Page 7 of His Bride for the Taking

For the moment, at least, the warrior had lowered his shield.

She looked at the priest. “I’m ready now.”

“If so, answer, ‘I will.’”

She looked into her groom’s eyes. “I will.”

The remainder of the ceremony was brief, in part because there were no rings. Sebastian didn’t even have a signet ring. He would have never worn anything of his father’s, and most especially not that.

There were vows and a prayer or two, and before Mary even knew it, the thing was over.

“I pronounce you man and wife.”

It was done. They were married.

Sebastian leaned forward as though he would kiss her, but then he seemed to change his mind. She might have suspected he’d lost his nerve, if she didn’t know Sebastian to be entirely composed of nerve to begin with.

Instead of kissing her lips, he brushed a kiss to her cheek and then rested his temple against hers. A tender gesture, somehow more intimate than a kiss.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “Always.”

“I know you will,” she whispered back.

Mary had no doubt in her mind whatsoever that Sebastian would provide for her every need and guard her with his life.

But it was probably going to knock him on his arse when he learned that she intended to do the same. He needed understanding, warmth, family, love—and she needed all those things, too. This was not going to be a practical arrangement, nor a way for him to satisfy his conscience.

This was going to be a marriage.

And that marriage started tonight.

Chapter 3

By the time they left Canterbury, daylight was fading and thunderclouds had gathered on the horizon. The coachman was not pleased when Sebastian told him they’d be traveling on to Ramsgate in foul weather, but a few guineas made a marked improvement in his mood.

Halfway through the journey, both night and rain were falling. Then Sebastian’s horse threw a shoe, slowing their progress to a walk. When they finally arrived at the cottage, the windows were dark. No one came out to greet them. Country hours, he supposed. Perhaps folk went to bed at sundown hereabouts.

Sebastian dismounted Shadow and saw the weary gelding settled in the stable—which looked and smelled as though it hadn’t been used in years. Fortunately, the horse had been fed and watered in Canterbury. Any hay in the loft would surely be rotted.

After seeing to his horse, Sebastian pounded at the cottage’s front door.

No answer.

Naturally, he had a key to the place, but he didn’t carry the thing on his person. It was in a strongbox underneath the desk in his London town house. When he’d left the house this morning, he’d expected to sit quietly seething in a church while he watched Mary wed another man. He never could have imagined that by nightfall he’d be standing in front of this stone cottage on the coast of Kent, having married her himself.

When another round of knocking produced no response, he rattled the door to judge the strength of the bolt. It was already loose—a fact that would have angered him, had the circumstances been different. Tonight, however, this particular instance of shoddy upkeep was a gift. One swift kick, and the bolt gave way.

That accomplished, he darted back to the coach. First he needed to untie Mary’s trunks from the carriage and bring them in before they were completely drenched. After he’d stashed her luggage inside the cottage, he returned to the coach for her.

“Put your hands around my neck,” he shouted through the rain. “I’ll carry you.”

“I can walk.”

Sebastian didn’t have time for this. He hefted her out of the coach without further discussion, tucking her against his chest and carrying her into the cottage.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, once he’d set her down.

“The ground was wet and muddy.”

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