Treachery in Death (In Death #32)(67)

It didn’t feel foolish, but sweet. So she left it there and walked with him.

They paused a moment at the young cherry tree she’d helped him plant in memory of his mother.

“It looks good,” she commented.

“It does. Strong and healthy. And next spring it’ll bloom again—we’ll watch it bloom again, you and I. It means a great deal.”

“I know.”

“She thinks you married me for power,” he said as they walked on. “Renee. As that’s what she’d have done. The power and the money is one in the same to her.”

“She’s wrong. I married you for the sex.”

He grinned. “So sure of that am I that I work diligently to hold up my end of it.”

They wandered into a small orchard, perhaps a dozen trees, branches heavy with peaches.

“Does Summerset actually use these to make pie?”

“He’s a traditionalist.” Roarke searched out one that looked ripe, twisted it free. “Have a taste.”

“It’s good. Sweet,” she said when she had.

“He’s after adding a few cherry trees.”

“I like cherry pie.”

Roarke laughed, took a bite of the peach when she offered. “I’ll give him the go.”

It smelled of summer, of ripe fruit and flowers, and green, green grass. The walk in the warmth and the scent, her hand in his, served to remind her she had what she’d envied of Renee’s childhood.

She had her own normal.

“See that spot there?” Roarke gestured to a sparkling roll of green. “I’ve been toying with the idea of having a little pond put in. Just a little one, maybe six feet in diameter. Water lilies and willows.”

“Okay.”

“No.” He skimmed a hand down her back. “What do you think? Would you like it? It’s your home, Eve.”

She studied the space—thought it was fine as it was. It wasn’t as easy for her to imagine little ponds and water lilies as it was for him. “With those weird fish in it?”

“The carp, you mean. We could, yes.”

“They’re a little creepy, but interesting.” She looked at him now. “You stay home more than you used to. Don’t travel nearly as much as you did before. It would probably be easier for you to handle some of the stuff on site—wherever—but you don’t unless you have to.”

“I have more reason to be home than I once did. I’m glad of it. Every day, I’m glad of it.”

“I changed your life.” She looked down at the peach they shared. “You changed mine. I’m glad of it.” And back up, into his eyes. “Every day, I’m glad of it. I’d like a little pond, and maybe something to sit on so we could watch the creepy, interesting fish.”

“That would suit me very well.”

She linked her arms around his neck, laid her cheek on his. Love finds a way, she thought.

“I didn’t follow logic,” she murmured. “Even when I told myself it was inappropriate, it was impossible. I couldn’t. Everything inside me needed you, like breath. No matter what I told myself, I had to breathe. I’d been loved before. Webster thought he did even if I didn’t recognize it, even if I couldn’t give it back. And I had a different kind of love with Mavis, with Feeney. I loved them. I had enough in me for that, and I can look back at who I was and be grateful I did.”

She closed her eyes, drew him in. Like breath. “But I didn’t know how much there was, what there could be. What I could be, before you.

“Before you, there was no one I’d want to walk with. No one I’d want to sit by a little pond with. No one,” she said again, easing back to look at his face, “before you.”

He took her lips softly, letting them both sink into the kiss, into the moment. Into the tenderness.

Sweet, like the peach that rolled out of her hand as they lowered to the ground—and quiet, like the air that whispered around them with the scents of ripened peaches, summer flowers, green, green grass.

She rested a hand on his cheek, tracing down to the strong line of his jaw. His face, she thought, so precious to her. Every look, every glance, every smile, every frown. The first time she’d seen it something had shifted in her. And everything she’d closed off, maybe to survive to that point, had begun to struggle free.

Love shimmered through her, and joy followed.

She gave, offering him her heart, her body, moving with him as elegantly as in a waltz. Not a warrior tonight, he thought, but only a woman. One with a flower in her hair, and the heart she offered in her eyes.

And the woman moved him, unbearably.

“A grha.” His lips roamed her face while the words he murmured came through his own heart, through his blood, in Irish. Foolish words, tender words she wouldn’t understand, but would only feel.

“Yes,” she said, when their lips met again. “Yes. And you’re mine.”

She touched him, sliding his jacket aside, loosening his tie. And smiled. “Always so many clothes.”

He slid her jacket off as well, released her weapon harness. “Always armed.”

“Disarm me.” In a gesture of surrender she raised her arms over her head.

He watched her as he shoved her weapon aside, as he drew her shirt, her tank over her head and bared her to the dapple of evening sun.