“Even did you not love me, I would since it is rare that good comes of delaying the inevitable,” she said, and more she believed that now Ely was lost.
“Be assured, no matter what the morrow holds, my love is yours,” Guy said and touched his mouth to hers.
That being too much invitation not to accept, with joy Vilda had thought never again to feel, she shifted around and dropped a knee on either side of him. But as she reached to take his face between her palms, the ring slid toward her finger’s tip.
“Oh, I shall lose it!” She snatched her hand back. “’Twould not portend well.”
He chuckled. “That sounds of superstition.” At her grimace, he said, “Soon I shall replace it with one worthy of Lady Alvilda Torquay.” He raised a hand between them. “Now as I anticipate loving my wife much this eve, I think it best I wear it.”
Heart thundering, she returned the ring to his finger. When that hand slid around and up her back, drawing her chest to his, she angled her head and kissed him. That was where it began.
Mouths learning mouths…necks…shoulders…
Hands learning curves…hollows…wondrously sensitive places…
Murmurs becoming whispers…whispers becoming gasps…gasps becoming words…
Then Guy rasped, “Hold to me, love.”
She wound her arms about his neck, and when he rose from the chair, hooked her legs around his waist.
Standing alongside the bed, holding her as if she were the slightest of women, again and again he kissed her, then he eased her onto the mattress. Leaving only enough space between them for the shedding of garments and the wandering of eyes, he said, “You are my story, Lady.”
“As you are mine, Chevalier.”
Later, when their vows became more than vows amid the last flickers of candlelight, Vilda clung to her husband and put in his ear, “Oh, my…my…me…”
How strange to feel almost a child after being made to feel fully woman, Vilda marveled. Wearing the chemise Guy had aided her in donning and the blanket he had drawn around her shoulders, perched atop the table where he had set her while he moved about the fire-lit kitchen gathering viands to quiet her growling belly, she flicked from her fingers the crumbs of an apple tart and smiled at he who watched her across the top of the cup they shared.
He reached it to her. “More?”
She slid her hand over his, and together they tilted it to her lips. Once she had her fill of wine, he finished off the last of it. “Now no reason to arise early,” he said.
She warmed over thoughts of what they could do with those hours while others broke their fast, then recalling what the day ahead might hold, reminded, “Unless Baron Pendery and his wife receive more guests.”
He grunted. “I forgot about that.”
She was pleased, hopeful it meant all of him that mattered to her had been here until she let in Elan. Of course, did that not mean all of her had not been present? It did, but she had something of an excuse in that Guy need not worry over any past love of hers.
“Vilda?”
She returned him to focus, and the understanding in his eyes made her heart ache. He knows me, she thought.
Stepping nearer, he pushed love-tangled tresses back over her shoulders, lifted her chin. “As I wish you at my side when Elan and Edwin come, and I would not have you suffer great discomfort, it can wait until next we are at Etcheverry.”
When I am more secure in his love, she thought. “What if they do arrive on the morrow?” she asked, and remembering already it was that though it yet shone night, corrected, “Rather, this day?”
“Since we have a long ride ahead, it would not be unseemly to depart a few days before planned.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, having been unaware he intended to leave so soon and given little thought to what came after. Deciding to wait on the question of his reunion with Elan, she said, “Where are we bound?”
“Derbyshire. My family is there, including an uncle who, though he shall pass his lands to his son, wishes me to serve as keeper of that portion known as Boltstone.”
“Your cousin is well with this?”
“He is, and a good man. You know his family by way of his sister, Lady Nicola.”
She frowned. “But if he is a D’Argent, then you…?”
“I am not of that family, and though Dougray is much loved by the D’Argents, that blood does not course his veins since he was sired by my uncle rather than Lady Nicola’s father.” As if he saw her mind seeking to make sense of that, he chuckled. “All will come clear. For now, let us decide the matter of Elan and Edwin. If they do ride on Etcheverry, should we have done with it this day or another?”
She considered the ease of his face and light in eyes she believed shone for her. “This day,” she said and sighed into him when his mouth covered hers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
She was as lovely as remembered—perhaps more so for having gained weight, likely from two births. However, Elan held little appeal beyond something pretty to look at. Guy had been fairly certain of that, but there had been enough uncertainty he had prayed naught would show on his face that might hurt the woman he loved.
He shifted his regard from Edwin Harwolfson who lifted his wife from the saddle to Vilda at his side. Seeing and feeling her tension, he squeezed the hand he had enfolded in his as they descended the donjon steps to greet Maxen’s sister and brother-in-law.
Vilda looked up, and the wariness in her eyes made him want to kiss it away. Did she think herself less beautiful, disregarding that what was on the outside ought to be but an invitation to look closer on what was on the inside?
How he wished privacy in which to tell her that even had Rhiannyn and she
