Chapter 6 Maeve #2
The words settle over me like a chain. Father McCleary turns to me. "Maeve Catherine Connelly, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"
Sean flinches visibly when Father McCleary says my middle name. As if that humanizes me somehow. Makes me more real to him.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. This is it. My last chance. I could say no. Could refuse. Could walk out of this church and face whatever consequences come. I could try to run from all of this, out into the rain, a runaway bride with nothing to her name and nowhere to go.
But there's no such thing as freedom for girls like me. There's only choosing which cage you'll live in, if you’re lucky enough to get a choice at all. And this is a choice, such as it is.
At least this cage comes with the Council's protection. At least Sean, for all his coldness, hasn't actually hurt me.
Yet.
"I do," I whisper.
"The rings," Father McCleary prompts.
Connor McBride stands and brings forward a velvet box, flipping it open to reveal two golden bands—one fine and thin, one thicker. I hadn't even thought about rings, but of course the Council thought of everything.
Sean takes the smaller ring and reaches for my left hand.
His fingers are warm and calloused when they touch mine, and I can't suppress a small shiver. For some reason, I thought his touch would be cold, but instead it’s delightfully heated, warming my own chilly flesh.
He slides the ring onto my finger, his movements careful and deliberate.
"With this ring, I thee wed," he says, his voice low and deep and rough, his accent thick. That strange feeling squirms through my stomach again, and suddenly, I’m not cold any longer. I feel almost too warm, my skin oddly hot.
Then it's my turn. I take the larger ring with trembling fingers and reach for Sean's hand. His hand is so much larger than mine, scarred across the knuckles, strong and dangerous. I slide the ring on, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it.
"With this ring, I thee wed," I manage.
"By the power vested in me by the State of Massachusetts and the Holy Catholic Church," Father McCleary says, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He pauses, and I can hear the reluctance in his voice when he adds, "You may kiss the bride."
My heart stops.
I'd somehow forgotten about this part. About the kiss. About having to kiss Sean in front of everyone, to seal this marriage with an intimacy I'm nowhere near ready for.
Sean is looking down at me. I didn’t opt for a veil, but now I wish I had, just to get a moment more to ready myself before he touches me.
I wait for him to reach for me, to cup my cheek, to show the smallest hint of gentleness, but instead he only takes one step closer, destroying any space that was left between us.
His eyes meet mine, green and intense and unreadable. He's so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him, and the sheer size of him is overwhelming this close.
He's going to kiss me. Right now. In front of everyone.
His lips brush mine, soft and brief. A chaste kiss, barely more than a touch. But I feel as if I’ve been shocked, as if that one moment of contact sent jolts of electricity chasing over my skin. My heart is suddenly beating rapidly, and my skin feels hot, my cheeks painfully flushed.
Sean steps back, his expression closing off again. We're married.
The reality crashes over me like a wave. I'm married. To Sean Flannery. The Wolf of Dublin. A man I don't know and who doesn't want to know me.
The congregation applauds politely. Annie looks as if she might have tears in her eyes. Ronan’s jaw is tight. Connor McBride looks satisfied. And Sean… Sean looks like he wants to be anywhere else.
We sign the marriage certificate in the vestry, our signatures side by side. Sean Flannery and Maeve Connelly Flannery. My new name looks wrong, foreign, like it belongs to someone else.
Then we're being ushered outside for photos.
The photographer—another person I never met or hired—positions us in front of the church, the rain having stopped as if it's on their side, not mine.
Sean stands stiffly beside me, his hand on my lower back because the photographer insists, his touch burning through the fabric of my dress.
"Smile," the photographer instructs.
I try. I don't think I succeed.
—
The reception is being held at the Wyeth Room in the Langham hotel—another decision I either wasn’t consulted on or don’t remember making.
When the photos are finished, Sean walks with me to the waiting car, and I have a moment of dizzy fear as I realize that I’m not going to be alone on the trip over.
