Page 101 of The Phoenix Bride
And then I reach her.Finally,I reach her, and the rain has driven away anyone who could see us, and she is as wet as I am, shivering—she will catch cold. She says, “David—” and I take her in my arms and kiss her.
She is burning hot against me, cold water and warm skin, her breath a brand, her fingers coals as they grip my elbows. She kisses me back as if this is a fight she intends to win, harsh and demanding, and I have little choice but to offer her the victory. By the time she pulls back we are both gasping, half laughing, and I feel near feverish for want of her.
She says, “Hello.”
I say, “Hello.”
Then we are laughing once more. I tug her away from the edge of the canal, to take shelter beneath the trees. I kiss her again, and once more, and then again; but her fingers lift this time to press against my lips and keep me away.
“You didn’t reply to my letter,” she says, frowning.
“I know. Forgive me.”
“Why? You weren’t certain you’d come?”
“I didn’t read it until yesterday,” I reply honestly. “I had convinced myself you would tell me you despised me.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Because I am a fool,” I say, and her expression softens.
“I have missed you,” she tells me.
“And I you. Are you well? How is your health? Your appetite? You are eating still?”
Laughing at the question, she replies, “Always a physician.”
“Of course.”
“It is much better than it was. My panic, also. Sometimes I wake up feeling sick; or I remember something horrible, and the shortness of breath comes again; but it has been a long time since I lost a meal over it. I put on weight in Kent,” she says proudly. She spreads her arms out and spins, water springing from the hem of her dress. “I look better now, I think.”
“You liked it there?”
“Well enough. And I think I will like London even better, now that I’m not staying with Margaret.”
I wince. “Was she very angry? When…”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry, Cecilia.”
“It isn’t your fault,” she says. “And I am happy now, I think. Happier than I have been in a long time.”
“That is good to hear.”
“But what about you?” she asks me. “This past year. Have you been well, also?”
“I…couldn’t say,” I murmur. “I suppose—not particularly. It has been difficult.”
“I know. I can imagine.”
I take a steadying breath, and I offer her my hand. She takes it. “I have thought of you every day since we parted,” I say. “Constantly, Cecilia. Every moment of grief reminded me of losing you; every moment of joy reminded me of when we were together. You have become the moon and the water and everything between them. I can’t let go of you. I realize that now.”
Her eyes widen, her breath stutters. “Oh.”
“If you would have me—”
“If I would have you?” she asks incredulously. “David, I love you—have I not made that clear enough? I am in love with you, just as I was when I left.”
