Page 116 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He debated, for a moment, if this was the right time—decided he wouldn’t find a better. He shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Our wedding.” Various approaches ran through his mind. He settled for “How soon do you think we should marry?”
She huffed, her breath tickling his chest. In a questioning tone, she suggested, “Tomorrow?”
He grinned. “That would suit me, but I suspect your parents might have something to say to that.” He drew in a breath. “And I have to confess that I wasn’t so sure of my reception here that I stopped to get a special license. So unless you know a local bishop who might be prevailed upon to grant us one, I assume we’ll still need the usual three weeks…” He squinted down at her face, what he could see of it. “Or am I presuming and there’s some other form of ceremony here?”
She sighed. “I wish there was—I’m sure, if left to the Lady, the entire matter would be much simpler—but no. We need to get married in the church, just like everyone else, or it won’t be legal.”
He’d assumed as much. “So, when?”
“Sunday’s the day after tomorrow, so four weeks after that.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “That will please everyone—the family will have time to gather, which they will appreciate.” She glanced up and through the dimness met his eyes. Her lips curved. “And you’ll have time to get used to us all. We’re considered a fairlyrobustclan.”
He picked up the hand resting on his chest; holding her gaze, he raised it and pressed a kiss to her palm. “As long as you’re there, by my side, I’ll endeavor to endure and survive.”
Her smile grew pensive. She slipped her fingers free of his and traced the line of his cheek. “I know you will. We’re here, together, as we were always fated to be. You’re mine at last, and I’m yours.” She drew breath, then murmured, her voice dreamy, faraway, “And no matter the challenges, no matter the years, we will never turn from each other. Come what may, we will hold to each other, and we will never let each other go.”
The words rang softly through the night.
He closed his arms around her, she settled in his embrace, and finally, for both of them, everything felt right.
Those Fate had linked, no one and nothing would ever part.
Lover, consort, protector and defender—husband.
Thomas closed his eyes as the words rolled through his mind, echoed in his heart, then rumbled through his soul. He would always be hers. He would always be here, because this was his place—this was his destiny—now, tomorrow, and forevermore.
CHAPTER 17
Their marriage was formalized before the altar of the tiny church in Casphairn village.
The Cynsters turned out in strength; Thomas’s Glasgow relatives, several old friends, and all those on the Carrick estate helped balance things out somewhat.
The bride wore pearls and a gown of tiered lace; the bridegroom stood straight and tall, broad shoulders clad in regulation black. Everyone agreed they were quite the handsomest couple in the county.
A hush fell over the congregation, packed into every nook and cranny in the small stone church, as Thomas, then Lucilla, spoke their vows. When they shared a kiss and the organ swelled in a triumphal march, joy and happiness abounded.
After the church bells finally pealed and the bride and groom emerged to circulate and talk with the guests spread out on the lawns, every face wore a smile; Thomas’s shoulders were constantly being slapped, and Lucilla’s cheeks were rosy as relative followed friend in kissing her and wishing her and her handsome new husband well.
Standing at one corner of the church’s open porch, Catriona looked out over the throng and smiled.
“Happy?” Richard paused beside her, also casting his gaze over the heads.
“I’m very pleased,” Catriona admitted. “I confess I hadn’t expected quite so many to travel all the way from London.”
“Helena’s eldest granddaughter weds?” Richard snorted. “I’m surprised that more aren’t here, but I gather she put it about that only family were expected.”
“Still, when talking of Cynsters, ‘only family’ is now what? Well over a hundred?”
Richard twined his arm with his wife’s. “I haven’t counted recently, but it must be something like that. Now come along, Mother-of-the-Bride, and let’s greet our guests.”
Catriona laughed softly and let him draw her down to the lawns. Pausing to greet her cousin-in-law Angelica and her handsome Highland earl, Catriona glanced at Lucilla and Thomas and found them surrounded by what the Cynster parents referred to as “the older set.”
Sebastian, Marquess of Earith, was their leader; tall, with near-black hair and his father’s pale green eyes, he was already a commanding figure, a quality dependent not only on his stature, but even more on his personality. His brother, Michael, stood shoulder to shoulder beside Sebastian—which, in itself, said much. Alongside Michael, Christopher Cynster was holding the group’s attention by relating some story; he was a natural raconteur, yet Catriona sensed he used that art as a deflecting shield behind which dwelt a far more complex character. Marcus, of course, was one of the group, but aside from Lucilla, leaning on Thomas’s arm, the only female was Prudence, she of the curly blond-brown hair, blue eyes, and passion for all things equine.
Prudence, Catriona knew, entertained few thoughts of marriage, reasoning that horses were much more accommodating beasts.
Given the males Prudence had spent her life surrounded by, Catriona had to admit that, as far as it went, Prudence’s reasoning was sound. Cynster males, and those like them, were only as accommodating as a lady could persuade them to be.
Or, as usually happened, love persuaded them to be.
