The Enchantment (37 page)

She wanted to throw caution to the wind and say yes—to shout it at the top of her lungs. But she was deeply, desperately afraid. What if it was all a lie? What if she'd only changed a little bit, and tomorrow she turned cold and hard again? She couldn't live with herself if she hurt Larence.

"Marry me. Now."

"I ... I can't."

His hands cupped her face. "Marry me."

She tried to shake her head no, but his hands refused to let her move. "I'm afraid." The hated words crept out of her mouth. Barely heard.

"Don't be."

"I'm not nice. Really, I—"

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"Then change."

"What if I can't?"

He smiled softly. "Emma, you already have."

Her heart stopped beating. Her gaze sharpened, probed the truth in his eyes. She saw his faith in their love, and his certainty gave her the strength to believe in herself. "Do you really think—"

"Emma, I know. Now, say you'll marry me. I'll only ask another twenty-two times, so start thinking."

Nervously she ran her tongue along her bottom lip. She had changed; he was right about that. Maybe not all the way, maybe not about everything, but too much to go back to her old life. Now that she knew what it meant to be in love, to be loved, she couldn't go back to being alone and lonely.

Larence had been right about so many things. Maybe— please God, maybe—he was right about her.

About them.

For once in her life, she had to make a leap of faith. Had to really believe she was capable of love. She swallowed dryly, wishing she had a snifter of brandy to calm her shaking nerves. "Okay," she whispered.

"I'll marry you."

The minute the words left her mouth, she felt an almost unbelievable sense of freedom, of coming home.

' 'Are you sure?"

She raised a hand to his face, felt the bristly plane of his cheek beneath her palm. Their gazes locked; his unblinking and yet afraid, as if he'd just glimpsed the Holy Grail and expected it to vanish at his touch, hers watery and filled with the most profound sense of love, of peace, she'd ever experienced. Ever imagined. "I'm sure."

Emma had agreed to marry him.

Every fifteen minutes or so that sentence flashed through Larence's mind and filled him anew with wonder.

"Look, Larence!"

She let go of his hand and bounded ahead. Her camisa slid alluringly off one shoulder as she ran.

Streamers of white-blond hair fluttered out behind her, bounced gaily against her back. Her bare feet made a muffled, thumping sound atop the golden bricks.

"Hurry up," she hollered, laughing.

He watched her with an almost unbearable sense of pride. She ran nimbly, so sure of herself and what she wanted. Always so sure. The lilting, happy strains of her laughter floated back to him, and he had a sudden urge to race up and grab her ... to scoop her into his arms and rip the dress from her body, then lay her out on the sun-warmed bricks and kiss every inch of her body. . . .

"Come on . . ."

He pushed aside the delicious fantasy and sped after her, marveling again at his ability to run. Catching up 341

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to her in a few strides, he grabbed her hand and spun her around to face him.

She blinked up at him, surprised. Her eyes seemed huge and incredibly blue against the sun-darkened oval of her face. Strands of hair clung to her parted lips, her nose, her lashes. Her rapid breathing made the moonlight-pale curtain flutter gently against her face.

In that split second he fell in love with her all over again. He smoothed the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"How much?" she demanded with a cocky toss of her head.

He grinned. "More than you deserve."

She grinned back. "There was never any doubt about that."

He curled his arm around her shoulder and drew her close, thinking again how good it was to be alive on this beautiful spring day. She slipped her hand around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder.

Together, more slowly this time, they walked down the street. There was no sense of urgency, of being rushed. They had all the time in the world, and they both knew it. They were young, they were in love, and the city of their dreams lay sprawled all around them.

Larence smiled. It was amazing how he'd almost forgotten about the city. He'd found it, his life's dream, and yet, now that he was here, it paled in comparison to the love he'd found so accidentally.

They turned a corner and came upon the first dwelling. Stopping, they stared at the entrance in silent amazement. The arched doorway was wrought of polished sterling silver decorated with turquoise stones.

