“I understand,” she said levelly.
“I will never hurt you,” he said fiercely. “I will protect you with my life. No one shall take you from me, I swear this. I will not allow it. You are mine—and this means you have all that is mine, and that you have my protection until I die. Do you understand this?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I am going home with you, Rolfe. Even had you not said this, I would go. I cannot live apart from you either,”
He smiled, taking her hand, holding her gaze.
“I would I could marry you,” he said suddenly.
Those simple words meant more to her than anything he could possibly have said. She looked at the floor, willing herself not to cry. Alice was still in a convent in France. “I am flattered,” she said softly.
“You know it cannot be,” he said, lifting her chin so he could gaze into her eyes.
“I know.”
“But in my heart,” he said, his blue eyes locked with hers, “you are my wife.”
No words could have made her happier.
“Alice was never my wife in my heart,” he said. “You know the man I am. When I pledge you my heart, it will never be taken back. You are my wife in my heart: You will always have my protection, my loyalty, my fidelity, and—” He hesitated, and then he flushed.
She was so happy she was crying. She gripped his hand. “’Tis only words,” she encouraged softly. “Only words. A man like you is afraid of a few small words?” she teased through her tears.
He smiled slightly. “You also have my love. We are married in our hearts and, I hope, in the eyes of God.”
She left her chair to sit in his lap, holding him. He let her, tucking his head in her bosom. She kissed him, trembling with love, stroking his hair. He could not remain submissive for long, and he shifted so he was holding her. She did not care, she laughed, she wept. Never had she been so happy. She knew the man he was, this husband of her heart. He was Rolfe de Warenne, he was Rolfe the Relentless, proud, strong, a man of honor above all else. He had just given her everything she wished for, all that he could. He had given her his heart, his love.
“I gladly accept, my lord,” she whispered, and he crushed her to him again.
