Island of Glass
Page 91

So he sipped his whiskey, brooded into the fire, and with a soldier’s mind went over every step of the battle looking for mistakes.
He didn’t hear her so much as feel her, and turning his head saw her standing just inside the terrace doors, scanning the room with those amazing eyes.
“About bloody time.”
He rose, walked to the bed, tossed the bedding aside. He stripped to the skin, and rolled in. A moment later he felt her leap up, land beside him. Curl against him.
And finding his peace, he put an arm around her and slept.
• • •
The change came at dawn with the sun breaking the night with soft pinks, strong reds, rich golds. It moved through her, pain and beauty, helplessness and power. She shuddered with it, gave in, gave all as one became another.
And on a sigh opened her eyes to find Doyle’s on her.
“What?”
“Beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Still half dazed, she blinked. “Huh?”
He rolled onto her, covered her, and his mouth was hot, indescribably tender on hers. Her system, her spirit, her body, barely through the glory of the change, trembled anew at the fresh assault on her senses.
She could barely breathe and his hands stroked over her skin, molded her breasts, skimmed down to her hips. His mouth followed.
She flew up, clung, clung, clung to that edge of impossible pleasure, then let it go to take the fall.
Helplessness and power, pain and beauty.
All she was responded, gave back. Here, too, was change, a merging of two into one. They rolled over the bed, grasping, finding, taking.
He could still smell the wild on her, all but feel it beat inside her. When her mouth met his again, strong and fierce, he surrendered to all she was.
And all she was, was his.
Lust burned. Love shattered. Need beyond the physical overwhelmed.
When she straddled him, those eyes like melted gold, her body taut and glowing in those streaks of morning, he was lost.
So she took him, slow, slow, glorious torture. Then stronger, deeper, until her breath caught on moans and her heart thundered under his hands. And driving, driving, fast, wild, and straight into the heart of the storm.
She slid bonelessly down on him, rested her head on his chest. Her lips curved when his arms came around her, as they had around the wolf before they’d slept.
She’d have slept again, warm and content, if not for the sudden and desperate hunger. She hoped to God there was food of some sort close by.
“You watched me change,” she told him.
“It’s not the first time.” He stroked her hair. “It’s magnificent. Oddly arousing.”
She snickered at that, then her head shot up as she sniffed the air. “Food.”
“There’s a kind of sitting room where—”
“No, here.” She rolled off him, leaped up.
On a table were platters—that hadn’t been there—eggs, grilled meats, bread, glossy pastries.
He pushed up to his elbows. “Tell me that’s coffee.”
She sniffed a pot as she stuffed bacon in her mouth. “Tea, but it’s strong. I’m starving.”
He watched her eat, still naked, still flushed from sex, her hair tousled and shaggy, her hands grabbing greedily.
“I’m in love with you.”
She glanced back. “Hey, you said it right out loud.”
“I’m in love with you. Damn it.”
“Sounds more like you. Better get your ass up if you want any of this.”
“I’ve been married. Twice.”
Riley paused, deliberately poured tea. “That’s not surprising in three centuries.”
“The first was about forty years after . . . after. She was young and sweet-natured. I shouldn’t have touched her, but I did, and more than once, and with that she— She got pregnant. I couldn’t ruin her. I had ruined her.”
“So you married her. Did you tell her?”
“No, I didn’t tell her. And I didn’t need to, as it turned out, as both she and the baby died in the birthing.”
“I’m sorry.” In that moment, she felt his grief as her own. Dull and deep. “I’m so sorry.”
“Not uncommon in those days. I swore I’d never touch an innocent again, such as she had been. And didn’t. More than a hundred years and I married again. She was a bit older, not innocent. A widow. Barren. We enjoyed each other. Her I did tell, though I doubt she believed me. Until she grew older, and I didn’t. And she grew bitter with it. I had soldier’s work to do, but I always came back to her. And one day I came back to her too late. She’d hanged herself, and left a letter for me. Cursing me.”
Riley nodded, sipped some tea. “I’m sorry. It sucks. For the first, if I got pregnant, it’s now the twenty-first century. I’m strong and healthy. For the second, I’m not vain, and I’m not stupid. And over all that, I don’t need marriage.”
“I do. With you.”
She choked on the tea. “What?”
“It’s stupid. It’s a mistake. We’ll both regret it.”
And looking at her, just looking at her, he didn’t give a damn.
“I want the pledge. For a day, a week, for fifty years or if you live to a hundred and four.”
“You’re serious? You’re asking me to marry you?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He rolled out of bed, stalked over. “Give me the damn tea.”