Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(94)

“I’m in love with you.”

She glanced back. “Hey, you said it right out loud.”

“I’m in love with you. Damn it.”

“Sounds more like you. Better get your ass up if you want any of this.”

“I’ve been married. Twice.”

Riley paused, deliberately poured tea. “That’s not surprising in three centuries.”

“The first was about forty years after . . . after. She was young and sweet-natured. I shouldn’t have touched her, but I did, and more than once, and with that she— She got pregnant. I couldn’t ruin her. I had ruined her.”

“So you married her. Did you tell her?”

“No, I didn’t tell her. And I didn’t need to, as it turned out, as both she and the baby died in the birthing.”

“I’m sorry.” In that moment, she felt his grief as her own. Dull and deep. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not uncommon in those days. I swore I’d never touch an innocent again, such as she had been. And didn’t. More than a hundred years and I married again. She was a bit older, not innocent. A widow. Barren. We enjoyed each other. Her I did tell, though I doubt she believed me. Until she grew older, and I didn’t. And she grew bitter with it. I had soldier’s work to do, but I always came back to her. And one day I came back to her too late. She’d hanged herself, and left a letter for me. Cursing me.”

Riley nodded, sipped some tea. “I’m sorry. It sucks. For the first, if I got pregnant, it’s now the twenty-first century. I’m strong and healthy. For the second, I’m not vain, and I’m not stupid. And over all that, I don’t need marriage.”

“I do. With you.”

She choked on the tea. “What?”

“It’s stupid. It’s a mistake. We’ll both regret it.”

And looking at her, just looking at her, he didn’t give a damn.

“I want the pledge. For a day, a week, for fifty years or if you live to a hundred and four.”

“You’re serious? You’re asking me to marry you?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He rolled out of bed, stalked over. “Give me the damn tea.”

“But I’m all aflutter.”

He shot her a viciously dark look. “I didn’t love them. I cared for them, both, and I pledged to them. I honored the pledge, without love, as I thought love wasn’t necessary. Or possible. I love you, and I’ll damn well have the pledge and make it.”

“I could say no.”

“You won’t.” He slammed the tea down. Then closed his eyes a moment. Opened them with his heart in them. “Don’t. Don’t say no. Give me this one thing.”

She reached up to frame his face. “Do you understand I don’t need this to stay with you, to love you, to accept you’ll go on after I stop?”

“Yes. I don’t need it to stay with you or to love you. I need it because I will and I do. I need it because in three and a half centuries, you’re the only woman I’ve loved.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Just . . . okay? That’s your answer?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m in.”

He shook his head, then lowered his brow to hers. “What a pair we are.”

“It works.”

“It works,” he agreed. “I guess you’ll want a ring.”

“Treweth—the Anglo-Saxon root of betrothed. Means truth. The ring’s a symbol of the promise. I appreciate symbols.”

“I’ll find something.” He drew her in. He’d found her, hadn’t he?

“It’d be nice to stay here.” Skin to skin, heart to heart. “But.” With reluctance she drew back. “I’ve got some questions, and the first is, where are the damn stars?”

“Safe, we’re told. I’ll fill you in. We should get dressed, find the others.”

“Great. Where are my clothes?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Her brows knitted. “Didn’t you get them?”

“Considering the situation, I didn’t think to pick up after you.”

“Well crap.” At a loss, she looked around the room, then walked to a delicately carved wardrobe. Stared at the contents. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Doyle studied in turn, smiled. Inside hung a pair of leather breeches the color of cowhide, a simple shirt, a leather jerkin, and his own coat and boots.

And a dress the color of old gold with silver laces and piping along with kid boots.

“Seriously? You get the cool leather pants and I get a Maid Marian dress?”

“It’s that or naked.”

“Let me think about it a minute.”

She wore the dress—and scowled at herself in the mirror. “Where am I supposed to put my gun, my knife? Where are my gun and knife?”

“We’ll sort it out.” Doyle strapped on his sword. “You look beautiful.”

“I look like I’m going to a Renaissance fair.” She tugged uselessly at the bodice. “That’s a lot of landscape. Why are breasts such a thing?”

“I’ll show you later,” he said and went to answer the knock on the door.