Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(113)

But she could see, very clearly, the intensity in his eyes.

“I believe you.”

“Some words matter more than others, and it’s one of those.”

“What’s one of those, exactly?”

“Love is. I know what love is, damn it, because you put it in me, and you’ve given it to me. And I’ll never be the same again. I’ll never feel it for anyone else.”

“It.”

“I love you, all right then?” He punched the words out like an argument waiting to happen, and she was totally, utterly done for.

“I’m saying it clear enough.” His brows drew together in that half scowl as he threw up his hands. “I love you. I . . . want to as well. I want all that I feel for you, as I’d only be half alive without it. And I want to marry you, and live with you, and have a family with you some time or other. But for now, I want you to stop making me run around it all, and just say it’s all right with you.”

She only stared at him a moment, as she wanted it all, every tiny detail of it, etched forever in her memory. “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh bugger it. You want fancy words? Maybe I could pull some Yeats out or something.”

“No, no, no.” Laughing, she got to her feet, and felt stronger and surer than she’d ever felt before. “I meant it. This is romance, for me, from you. If you could say it just one more time. The three words, the word that matters more than others.”

“I love you. Iona Sheehan, I love you. Give me a bloody answer.”

“It was yes as soon as you opened your mouth. I just wanted to hear it all. It was yes the minute you asked.”

He blinked at her slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “It was yes? It’s yes?”

“I love you. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well good. Grand. God.” He lunged at her, and she met him halfway. “God, thank God. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve done without you.”

“Now you’ll never have to know.” She gave herself over to the kiss, and all the promises in it. “You’ll never have to do without me.” She held on, tight, tight. “We did win tonight, in so many way. In ways he’ll never understand. We have love. He doesn’t know what it means. We have love.”

“I’m marrying a witch.” Hauling her off her feet, he circled with her. “I’m a lucky man.”

“Oh, you really, really are. When?”

“When?”

“When are we getting married?”

“Tomorrow would do me.”

Delighted, she laughed. “Not that soon. Talk about boots-first. I need a fabulous dress, and I need Nan to be here. And I haven’t met your family.”

“A lot of them are right in this house.”

“That’s true. We won’t wait too long, but long enough to do it right.”

“I have to buy you a ring. The boys were right, after all. I need to get you something shiny.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re right, too, it has to wait a little bit of time. At least long enough to get a booking at Ballintubber Abbey.”

“At . . .” Joy all but drowned her. “You’d marry me there?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it? And by God, it seems it’s what I want as well. There, in the ancient and holy place. It’s what’s meant for us.”

He grabbed her hands, yanked them to his lips, then laughed down at her. “You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours. That’s what I want.”

She laid her cheek on his heart. Love, she thought, given freely, taken willingly.

There was no stronger magick.

“It’s what I want,” she murmured, then smiled when she heard Alastar bugle. “He knows I’m happy.” She tipped her head back. “Let’s go tell everybody else, and pop that champagne.”

With wine and music and light, she thought. They’d come through the fire, beaten back the dark for another day.

And now, on the longest day, when the light refused to surrender, she was loved. At last.


*


DEEP IN THE WOODS, IN ANOTHER TIME, THE WOLF WHIMPERED. The man inside it cursed. And with arts as black as midnight, slowly began to heal.

Carefully, began to plan.





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June 2000



ELIZABETH FITCH’S SHORT-LIVED TEENAGE REBELLION BEGAN with L’Oréal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as chief of surgery of Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.