Free Web of Love by Mary Balogh Page B

her.
    â€œA present? You bought me a present?” He had not done that for a long time, not since they were in Spain. Oh, he had given her money when she went to England, with strict orders to spend it on herself. But it was the little, often absurd presents that she had always valued most. “Where is it?”
    â€œIn my pocket,” he said. But he clasped a hand over the pocket as her hand went toward it. “What do I get first?”
    She knelt on the sofa beside him and wrapped her arms about his neck. “What do you want?” she asked, and kissed him lightly on both cheeks.
    â€œThe lips,” he said. “Nothing less than the lips.”
    â€œOh,” she said, “it must be a very valuable present, then. All right, the lips it is.”
    They were both chuckling after she had finished kissing him lingeringly.
    â€œMaybe we should forget the present,” he said.
    â€œNot a chance!” She reached into his pocket. Her fingers closed around a package wrapped in soft paper that rustled.
    â€œPerhaps you will not like it,” he said, sitting quite still.
    â€œI will,” she said, drawing it out. “I don’t care what it is. What is it?”
    He laughed. “Open it and see, lass,” he said.
    It was a pair of earbobs, tiny, delicately made, each set with an emerald.
    â€œTo wear with your new evening gown,” he said. “The one you wore last night.”
    â€œOh, Charlie,” she said, “they are lovely. And must have cost you the earth. You shouldn’t have. You don’t need to buy me expensive gifts.”
    â€œYes, I do,” he said. “Oh, yes I do, sweetheart. And they were the very smallest jewels in the shop.”
    They both laughed as she wrapped her arms about his neck again. “Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t have a present for you.”
    â€œYes, you do,” he said, closing his arms about her. “You are a whole treasure, remember? My treasure.”
    She rested her cheek against the bald top of his head as he hugged her. Then she sat back on her heels and looked at him, the earbobs in her hand.
    â€œTears?” he said softly, reaching out and wiping away one tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What is it, sweetheart?”
    She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Oh, Charlie, nothing. And everything.” The muscles of her face worked against her will, and more tears followed the first as his arms came firmly about her. She slid her legs from under her and hid her face against his shoulder.
    â€œWhat is it, sweetheart?” He was kissing the side of her face.
    â€œEverything is changing,” she said when she could. “It is all different this time. I’m frightened, Charlie. Time is running out for us, isn’t it?”
    He forced her chin up and dried her eyes with a large handkerchief. “Nothing has changed,” he said firmly. “We are still here together, lass, and we still love each other. And it is unlike you to talk this way. You never did before. I have always come back to you, haven’t I?”
    â€œYes,” she whispered.
    â€œWell, then,” he said. “I’ll come back this time too. And this will be the last time. I promise. We’ll go back to England and buy that cottage at last, and you shall have your own garden and dogs and cats and chickens and anything else you like. We’ll be there by this time next year.”
    â€œI don’t care about the dogs and the cats,” she said, “or about the cottage or the garden. I only want you, Charlie. Tell me you will be there. Promise me you will. I can’t live without you. I wouldn’t want to live without you.”
    â€œSweetheart!” His voice held surprise as he caught her to him again. “Sweetheart, what has brought on this mood? It is most unlike you. Have I been neglecting you? Is that it? I have been, haven’t I?