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Faded remnants of a once red blanket hung limply across the doorway's opening.

"It's beautiful," Emma breathed.

Wordlessly he took her hand, and together they stepped up the low earthen step. The frayed edges of the rotting blanket fluttered across Larence's brow, and wreathed him for a moment with the scent of old, cobwebby wool. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell as he pushed past the blanket.

What he saw inside brought him to a dead stop. This was what he'd waited a lifetime to see; not the golden streets or silver doorways or turquoise carvings, but this: everyday life in Cibola. The smell of dry sandstone, centuries-old leather, and rotting wood filled his nostrils. And something else, something he could almost identify and yet not quite . . .

Corn, he realized suddenly. He could smell the faint, distant memory of corn.

Sandstone walls formed a rounded, cozy home. Two glazed, circular openings in either wall served as windows, allowing twin mote-thickened wedges of sunlight to slant across the floor and create a perfect X in the shadowy interior.

X marks the spot. . . .

Beside him, Emma sneezed. "I can't see much. ..."

Larence let go of her hand and moved into the light to better see the riches spread out before him.

Against the back wall was a square, rock-flanked fire pit. A flagstone flue cut the pale stone wall in half.

Between the fire pit and the mealing trough, an even dozen met-latls, grinding mills, were slanted precisely in a stone trench.

A skinned pole hung suspended from the ceiling, and

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he could almost see the blankets and articles of clothing that had once fluttered gently from its knotty surface. Antelope-horn pegs studded the right wall, housing countless quivers, bows, war clubs, disks of haliotis shells, rabbit sticks, and other ornaments.

In the far corner, peeking out from behind the long, low-slung adobe bench that hugged the wall, were several exquisite water jugs and a half dozen black earthen cooking pots.

Even from this distance he could see the artistry of the pots. He hurried to the corner and dropped to one knee in front of the treasures. Reaching out, he touched the gritty, intricately decorated surface of the water jug. It was the most perfect example of Anasazi craftsmanship he'd ever seen.

Emma kneeled silently beside him on the hard stone floor.

He grinned, thinking how wonderful it was to have her here right now. It would have been so much less rewarding a discovery if he'd made it alone. . . .

An image came to him, as clear as day, crowding out every other thought in his mind. He saw himself and Emma, old, gray-haired, bent over a paper-strewn table. They were working on something—a book perhaps—about another faraway place. Working together.

A team, he thought with pride, that's what they'd be for the rest of their lives. Together they could do anything.

If only—

He tried to stop the thought, but couldn't. There was only one thing that stood between them. Only one thing that could wrench them apart. Money.

He had to ask, had—finally—to know her answer. His

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hands curled into nervous, clammy fists. Turning to her, he said, "It belongs in a museum. ..."

She looked confused by his words. "Of course it does."

Relief rushed through him. He touched her face, gently cupped her chin in his palm, and looked deeply into her eyes. In their vibrant blue depths he saw his future, his life. He'd given her his soul days ago, trusted her with his love long before he should have, and now she'd vindicated that trust. His love, his soul, his dream—they'd all be safe in her hands.

"I love you," he said, realizing for the first time how woefully inadequate the words were. How small in comparison to the feeling they expressed.

She smiled, and he marveled again at how beautiful her eyes were now that the coldness had disappeared. "Go ahead," she said, "get out the notebook."

He grinned at how well she knew him. Turning back for one last look at the pot, he placed his hands on his knees and started to push to his feet. Then something blue caught his eye.

He reached for it. The pottery wobbled, clanked together as he slid his hand through the opening between two pots. His fingers closed around something cold and hard, and gently drew back. He opened his hand, and in his palm lay a shining heap of turquoise and silver.

Emma gasped.

The necklace caught the sun and glowed with blue-green life. In the midst of the perfectly polished stones was a saucer-sized circlet of smaller beads set in intricately scrolled silver.

