“YOU LOVE ME? Truly?” Chris whispered against his lips.
Alistair snugged her tighter against his chest, fighting the urge to kiss her again and again.
“Always, lass,” he pledged.
They stood on Via delle Cannelle—an ancient series of steps linking the lower and upper sections of Fiesole. Around them, night jasmine clung to the ancient walls, cascading sheets of green dotted with tiny white flowers that perfumed the evening air.
“When all is right, love is like breathing—natural and easy,”his gran had told him once.
Now he understood her words. Loving Chris was effortless. A dizzy free fall into happiness, like a burst of laughter on Christmas morning or tumbling backward into heaped autumn leaves.
He felt as if she had always belonged at his side, and yet the joy of her presence refused to abate.
“Marry me, lass.” He touched a palm to her cheek.
He sensed more than heard her gasp.
“Marriage?” Her blue-gray eyes searched his.
“Aye. I cannot bear it, wondering and hoping ye will be mine.”
A smile lit her cheeks, elation in her gaze.
“Oh, Alis!” She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I cannot bear it either. Please. Let us marry! Let me take you as husband.”
Let me take you as husband.How like Chris to accept his proposal in such a manner. No simple yesfor her, no acquiescence. She would always insist on meeting him as an equal.
“We shall take the world by storm,” she continued. “You and I...married archaeologists. We can research and travel and publish and always be together.”
“Aye.”
This, he decided.
This was one of the many things he loved about Chris—she would always “drink life to the lees,” as Tennyson described.
“In Scotland,” he continued, “when a couple decides to marry, we plight our troth with a handfasting.”
“A handfasting? Don’t Scots consider that a form of legal marriage?”
“Aye, several generations ago, it was. Family lore says my gran and grandad married via handfasting. Now, marriages must be solemnized by a vicar or the local sheriff. But the tradition remains. Many couples handfast when they first plight their troth.”
Chris smiled. “Let us handfast, then. We shall do everything properly.”
She stretched to her tiptoes and quite thoroughly kissed the grin from his lips.
ALISTAIR HAD NO memory of how he came to be standing at the edge of the excavation site. The wordsMrs. Newtonandaccidenthad sent him racing from the castle without a hat or coat.
What had occurred?
He needed to see Chris. He needed to understand what had happened.
Pushing through the gathered workers, he finally comprehended the situation.
Chris lay at the bottom of the excavation trench, a pile of stones and mud atop her legs. A trickle of blood ran from her temple onto her cheek, a stark slash of crimson against the dirt and pallor of her skin.
Odd, he would ponder later, how a single moment could clarify one’s heart.
Chris was hurt.HisChris.
