“But I’m all aflutter.”
He shot her a viciously dark look. “I didn’t love them. I cared for them, both, and I pledged to them. I honored the pledge, without love, as I thought love wasn’t necessary. Or possible. I love you, and I’ll damn well have the pledge and make it.”
“I could say no.”
“You won’t.” He slammed the tea down. Then closed his eyes a moment. Opened them with his heart in them. “Don’t. Don’t say no. Give me this one thing.”
She reached up to frame his face. “Do you understand I don’t need this to stay with you, to love you, to accept you’ll go on after I stop?”
“Yes. I don’t need it to stay with you or to love you. I need it because I will and I do. I need it because in three and a half centuries, you’re the only woman I’ve loved.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just . . . okay? That’s your answer?”
“Yeah, okay. I’m in.”
He shook his head, then lowered his brow to hers. “What a pair we are.”
“It works.”
“It works,” he agreed. “I guess you’ll want a ring.”
“Treweth—the Anglo-Saxon root of betrothed. Means truth. The ring’s a symbol of the promise. I appreciate symbols.”
“I’ll find something.” He drew her in. He’d found her, hadn’t he?
“It’d be nice to stay here.” Skin to skin, heart to heart. “But.” With reluctance she drew back. “I’ve got some questions, and the first is, where are the damn stars?”
“Safe, we’re told. I’ll fill you in. We should get dressed, find the others.”
“Great. Where are my clothes?”
“Couldn’t say.”
Her brows knitted. “Didn’t you get them?”
“Considering the situation, I didn’t think to pick up after you.”
“Well crap.” At a loss, she looked around the room, then walked to a delicately carved wardrobe. Stared at the contents. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Doyle studied in turn, smiled. Inside hung a pair of leather breeches the color of cowhide, a simple shirt, a leather jerkin, and his own coat and boots.
And a dress the color of old gold with silver laces and piping along with kid boots.
“Seriously? You get the cool leather pants and I get a Maid Marian dress?”
“It’s that or naked.”
“Let me think about it a minute.”
She wore the dress—and scowled at herself in the mirror. “Where am I supposed to put my gun, my knife? Where are my gun and knife?”
“We’ll sort it out.” Doyle strapped on his sword. “You look beautiful.”
“I look like I’m going to a Renaissance fair.” She tugged uselessly at the bodice. “That’s a lot of landscape. Why are breasts such a thing?”
“I’ll show you later,” he said and went to answer the knock on the door.