Blue-Eyed Stranger, page 21
He didn’t . . . didn’t know what to . . .
Brushing the last of the dirt from the lid, he cracked it open, looked inside. A black velvet lining, a scroll of paper. When he lifted the paper, a ring rolled out into his palm. Flat sectioned gold with chased designs of interlocking triangles. A Viking ring of the sort exchanged at a Viking wedding.
He closed shaking fingers over it and fumbled open the scroll.
You didn’t seem to believe me when I said there would never be anyone better for me than you. I thought this might convince you. I love you, Martin. Marry me?
It was too much. He tucked the paper back into the box, clutched ring and box tight, and folded himself around them both, holding on while the flood of incredulous happiness threatened to sweep him away. Not dumped at all. Not dumped, but kept. Kept forever. It was too much. He was too lucky. He couldn’t be . . .
Billy’s long arms came around him as Billy snugged up tight against his back, put his head down between Martin’s shoulder blades. The touch grounded him, allowed the current of excess joy some outlet. Helped him to almost believe this was really happening.
“I’m sorry,” Billy said, apologising, of course. “It seemed romantic when I thought of it. But then I couldn’t stop being terrified. I don’t mean to put you on the spot or pressure you, but I’m going out of my mind here. Please tell me—”
“Yes!” Martin turned and fitted himself into the spaces left by Billy’s lanky form. They formed one tangled ball of limbs, and he felt sure they were so radiant together that the fucking sun was envious. “Yes, of course. Oh God, yes.”
Now it was Billy’s turn to give way to the borderline hysterical laughter of a man whose nerves have suddenly been detuned by joy. Martin held on to him, anchoring him as he worked his way through it, marvelling at how much thought and preparation, how much effort and stealth had gone into this. He appreciated for the first time how much Billy was capable of, now he was a little closer to well.
“Heh,” he said, feeling invincible, picturing his father’s face. “Well, Mum said I should wait a while and then invite my father to a family do, somewhere public where politeness would restrain him. What better than this, though—sending them invites to the wedding?”
Billy uncurled enough to give him a radiant smile, blue eyes as startlingly vivid as ever against the backdrop of summer sky. “It’s a bit pointed, isn’t it? You’re not even a little scared of what he might say?”
Martin considered it. “No. He won’t make a scene because he holds that sort of thing in contempt. Even if he hasn’t come around, the worst he’s likely to do is go for ‘dignified in the face of tragedy.’ Which I think we can cope with, don’t you? At any rate, as long as I’ve got you, I don’t give a toss about Dad’s opinion. He can like it or shove off.”
He leaned in for a long, appreciative kiss, and then slipped the ring on his finger, where it fitted snug and right. As they disentangled and stood up, he kept looking at it, admiring the way it shone. No, he wasn’t afraid.
Just as Billy, when he was well, was clearly capable of great things, Martin, when he was happy, was going to be unstoppable. He took Billy’s hand and turned to face where a coachload of tourists were beginning to trickle into the site.
“Together we’re going to rock the world.”
Billy shoved him with an elbow and laughed, brilliantly happy. “Or at least folk it.”
Amused, Martin kissed him again, right in front of all the startled onlookers. “Folk it” was right—like the reenactors and folk dancers they were, they would do what was in their hearts and not give a damn if society thought it was weird. He really should have seen this one coming, if he’d only dared hope enough. “‘Haste to the Wedding’ indeed.”
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Alex Beecroft was born in Northern Ireland during the Troubles and grew up in the wild countryside of the English Peak District. She studied English and philosophy before accepting employment with the Crown Court where she worked for a number of years. Now a stay-at-home mum and full-time author, Alex lives with her husband and two children in a little village near Cambridge and tries to avoid being mistaken for a tourist.
Alex is only intermittently present in the real world. She has spent many years as an Anglo-Saxon and eighteenth-century reenactor. She has lead a Saxon shield wall into battle, and toiled as a Georgian kitchen maid. For the past five years she has been taken up with the serious business of morris dancing, which has been going on in the UK for at least 500 years. But she still hasn’t learned to operate a mobile phone.
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Alex Beecroft, Blue-Eyed Stranger
