by Nora Roberts
Phoebe smiled up at him. “Why, I believe you still have a tendresse for your beautiful faerie queen. Don’t worry, that was more of Lord Ash’s trickery. His way of saving face with a grand, magical gesture.”
“Then you believe the castle and the faerie folk still exist somewhere?”
“Oh, yes. In some far corner of these isles where they are unlikely to be found. Land’s End perhaps, or far across the Irish Sea.” She had a sudden premonition. “Or just beyond that meadow, invisible to our eyes.”
“I’m glad,” Gordon said, “despite everything. They don’t think as we do. They live by their own rules, which are very different from ours.” He cupped Phoebe’s face between his hands and kissed her. “I asked you once before, long ago. Will you marry me, Phoebe?”
“I will.” She laughed. “And soon, before you change your mind again.”
His blue eyes held hers. “I never changed my heart. You are, and have always been, my own true love.”
They kissed again as the sun rose, chasing away the shadows that covered the land. Thorne Court shone fresh and golden in the light of a bright new dawn.
And faintly, faintly, from the flower-strewn meadow, came a woman’s light laughter, and the chime of silver bells.