"Oh, Larence ..."

He uncoiled the necklace, and as he did, a small, unadorned gold band fell to the ground with a thump.

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He flicked a glance at it, grinned, and then raised the necklace to Emma's throat.

"F-Forme?"

"For now at least," he said, placing the treasure around her neck. She sat as motionless as the marble statue he'd often compared her to. The square turquoise beads wreathed her throat with color, and the circlet settled in the valley between her breasts.

God, she was beautiful. And she was his. His.

Larence's chest suddenly felt too small for his heart. Never had he known love could be like this, could feel like this. It was the fulfillment of every wish he'd ever held, every prayer he'd ever been too afraid to utter. The long, lonely years spiraled away, washed away like flecks of dirt beneath the cleansing water of her love.

He thought of a poem by Cartwright he'd read long ago. The words had moved him then and stayed with him, hovering in the back of his mind. Waiting, he knew now; they'd been waiting for this moment.

"Emma?"

She looked up, gazed unblinkingly into his eyes.

"Give me your hand."

She did. Still on one knee, he took her left hand in his. Staring deeply into her eyes, he began to recite the words he'd waited a lifetime to use: "There are two births; the one when light first strikes the new awaken

'd sense, the other when two souls unite. And we must count our life from thence. When you loved me and I loved you, then both of us were born anew."

"Poetry," she murmured. There was wonder in her voice, as if no one had ever given her a greater gift.

Tears flooded her eyes, but she didn't look away. Her breasts rose and fell in shallow, emotion-filled breaths.

"Emmaline Amanda Hatter, will you marry me?"

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Tears slid down her cheeks and plopped onto the turquoise necklace. "I—I will."

"Then, Em, in the face of God and history and all that I hold sacred and holy, I vow to love you and care for you and cherish you all the days of my life."

She dashed the tears from her cheeks. "La-Larence. She frowned in thought. "What's your—"

"Alexander."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "Larence Alexander Digby, in the face of God and . . . gold and all that /

hold sacred and holy, I vow to love you and care for you and cherish you all the days of my life."

He slipped the plain gold band on her finger. Her hand lowered a fraction of an inch, as if the precious metal weighed it down. They stared at the ring for a long, silent moment, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Is it legal?" she asked suddenly.

A slow, sensual smile curved his lips. "Not yet. There's the matter of the consummation. ..."

He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him. They toppled hard, landing in a tangled heap of elbows and knees on the hard stone floor. Laughing, Larence rolled her beneath him.

"Here?" she said breathlessly.

His fingers worked deftly to unbutton her camisa. "I doubt it'll be the first time someone's done it on this floor."

She smiled seductively and met him more than halfway for a kiss. "Just don't make it the last."

Night crept in to steal the daylight from the rounded windows. The X had wavered for half an hour or so, then gradually disappeared. Now the only light in the chamber emanated from the fire in the pit. Bright 348

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orange-red flames sputtered and hissed and sent shifting, dancing shadows across the curved walls.

Emma sat back on her heels and leaned tiredly against Larence's shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a brief respite, then let her gaze wander back to the pad of paper in his lap. The largest water jug was just beginning to take shape beneath his skilled pen.

He sketched the intricate design with sure, steady strokes. The calm in and out of their breathing echoed in the shadowy room, gave the long-deserted place a new heartbeat of life.

"That band should be darker," Emma said automatically.

"Right you are," he answered, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "You're shaping up to be a great professor's wife."

Emma smiled, thinking about how much she'd changed in the last few days, how much Larence—and love—had changed her. Two weeks ago she'd have cold-cocked anyone daft enough to call her a great professor's wife. Now she found the compliment endearing.

Wife. Her heart swelled until it felt heavy and almost painfully full. For most of her life she'd been alone, a loner. Nothing had reached her soul or touched her heart, and she'd moved blindly, obsessively forward toward her goals, never allowing herself to want too much, need too much from anyone.