Page 182 of Beat of Love
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he crossed the room.
But instead of joining her in bed, he stopped in front of his duffel bag and stooped over it. She heard the soft rasp of a zipper. He straightened, slowly walked to her, and sat on theedge of the bed. “When I packed to come here, I felt compelled to include this.”
She looked at the object in his hand — a dark green velvet pouch, worn at the edges, drawstring frayed. He took hold of her hand, placed the pouch in her palm, and closed her fingers over it, folding both his hands over hers. Whatever the bag contained, it was hard and flat. She bit back her curiosity, somehow understanding the need to let this play out on his terms.
“Years ago, my forefather, Dónal Ó Raifeartaigh, the man I’m named after, lost the love of his life, Saoirse, because he was promised to another. Saoirse left Ireland, never to be seen again. But somehow their love transcended death, only to be awoken again a century later with their descendants.” He let go of her hand. “Open the pouch and understand.”
Her fingers shook as she tugged the drawstring open and upended the object onto her palm. It was a small painting, a woman. And a sudden overwhelming sorrow filled her, and unbidden tears flowed from her eyes, blinding her. She cried out and pressed her hand, still clutching the little portrait, to her hurting heart.
Was she having a heart attack? If so, timing sucked. “W-what’s h-happening to m-me,” she rasped, blinking rapidly.
Rafferty gave a soft curse and pried the portrait from her fingers.
The pain subsided and tears stopped.
She wiped her eyes on her pajama sleeve and looked at Raff. “What was that?” she whispered.
“I think you felt her sorrow.”
“Whose sorrow?”
He pinched the painting between two fingers and held it up. “Saoirse’s.”
She peered at it, the features becoming clear. Her breath caught.
It was …her. But how?
Automatically reaching for it, Rafferty clasped her hand with his free one, stopping her. “Careful,” he said, giving her a solemn look. “It seems to hold power for you, too.”
As he spoke, a whisper of energy moved over her skin, delicate and deliberate, raising goosebumps in its wake. The fine hair on her arms lifted, as if her body sensed something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet — blood reaching across time.
Then came a scent. Faint, but distinct. Like dry grass after rain, with a trace of something sweet and herbal beneath it. Familiar, yet not. Like the echo of a place she’d never been but somehow knew.
“Oh. Oh, wow,” she breathed. “I felt something. Smelled something, even.” Her voice steadied as she looked at him. “Okay… what kind of sorcery is this, Rafferty?”
He met her gaze, his tone soft. “You’re Saoirse’s descendant. Just like I’m Dónal’s. I gave up trying to understand the mystical side of my heritage a long time ago. But what I believe is this — we share a love that cuts across space and time.”
She gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “Back then, the first time I met you … there was something. A pull I couldn’t explain. Then forgot.” She looked away for a beat, then back at him. “I thought I was just confused. Now you’re telling me I felt this — whatever this is — eventhen.”
“We both did,” he said, his voice rough with memory. “I hated myself for lusting after Sullivan’s girlfriend, but dammit, Red, Iwantedyou.”
Brandy arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Yeah? And you dealt with all that guilt by working out your unresolved sexual tension with my friend Jackie.”
He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “That wasn’t exactly my proudest moment.”
She gave him a look — half amused, half fond. “We weretwenty. None of us made good choices then.”
Rafferty gave a low chuckle, but then his expression turned serious. “No, we didn’t then. But we’re not twenty anymore, Brandy-Lyn.” He stepped closer, voice low, steady. “They brought us this far — Saoirse and Dónal. But the rest? That’s on us.”
He set the miniature on the bedside table and slipped from the bed to his knees and grabbed hold of her hands, kissing her knuckles as he spoke, “Marry me, Brandy-Lyn. Not because of the kids. Not because of an old legend. But because of us. You. Me.” Sincerity underscored his voice; love shone in his gaze. “I love you. Be mine.”
Her breath caught. For a second, all she could do was stare at him — this complicated, beautiful man on his knees in front of her, asking for forever with his heart wide open.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice thick. Then louder, clearer: “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
His shoulders sagged with relief, a grin breaking through the seriousness of the moment. “I don’t have a ring,” he said, almost apologetically.
She smiled, heart lifting. “I have one.”
