"And the young man who was with you at the cafe? Do you also love him?"
"Maurice?" She laughed softly. "He is just a friend."
"But he would like to be more?"
"Yes."
"Do you love him?" The words were harsher this time, demanding an answer.
"Perhaps, a little."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
She didn't answer immediately. He could hear the sudden, nervous hammering of her heart, hear the blood rushing through her veins, heating her cheeks.
"Has he?" Gabriel prompted.
"Yes. He said we should marry and start our own ballet company." The thought made her smile. "He said we would tour the world."
He felt the rage building within him as he imagined her married to her young man, walking with him in the sunlight, giving him children...
Summoning centuries of self-control, he fought down the urge to strike out. He had no right to intrude in her life, no right at all. Maurice was the kind of man she deserved. Young, handsome, ambitious. Someone who shared her love of the dance, someone who could share the days and nights of her life.
Someone mortal.
He wanted to kill him.
"If you wish to marry him, I shall see that you're well taken care of. I have a rather large apartment in Marseilles. It shall be yours on the day you wed, as well as a generous monthly allowance."
"I couldn't - "
He held up a hand, silencing her arguments. "You have no parents to provide for you, and I would not see you totally dependent on whoever you decide to wed."
Hurt and confused because he seemed anxious to see her wed to another, Sara took a step forward, then sat down on the opposite end of the settee.
"Is that why you came here, to marry me off to someone else?"
"What do you mean?"
She lowered her gaze. "I've never stopped thinking of you, Gabriel. Every night, I hoped you would come to see me, that you were missing me, longing for me, as I have been longing for you."
She looked up at him, her gaze quietly pleading. "I know you thought I was just a child, that I was too young to know my own mind, my own heart, but I love you, Gabriel. I loved you then, and I love you now."
"Don't!"
"Why? Why can't I love you?"
She reached out to him, and he jerked away. The movement dislodged the hood, allowing her to see his face for the first time.
"Gabriel! What has happened?"
"Nothing," he said, replacing the hood. "An accident."
Before he could stop her, she sprang to her feet and lit the lamp.
"No!" He covered his face with his hands, only then realizing what a mistake it had been to come here.
He cowered before her as she lowered the hood, then pulled his hands away so she could see his face.
"Oh, Gabriel," she murmured, her throat constricting with horror. "My poor angel."
He turned away, not wanting her to see the ruin of his face, not wanting to see the pity he knew would be reflected in her eyes.
A low groan, half pleasure, half pain, rumbled in his throat as Sara drew him into her arms, rocking him gently, as a mother would comfort a wounded child.
"Tell me what happened," she urged.
"I was burned..." His voice was low, muffled against her breasts.
"Burned!" A vivid image of the fire at the orphanage flashed through her mind, and with it, the memory of pain, horrible, excruciating pain. "Oh, Gabriel," she murmured, "I thought it was only a dream."
"A dream? What are you saying?"
"I dreamed of you, dreamed that you had been badly hurt. It was so real. I felt the heat burn my skin..."
She was examining his hands and arms as she spoke, her eyes filling with tears as she saw his burned flesh. "How did it happen?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, her touch soothing him as nothing else could. "It doesn't matter. I was careless. It's not as bad as it looks."
"Does it hurt dreadfully?"
"Not now."
Sara drew him into her arms again as if she knew that her touch brought him solace. "How long will you be here?"
"I... I don't know." He had planned to see her dance, to assure himself that she was well and happy, and then leave. But now... how could he leave her now? Her very nearness was like a soothing balm to his troubled soul; her touch brought surcease from the pain of his wounds.