“The ballroom is stuffy,” she said. “The air feels good.”
He was warm inside his greatcoat. Through her glove her hand felt warm too.
They walked in silence to the pavilion hill and up it to stand before the stone pillars and look outward over the river and the village and the dark shape of the lake off to their right. He thought of his father inside the pavilion six years ago and felt a twinge of sadness that he was gone forever. That they had not said goodbye. Hewondered briefly what had happened to the woman who had called herself Mrs. Shaw. He thought of all the women he had known on the Peninsula, with some of whom he had slept. He thought of Ben’s mother.
“Do you think one grows more tolerant as one gets older?” he asked.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Only if one is the sort of person whose heart is always open.”
Well. That did not apply to him, did it?
He had not brought her here, though, to stand on this spot, remembering, and gazing out upon a landscape that was not clearly visible despite the moonlight. These were not the memories he wished to arouse, perhaps even relive. He led her around the pavilion and down among the trees. It was quite dark down there, but they did not have far to go, and he had come here very recently to find the leaves he had wanted. He turned her and set her back to the tree where they had stood that night. He traced the shape of her face with his fingertips, pushing them beneath her hood. Her arms came about his waist and drew him closer.
He kissed her, teasing her lips with his own, the inside of her mouth with his tongue. He feathered kisses over her eyelids and temples, down over her cheeks to her jaw and chin, and he kissed her mouth again. She kissed him back, her mouth growing hotter, her breath more audible. His body was pressed to hers, all the heaviness of their clothing between them.
“I long to have a bed at your back,” he murmured against her lips, “and nothing between us but skin.”
“Mmm,” she said.
He wanted to impregnate her and watch her womb swell. He wanted to make a family with her and raise them with her and play with them and enjoy them. He wanted...
He touched his forehead to hers. He had brought her here to say something to her.
“Gwyneth,” he said. “I can say the words if it is important to you to hear them. I will even mean them in an impersonal sort of way. I just cannotfeelthem.”
“It is important to me,” she said, and he closed his eyes. Not that he could really see her anyway.
“I love you,” he said. “I honor you and I... I want you. I want you as my countess and my companion and lover. I want to have children with you. I came here to remember. I did it on my own a day or two ago. But I needed you here with me. Not to rememberwhathappened but how itfelt.I can remember love. I can remember the euphoria and the hope and the... trust. I can remember being in love. I believe I can offer you almost all I could offer when I was able to love. And I will do my best. I will even remember to tell you from time to time that I love you, and I will not be lying. But I am not that young man any longer.”
Was he sounding as idiotic as he felt? She was laughing softly, and her hands had found his face to cup it between her palms.
“Devlin,” she said. “Love is not afeeling.It can reveal itself in feelings. It can bring intense happiness and the depths of despair. But it isnota feeling. It is not a belief or action either, though it can show itself in both. It is... But there I am stumped, of course, for the word itself means nothing, and what it represents cannot be confined within words at all. I did not even know you very well six years ago, even though I had been in love with you for at least six years before that. But I am very sure that you love far more deeply and compassionately now than you did then. Including me. You love me more now than you did then. If that word does not suit you, then let it go from your vocabulary. It is not important. It is just a word.”
He gazed into her face, though he could see it only very dimly. As it seemed he could see everything. Very dimly. He had left behind the controlled, disciplined outlook upon life he had adopted in the Peninsula. It had worked well for him there, but it could not be applied here. Here he had felt all asea since his return, unable to go back, unwilling to go forward.Afraidto go forward. Unable to see anything clearly.
He sighed. “Unfortunately we need words,” he said. “I am not sure we would do very well without them. I do love you, Gwyneth. I have the strange feeling you are the air I breathe. Help me?”
“Always.” She brought his face closer and spoke against his lips. “Always, Devlin. But only if you will help me. Not in any dependent way, but in the way that we will always be better together than separate—two independent wholes choosing to act together. I love you too. I love you, I love you.”
And she kissed him.
He relaxed his weight against her, pinning her to the tree. And he was aware of a greater darkness as a cloud must have moved across the face of the moon. But the darkness, he realized at the same moment, wasout there.It was no longerin here.In here was all light and trust and eagerness to move forward with his life and his duties and responsibilities. Perhaps even with love.
“Say that phrase again,” he said. “That Welsh phrase.”
“Rwy’n dy garu di?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “That one.”
“Rwy’n dy garu di,”she said.I love you.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It very rarely snowed for Christmas. It might not happen this year, but it was certainly snowing on December 23. It was no major storm. The snow did not fall in such quantities that it blanketed the countryside and obliterated distinguishing features, including roads and ditches. It did not make travel impossible or even very dangerous provided one kept in mind that it could be a bit slippery underfoot if one was not paying attention to how one stepped.
It was, in fact, a white Christmas.
It turned bare branches to silver and white lace. It settled softly upon grass and rooftops. It looked, as it floated downward, like balls of cotton.
