Enduringly Yours Read Free

belt.
    “’Tis me,” he said, coming out from under wispy willow branches.
    She kept her hand right where it was.
    “Do you really need that?”
    She sighed and lowered her hand. “What are you doing here?”
    “I could ask you the same.”
    “I wanted to be alone.”
    “As did I.”
    “We are not alone.”
    “Nay.” He smiled. “We are not.”
    “Do not smile like that. What little charm you ever had, and I mean little , no longer has any effect on me.”
    She was right about one thing. He’d never had much charm. But there was a time when she’d tolerated him anyway.
    “I wasn’t trying to charm you. I’ve been . . . wanting to tell you that I’m sorry about Edward.” That wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say, but it would do.
    She walked along the bank. “’Tis not as if it was your fault. You did not force him to go to war.”
    He followed her.
    “Why did you have to come back?” she said. “I was doing better without you.”
    That stung. “This is my home too. Would you rather I had died?”
    She stopped, turning slowly to face him. Her gaze worked upward, flicked over his face, then focused on the lake instead of him. “What was it like?”
    “Crusading?”
    “Aye.”
    “I’m not sure I should tell you.”
    “My brother died because of it.”
    She did have a right to know, whether he was comfortable telling her or not. “Sand,” he said. “Sand and hot sun. When the sun rises, the sand shines like jewels.” He spread out his hand. “Then everything heats as if you were in a giant furnace. A man’s eyes burn and he has to shield them just to see where he is going.”
    She pulled her braid over her shoulder, twisting the end of it. “Tell me more.”
    He hesitated, then once the words came, he feared they would not stop. “Nights so cold a man would freeze without a fire. The snakes seek after your body heat and you wake up with them curled at your side. Saracen blood . . . English blood . . . French blood.”
    “And my brother.”
    “Aye, your brother.”
    “How did he die? The messenger could not tell us.”
    “He died well.”
    “How?” Her blue eyes, so much like Edward’s, begged for honesty.
    “In battle, like many others,” he confessed, looking away from those eyes. “I saw it. I called out to him and I tried to get to him in time, but I was too late.” Peter felt as if he were caught between sparing her and the need to release himself. How fitting, he realized. “Edward died in my arms, his life’s-blood spilt upon the sand. It was on my hands.” He looked at his fingers. “My brother and I buried him in the sand.”  
    Peter swallowed, his throat tight. When he looked at Zipporah, he saw silent tears streaking down her face. He touched her arm, expecting her to pull away. She surprised him by turning into his shoulder instead.
    “I want him back,” she said. 
    It took him a baffled moment to respond, then he drew her closer, rubbing her back. “As do I.” 
    Her fingers clenched into the front of his tunic. Her shoulders were shaking, and he could tell she was trying not to make any noise as she cried.
    “My father is dying,” she said, sniffing into his sleeve. “And my mother has suffered too much as it is.” Zipporah lifted her head.
    So close . . . her face. All he would have to do was duck his head. She wavered there, her eyes heavy-lidded and her trembling body practically begging him to kiss her. Her shoulders heaved in a shuddered breath, and then she pulled away.
    “You feel different,” she said, rubbing her arms. “Harder.”
    “What?”
    “You’re chest. It feels hard.”
    “Irregular meals and heavy labor.”
    “Your sword hand is scarred now.”
    She’d noticed. “Aye.”
    “Does the scar spread up your arm?”
    He looked at it, mostly covered by his sleeve. “Superficial, but aye, up my forearm.”
    “What else is there?”
    “And here you wanted me to think you’d been ignoring me for a fortnight.”
    “Do not