Page 82 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“And how, pray tell, would we manage such a thing?” It was a nice sentiment, but unrealistic.

“Just head to the closest church, I suppose.”

Hulda clucked her tongue. “This isn’t the States, Merritt. We’re not English citizens. We’ve no congregation, and banns have to be posted three weeks prior to matrimony.”

He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked over to her, finding a spot to lean against the wall. “Surely pastors can be bribed.”

“Surely those who try can be arrested, and I’ve been arrested enough times not to wish for another,” she countered. Considered. “I mean ... that is, I suppose there’s Gretna Green.”

“Isn’t that in Scotland?”

“Yes, just over the northwestern border. I believe there’s a kinetic tram that runs ...” She shook her head, and the eager bubbles burst one by one. “What am I thinking? We couldn’t possibly. We’ve a potential murderer somewhere about, and it’s too far from Owein. Whether or not he’s an ‘adult,’ it wouldn’t be responsible in the slightest! And what would we do about the wedding back home? The invitations have already been sent.”

Merritt pushed his hair back. “I mean, they wouldn’t have to know.”

She smiled at the sentiment. “It would be a wonderful secret, but it’s simply not feasible.”

A familiar Irish voice, louder this time, said, “Well, it may be.”

Hulda leapt straight out of her chair, nearly smashing her head into Merritt’s. A tall stranger lingered in the doorway, a hawk on his shoulder and Owein already at his knee. He lifted a hand in apology. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Hulda quickly smoothed her skirts and approached. “You must be Sean. Forgive me, I’m not familiar with your surname.”

“Don’t really have one.” He smirked. To Merritt, he said, “Your fiancée?”

“None other,” Merritt answered.

He glanced between the two of them, making Hulda feel oddly self-conscious. “That is,” he went on, “if you’re not hell-bent on a Christian ceremony, I’m a Druidic priest.”

Blood rushed into Hulda’s cheeks.

“Really?” Merritt sounded delighted by the idea. “You’ve license to marry?”

“I do.”

Hulda opened her mouth. Closed it. Glanced from Sean to the hawk, to Sean, to Owein, to Merritt, and back to Sean. “I ... That is ... This is very unexpected ...”

Merritt placed a hand on the small of her back. “It’s all right, Hulda. It’s just a jest.”

Another bubble popped.

“No.” She stood straighter. “No, it wasn’t.”

Merritt met her gaze, questioning.

She turned to him. “I want to marry you, Merritt. I regret not doing it sooner. Like you said ... why not now?” She laughed at the ridiculousness of it. A younger Hulda would have fainted at the prospect! “It doesn’t change the wedding details back home. Why not simply ... elope?”

She could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth. Judging by Merritt’s expression in the evening light, neither could he. Was it too forward of her?

Then she realized something else, and disappointment cooled her fervor. “Though I suppose it’s not the best choice, having a wedding anniversary on the eve of your birthday.”

Merritt startled. “My birthday?” He paused. “My goodness, itismy birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?” He laughed, glancing at Sean. “I’m not used to celebrating it.”

The sentiment, given in jest, saddened her. “Well, it is. And it wouldn’t be wise to congest holidays.”

“Honestly, Hulda”—his blue eyes twinkled—“there’s nothing I’d want more.”

She searched his face. “Truly?”

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