I’m not going to be fully alone ever again.
This man is going to ride in the car with me.
Live with me. Share meals with me. Share a bed with me.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll avoid me as much as possible day to day; maybe he won’t want to eat with me.
Maybe he’ll want separate bedrooms. But I won’t ever be able to fully separate myself from him again, after today.
I’m his now. My life, my future, all of it belongs to the terrifying man who waits for me to slide into the car and then follows me in, sitting stiff and silent next to me for the entire ride to the hotel.
The Wyeth room is, admittedly, gorgeous.
Huge arched windows are at the far end of the ballroom where the dance floor has been set up, and long tables are set with stunning flower displays in pink and burgundy and sage green, with antique-looking chairs and gold chargers under china plates.
Clearly, no expense was spared for this wedding, and I take it all in as Sean and I walk into more polite applause, a string quartet playing somewhere as we’re escorted to the sweetheart table at the head of the room.
I’m acutely aware of his presence from the moment we sit down.
He’s far too close to me for my comfort, and I can smell his cedar-and-salt cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
Wine is poured for us, plates of appetizers brought that look delicious despite my utter lack of an appetite.
His hand occasionally brushes mine when we both reach for something, and each contact makes me jump.
He doesn't speak to me. Doesn't look at me. Just sits rigid and silent, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on some point across the room.
The meal is elegant—multiple courses that I can barely taste.
There’s a petite piece of what I think is duck, and salmon so tender it falls apart at the barest touch of my fork, but it’s all the same to me.
I have no appetite. I push food around my plate and try to smile when people offer congratulations that ring hollow.
Ronan comes by, but I don’t see Annie—I have a feeling she left after the part that she was required to attend. I don’t blame her.
Connor McBride makes a toast about family and loyalty and the importance of the Irish community standing together.
He doesn't mention love. It’s almost reassuring—at least he’s not pretending this is anything other than a business arrangement.
A decent number of the guests seem determined to pretend that this is something more than it is—if not love, then at least not me basically being sold into a union to keep my holdings under Council control.
As the meal is brought one course at a time, I drink the wine too fast, hoping it will calm my nerves.
It doesn't. It just makes me feel slightly detached, like I'm watching all of this happen to someone else. I can see Sean watching me out of the corner of my eye—whether with judgment or not, I can’t tell—but as usual, he says nothing.
The moment the courses are cleared, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
I need a moment alone, a moment to breathe without Sean's oppressive presence beside me.
The restroom is empty and quiet. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.
I'm married. Actually married. In a few hours, we'll leave this reception. Go to… wherever we're going. And then…
I can't think about then. Can't let myself imagine what comes next.
But I have to. It's going to happen whether I'm ready or not.
I think about the bag I was told to pack to be sent over to our room for the wedding night.
The white silk nightgown and robe are inside, along with some toiletries and perfume and my clothes for tomorrow.
My hands shook the entire time I packed it, fear clouding all of my thoughts as I tried to do something so simple.
I think about Sean's hands on my skin, his body over mine, the pain I’ve read about when it comes to the first time.
The men in romance novels are always huge…
will he be? What does that even mean? I can’t picture it, can only summon the half-baked imaginings from what I’ve read.
Will he be gentle? Will he care that I'm frightened?
Or will he just take what he wants, because I'm his wife now and he has the right?
I take several deep breaths, trying to steady myself. When I walk out of the stall and look at myself in the mirror, I can see that I look pale despite the makeup, my eyes too large and shadowed.
I have to go back out there before someone comes looking for me.
When I step out of the bathroom, I realize I’m too late. Brendan Kearney is in the hall just outside, so close that I nearly collide with him. I take several steps back, wobbly in my heels, my hand pressed to my chest as I try to catch my breath.
"Mrs. Flannery," he says, and the new name sounds wrong in his rough voice. "Lovely ceremony."
"Thank you," I murmur, trying to move past him.