That man allowing himself to be awkwardly wrestled to the stage boards by a lad half his age and size—risking showing everyone precisely what a Scotsman wore beneath his kilt—was her true desire personified.
“I’m madly in love with you, Juliet.”
When he, at last, allowed James to pin him to the boards and lay in faux defeat as the lad released an unseemly roar of triumph, a realization walloped Juliet over the head.
Love was war.
And Rory, the nicest, most decent man she’d ever known, had been fighting all this time.
For her.
“You’re not exactly the most approachable lass.”
He wasn’t wrong.
In truth, he’d done everything to win her—even if he did have her labor over a poem for another woman.
The time had arrived…
For her surrender.
And what a sweet defeat it would be, for it would win her heart’s desire. Yet…
She must fight, too.
To be worthy of him.
What was that nonsense that she never intended to marry?
Of course she did.
She fully intended to marry Rory.
Urgency filled her. It was only when she started to take a step toward the stage that she noticed her hand still holding the wind chimes. “Davina,” she began, handing over the instrument, “you must visit Delilah in London soon. She’ll be happy to teach you how to break a few rules, and she’ll be glad for your company after—” Her mouth snapped shut.
“After?” Davina prodded, a knowing smile in her fathomless eyes.
After I run off with that man presently being pinned to the ground by a youth half his age and size.
But she couldn’t very well say that.
Besides, the twinkle in Davina’s eye suggested she’d intuited as much.
Juliet cleared her throat. “After, erm, Easter.” It was as good a time as any, and honestly her interest in the matter had altogether deserted her.
“Easter was only last month,” Davina pointed out.
“Yes,” said Juliet, “that would be lovely.” She had one more thing to say. The most important thing. “True desire will come to you someday, Davina, and leave you no choice but to follow it. You’ll knowwhen you find it.”
And with a sure step Juliet began making her way up the center aisle, toward the stage.
Toward the man she was madly, irrevocably in love with.
Toward the man who would be hers.
After all, it was Shakespeare who said all the world was a stage—in the very play that was presently being enacted on those boards.
And within the black-and-white lines of a play wasn’t there universal truth that infused words with meaning?
