Page 48 of Laird of Twilight

“So would you,” he said.

“I do not understand why you think so.”

“To be honest, both you and I want to avoid other engagements, and there are...many other reasons.” He tipped his head. “Shall ask you again, Elspeth?”

“Hmm.” She considered, eyes twinkling. “Would you drop to one knee?”

“If you like.” Anything, he thought, surprising himself.

“What do you want?” Her tone was serious now.

“I want,” he said quietly, firmly, “to marry you. I am glad, in a way, to have an obligation to you.”

“Thank you.” But she stepped back, disrupting his hope in the moment. “Please do not let me keep you from your work any longer. Please, can we leave soon? I will read until then. And search for other books on fairy lore in the library.” She chattered too brightly, turning away, skirt swirling.

What had changed her mind suddenly, when they seemed on the verge of agreement? Things had whirled again without warning. “I have some in the study.” He led her there, indicating the desk littered with books and papers. “My grandmother’s manuscript,” he said. “As a condition of her will, I must agree to finish it, so I am doing some research and making notations. I found some books in the library to help with that.”

She traced her fingers over the books piled there. “But you do not believe in fairies, or in any part of Otherworld.”

“That makes no difference. Her book is a compilation of accounts and stories. Readers can decide for themselves what they want to believe.”

“One must believe wholeheartedly in whatever one does.”

That simple truth gave him pause. But he shrugged. “Anyone may write objectively about a subject with which they do not necessarily agree.”

“And one may make a marriage without love. Obligation is enough.”

He inclined his head. “Touché, Miss MacArthur.”

She flipped the pages of a book. “I suppose we might assist each other,” she said softly, “in a mutual agreement.”

“What?” He was distracted, studying the lovely curve of her neck, small and vulnerable where her glossy dark hair gathered in a braid; and the delicate shell of her ear. Everything about her was beautiful. He stood close enough to feel her warmth beside him. “What did you say?”

“Which road shall we take?” Her fingers tapped a verse on an open page. “Here, the ballad of Thomas the Rhymer.” She drew a breath to read.

Oh see ye not yon narrow road,

So thick beset with thorns and briars,

That is the road to righteousness,

Though after it but few enquires.

Entranced, James leaned forward to read the next verse.

And see not ye that broad, broad road

That lies across the lily leven

That is the path of wickedness

Though some call it the road to heaven.

“The second road is more interesting than the first.” He touched her shoulder, and when she allowed it, he traced a finger along the back of her neck. She turned sweetly, willingly into his arms, and sighed. He thought she said his name.

This time the kiss happened quickly, naturally, without hesitation. He knew the risks, knew he might lose his heart, his very soul here and now. He wanted to lose them to her. Brushing his lips over her cheek, her earlobe, he came to his senses, remembering the fierce passion of the night before. Drawing back, he set her a little apart, almost casually, unwilling to show the depth of his feelings even now.

“Perhaps we could agree to an engagement so long as it suits us both,” he suggested. “A wicked sort of bargain, but it may do for now.”