A Wish For Love (Gates-Cameron 2)

He sighed gustily. “Okay, I get the hint. It’s time for me to change tactics, I suppose.”

“It is unless you want to spend the rest of your life asking and being turned down for dates.”

“I’m not sure my ego, secure as it is, can take that much longer.”

“Then maybe you should sit her down for a serious talk, whether she likes it or not.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I will. Someday. Hey— what was that?”

Bailey jerked her head in the direction he was pointing, toward the edge of the inn’s property.

“I thought I saw a light over there,” Mark said. “A flashlight, maybe. I don’t see anything now.”

Still looking hard in the direction he’d indicated, Bailey wiped a drop of rain off her nose. “I don’t see anything, Mark.”

He shook his head. “Neither do I now. I must have been mistaken.”

“I guess you were still thinking about Mr. Carmette’s trespasser.”

“Maybe. Still, you lock your doors tonight, you hear?”

She chuckled ruefully. “Now you sound just like Bran.”

Mark cocked his head curiously. “Bran?”

She winced. “A, er, a friend.”

“Oh. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your cottage.”

“Don’t be silly. The cottage is in the opposite direction of the parking lot. You’d get soaked walking there and back. Go on to your car. I’ll make it to the cottage on my own.”

“I was only trying to be chivalrous,” he said with teasing sanctimony.

She smiled. “I know. And it was sweet of you. Good night, Mark.”

“Night, Bailey. Hurry inside now, or you’ll catch cold.”

“Go,” she ordered, giving him a slight shove in the direction of the parking lot.

“I’m gone.” Grinning, he turned and loped toward his car, his head bent against the light rain.

Bailey glanced once more at the woods, contented herself that there was nothing there, then headed for the cottage. Just as she reached the gazebo, the rain began to fall in earnest. She briefly debated between dashing for the cottage or ducking beneath the shelter of the gazebo.

Something made her decide on the gazebo.

The structure’s open-woodwork walls provided little warmth, but the peaked roof kept her dry. Tiny decorative white bulbs lined the Victorian roof and provided soft, festive lighting. She sat on one of the built-in benches, her feet drawn up in front of her, hands locked around her knees, and watched the rain fall. Her thoughts were far away, and she was hardly conscious of the damp chill of the evening.

She was thinking of Bran. Perhaps that explained why she wasn’t really surprised to hear his voice from close beside her. “You shouldn’t be out here alone at night,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder, saw him standing there looking at her with that dark, brooding expression of his, and she smiled. “I was waiting for you.”

6

February 5, 1903

As I expected, Gaylon asked me to marry him last evening.

I haven’t yet given him an answer. He says he understands that I need time to consider his proposal, though we both have known for some time that he intended to ask. He’s being very patient with me.