"TXT - Nora Roberts - Dream 03 - Finding The Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

he could remember, with the clear vision of age looking back to youth,
how she had laughed and clutched the tough little wildflowers to her
breast as if they were precious roses plucked from a well-tended bush.

His eyes were weak now, and his limbs were frail. But not his memory. A
strong, vital memory in an old body was his penance. Whatever joy he had
found in his life had been tainted, always, with the sound of
Seraphina's laughter, with the trust in her dark eyes. With her young,
uncompromising love.

In the more than forty years since he had lost her, and the pan of
himself that was innocence, he had learned to accept his own failings.
He had been a coward, running from battle rather than facing the horrors
of war, hiding among the dead rather than lifting a sword.

But he had been young, and such things had to be forgiven in the young.

He had allowed his friends and family to believe him dead, slain like a
warrior--even a hero. It had been shame, and pride, that caused him to
do so. Small things, pride and shame. Life was made up of so many small
blocks. But he could never forget that it was that shame and that pride
that cost Seraphina her life.

Weary, he sat on a rock to listen. To listen to the roar of water
battling rock far below, to listen to the piercing cry of gulls, the
rush of wind through winter grass. And the air was chilled as he closed
his eyes and opened his heart.

To listen for Seraphina.

She would always be young, a lovely dark-eyed girl who had never had the
chance to grow old, as he was old now. She hadn't waited, but in despair
and grief had thrown herself into the sea. For love of him, he thought
now. For reckless youth that hadn't lived long enough to know that
nothing lasts forever.

Believing him dead, she had died, hurling herself and her future onto
the rocks.

He had mourned her, God knew he had mourned her. But he hadn't been able
to follow her into the sea. Instead, he had traveled south, given up his
name and his home, and made new ones.

He had found love again. Not the sweet first blush of love that he had
had with Seraphina, but something solid and strong, built on those small
blocks of trust and understanding and on needs both quiet and violent.

And he had done his best.

He had children, and grandchildren. He had a life with all the joys and