would, married or not. When, weary from traveling, Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.
She'd wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.
The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story went, had lasted through time. That wasn't why she'd chosen to marry beneath its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she'd been christened here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life and embark simultaneously on the next.
She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones. Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped in. And realized she wasn't the only one who had come seeking peace.
Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn't them that filled his mind.
He couldn't put his finger on what did, couldn't sort one feeling from another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole — they'd all merged, all subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.
To have Amelia as his wife.
It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she would be his.
The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.
Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the future — facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary, here.
He'd always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he'd visited intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something, but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind — and if he was honest, his heart and his soul — attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving need, the same warrior's desire.
Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn't know. Perhaps the potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the right woman, to give it life, to set it free.
To rule him.
He drew breath, refocused on the altar. That was what, when he married her tomorrow, he would be accepting. When he made his vows, they would not be just to her, not just to himself, but to something beyond them both.
Air stirred behind him; he looked around, and saw Amelia closing the door. Smiling gently, calmly, she came toward him; he turned and faced her.
She halted before him, close, but with space yet between them. She studied his eyes, her composure unruffled. Curious, but not demanding.
'Thinking?'
He'd been drinking in the sight of her face; he brought his gaze to her eyes, then nodded. Forced himself to raise his head and look around. 'It's a wonderful old place.' He looked back at her. 'You were right to choose it.'
Her smile deepened; she, too, looked around. 'I'm glad you think so.'
He didn't want to touch her — didn't want to risk it; he could feel desire humming through his veins, feel need prickling his skin. 'I'd assumed we wouldn't meet, at least not alone.'
'I don't think anyone imagined we would.'
He met her gaze, knew what she was thinking. For one instant, he considered telling her the truth, all of it. Getting it off his chest before tomorrow…
But she still had to say 'I do.' Tomorrow.
He grimaced, gestured to the door, 'We'd better get back to the house, or some bright soul is going to realize we're both missing, and imaginations will run riot.'
She grinned, but turned and preceded him up the aisle. He reached past her to open the door — she stayed him, one hand on his arm.
Their eyes met, held — then she smiled, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. Kissed him gently, lightly; the battle to suppress his reaction left him reeling.
Before he lost the fight, she drew back, met his eyes again.
'Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, and for changing your mind.'
Amelia held his gaze — black as night — then smiled and turned to the door. After an instant's hiatus, he opened it. She went out, waited for him to follow and close the door, then, very correctly, side by side, they walked back to the house.
Chapter 12
The next morning dawned fine; a playful breeze wafted about the lawns and set the tone for the day. It flirted with curls and ribbons, ruffled ladies' gowns, teased flounces and frills. People laughed; the breeze caught their mirth and dispersed it impartially over the richly dressed throng — the relatives and close connections invited to witness the ceremony.
It went forward without a hitch, without a single moment of awkwardness or panic. Once the gay crowd had assembled in the small church, gentlemen filling the aisles while their ladies took the pews, Luc stepped forward to face the altar, Martin, his cousin, Amelia's brother-in-law, by his side. Martin was in turn flanked by Simon, Amelia's brother, a nineteen-year-old stripling Luc had, courtesy of their families' closeness, even before the last few months considered in the light of a brother.
Martin, glancing first to his right, then his left, was moved to comment. 'This is becoming incestuous — you do realize after today we'll not only be cousins, but brothers-in-law, too?'
Luc shrugged. 'We always shared excellent taste.'
Simon snorted. 'More like you've both inherited a familial tendency to succumb to the charms of women with whom no sane man would dally.'
Thus spake a Cynster; the obvious riposte rose to Luc's lips, but as he glanced across to deliver it he caught Martin's eye — saw the same thought mirrored in his cousin's face. They both knew the truth; they exchanged knowing smiles, then faced the altar again, by mutual agreement leaving Simon to learn of his fate by himself.
At that moment, from the mansion's front porch, Amelia, on Arthur's arm, stepped out on her journey into marriage. Attended by Amanda and Emily, she glowed with confidence, with the certainty of having finally achieved that of which she'd so long dreamed, with the satisfaction of having brought her dearest dream one step closer to full reality; indeed, she felt sure she was more than halfway there.
As they crossed the lawns and passed under the ancient trees, she leaned close to Arthur. 'Thank you.'
Returning her smile, he raised his brows. 'For what?'
'Why for having me, of course, and taking care of me for all these years. In a little while, I'll no longer be yours, but Luc's… responsibility.'
She looked ahead, briefly sobering. She'd added the last word to soften the truth, but she knew what that truth was, and Arthur, a Cynster to his bones, knew, too. She glanced again at him, but his smile hadn't faltered.
'I'm glad you chose Luc — there may be ups and downs, but at base he's the kind who will never turn his back on his duties. His responsibilities.' Arthur patted her hand. 'And that augurs well.'
The church lay before them; Amelia grasped the moment to draw in a deep breath, to draw to herself the blessings of the years, then they entered, paused for only a moment, then, with a serene smile, radiant once more, she walked up the aisle to Luc's side.
He was waiting. Their eyes met, held, then he took her hand and she stepped up beside him; together they
