Each denial that she murmured hurt more than the last. He could never understand why she did not see how wicked Gisborne was, why she had always insisted on giving the benefit of the doubt to the man who had usurped Robin's life and terrorized everyone in his path. Now, to hear her still thinking that the sheriff's right-hand man was incapable of hurting her...
When she grasped him, he grabbed hold of her, clinging to her as if in fear that he would suddenly discover that this was all a bizarre hallucination, that she was still dead and he would wake up, cold and alone once more. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the warm, flowery scent of her, managing to keep his tears in check, even if the fear had the better of him.
At her apology, he pulled back a bit and stared at her in disbelief. "It's not your fault." Smoothing her hair away from her face, loving the softness of both her tresses and her skin, he shook his head. "I do not know if we can change what happened. But, perhaps, we can. Maybe that's why we were brought here." He was starting to get a hold on his memories again, pushing them back to the corner of his mind where he could ignore them.
"Just promise me; promise that if you get sent back and you remember this, you will stay away from him. Yell for me; I'm not far off, but I do not know you're facing off with him." I get there too late. He had almost taken his own life a few times in the weeks immediately following her passing, the knowledge that he had failed to keep her safe too much to bear. If not for the gang's near-constant attendance, he would have succeeded.