Chapter 21 #3
The morning of the wedding, Christopher walked into the room where she was getting ready with her three sisters, looking uncharacteristically shy.
The man was the epitome of the confident rogue, but she knew that he was very protective of her, which was why Gwenllian was grateful Hugh’s attempt at mischief had failed.
Alexander had told her that his brother had boasted to him about bedding a certain “Glenda.” Because of the name, Christopher had not understood she was who he was talking about. It had been for the best.
“Here,” he told her, “Alexander asked me to give you these.”
It was a bunch of buttercups, just like the one he had placed on her bed the day he had left Scotland.
The bunch she had wished she could keep.
She collapsed into sobs at the thoughtful gesture, which reminded her of their meeting that day by the river, when she had pretended not to remember who she was.
Christopher looked at Sian, panic on his face.
“I’m sorry… Did I— He said you would like them. Should I go wring his neck? I’ll kill him if he upset you.”
“No!” Gwenllian cried through her tears. “Of course not. And I do like the flowers, I love them. Forgive me, this is just…something between him and me.”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, eager to leave this place where he felt ill at ease. “Are you ready then? Your father is waiting for you in the hall. Everyone else is in the chapel already.”
“Yes.”
With a nod to his wife, Christopher offered her his arm and led the way out of the room, leaving the three other women to follow.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase, he let go of her and took Sian on one arm and Seren on the other.
Griffin, who had been waiting, joined his own wife, Jane.
After one last glance at Gwenllian, they all made their way to the chapel.
Feeling suddenly very emotional, she took in a breath before she went into the hall to meet her father. Finally, she walked through the door.
In the middle of the great hall was Connor Hunter, Lord Sheridan. His eyes, of a lighter green than hers, lit up when he saw her.
“Gwenllian. How happy you look.”
“That’s because I am,” she said, squeezing the hand he was offering her.
“I’m glad. And with you becoming Lady Rathbone, I have only one daughter left to marry,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Or do you think Seren will prefer to spend the rest of her days at Esgyrn Castle, with Rhys?”
Gwenllian tilted her head, wondering. Did he know that was what she’d once feared? It wouldn’t surprise her; her father had always been a very astute man.
“I’m sure Seren will find her own path to happiness.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Now come. Alexander must not be kept waiting. I am told that waiting for his bride to appear on his wedding day is one of the most excruciating things a man will ever have to do.”
Of course, her father would not know about the doubts and fears of a groom in love.
Neither his first wedding nor his second had been love matches.
Love had bloomed in the alliance arranged by the king, but at first, his union to her mother, Esyllt, had been nothing more than a marriage of convenience.
Fortunately, like her sisters before her, Gwenllian was marrying the man of her choice, and they both already loved one another.
So she could imagine that Alexander was indeed eager to see her appear through the door. She smiled at her father and took his arm.
“Yes, let’s go.”
At her entrance, all heads turned to her. But Gwenllian only saw one person, the knight standing by the altar, looking at her with burning eyes.
Gwenllian had a little gallery of images of Alexander that she liked to go through in idle moments.
One was the dark stranger holding her in his arms that day by the river, her savior.
Another was the fiery lover tied up to the bedpost, at her mercy.
A third one was the rogue asking her to marry him from his scandalous position between her thighs.
Now she had another one, one she would cherish forever.
The one of the groom watching her enter the chapel, buttercups in hand. This man took her breath away.
She stopped in front of him. Her father let go of her, and someone started to speak. The priest, probably. Gwenllian barely heard him, her whole attention was on Alexander, who appeared equally fascinated by her.
You’re so beautiful, he mouthed. I love you.
You’re mine, she mouthed back. I love you too.
The ceremony started without her paying much attention. After a while, the voice to her left stopped, and as if by sheer strength of will, Alexander wrenched his gaze from hers.
He was required to answer the priest.
“I will,” he said, his voice deep and confident.
Then it was her turn. In her impatience, she almost spoke before the question was over. “I will.”
It was over. Or rather, it was starting at last.
Alexander drew her into his arms.
“Come, Lady Rathbone,” he murmured into her ear. “Audley awaits. No one has more right to it than you.”