe you lost.”
She looked away, but his eyes searched for hers insistently.
“I could never choose Pendrake knowing that he caused such pain to a person that I love,” he said quietly. “Full stop. I simply won’t.”
“And what of your family, Adam? Your responsibilities?”
“I’ll take care of them, Sera. I’m rather capable of managing my own affairs. You don’t have to look after me. I’m not asking you to.”
She weaved her fingers together beneath his hand, trying to understand. “What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking you to try to accept that I made a mistake. That I didn’t have all the information and I hurt you. I want you to try to trust that if I had known the full picture, it would have changed the calculation I was making. And the baby—our baby—would have changed that calculation, too.”
“Adam, you can’t destroy your life over a child I may lose.”
His face went grim, but it had to be said.
He was quiet for a moment. “Here’s the truth, Sera. I know there is no certainty. But when I found out about the bairn, it made me happy. Absolutely, foolishly happy.”
She bit her lip. Oh God, what was happening? Why did she feel like the room was swirling? She tried not to smile, but she couldn’t stop. And when he saw her smile, he smiled too.
“What I’m realizing, lass, is that there’s never any certainty, and I’ve been naïve to think there ever was. I can try to live my life the safest, most dreadfully dull way, and still have no idea what’s in store. I’d rather feel this, Sera. Joy and terror. I’d rather have you.” He paused and took a breath. “But what do you want?”