His eyes locked on her as she looked down at him, the press of her finger, so lightly, on his lips too much for him at the moment. Every memory of her - of them - came rushing back to him in a breath. Without word, his hand caught her own, his eyes never leaving her own as he pressed soft kisses to each of her fingertips and then the palm of her hand.

With each press of lips, it felt to him as if that gulf between them were closing up. The hurt and the wrong he'd poured onto the burnette whispered away as a ghost. Even as he felt so strongly, he knew it was nothing but mere whimsy. How could it be anything but?

As suddenly as he'd started to press kisses to her, he pushed her back, pushing himself up and off the bed.

"I never should have agreed to come," he said, voice low and harsh. "You intoxicate me and I can't let you. Not now. Not ever. Go back to Leathan, Char. Go back to him and let him be what I can't be. He's a good man."

He was tugging on his shoes as he spoke, for all the world not allowing himself to look at Charlotte, knowing if he did, it would be over. He would beg her to come back to him; beg her to forget the past and move on.

The mark on his arm kept him from looking up as he fixed his second shoe.

"He'll keep you safe. And that's all that matters when it comes to you, Char. That you're safe."

Standing, he chanced a glance at her before turning on his heel and heading towards the door just as it burst open and a diminuative House Elf came in carrying a tray that looked far too big for it.

"I hope that Sir and Ma'am are hungry. Mistress insisted on extra helpings of everything," the voice squeaked up.