Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROWEN
Aunt Isobel and Uncle Winslow arrived, and introductions were made. They dined together under the two large wrought iron chandeliers of the dining hall, where the somewhat gruesome hunting tapestries depicting scenes of stags and wolves at war hung around them.
The food was simple, yet he greatly enjoyed it. The high emotions of the last few days had been most intense, and breathing, let alone eating, had become a challenge. But now they could breathe and sup with ease.
“Cassandra, do you enjoy riding?” asked Aunt Isobel. “I have brought my horse with me in the hopes that we could go riding each morning together.”
“I must confess I have rarely had the opportunity. My uncles did not keep many horses and did not allow me to ride theirs.”
“I should love to teach you. If you would like, of course.”
“I would, thank you.”
“Excellent. We shall begin on the morrow.”
The days passed slowly, quietly, and effortlessly.
Rowen spent the bulk of his time catching up on the management of the estate with the manager: repairs, livestock, properties.
He went round and visited his tenants, who expressed their sympathies for his father’s passing.
With his uncle, he went into the village and made his presence known with many an ale at the old tavern.
Aunt Isobel and Cassandra got on well and enjoyed taking long walks after breakfast in the rolling moorland through the heather, gorse, and wind-blasted thorns.
Aunt Isobel showed her the stony path, which led to the small tarn, a lake of dark, peaty water the likes of which the girl had never seen before.
The ladies went riding in a sheltered stretch between Greywick’s plateau and the outer moor.
There, behind a row of ancient hawthorn trees, the grass was thick enough for a steady trot, and the wind was reduced by the natural dip of the land.
After Cassandra had had several lessons with his aunt, Rowen joined the ladies.
Cassandra was a willing and eager pupil and mastered the basics of riding quickly, although, much to Aunt’s displeasure, she preferred riding astride. Rowen made a mental note to purchase a horse for his wife once they returned to Tidesfar.
The modiste had arrived, and Rowen promised her extra money to not only have the wedding clothes prepared immediately, but also for her silence on the matter of the wedding.
Before they’d left Tidesfar, Rowen had gone to the locked cabinet where his mother’s jewels had been secured these many years.
He selected an Oakley tiara, a necklace of diamonds and sapphires, and several rings, including one that had belonged to his great-grandmother which he chose as the wedding ring for his bride.
He placed the pieces in Fenwick’s care to be cleaned and prepared for the new Duchess.
The harsh North Sea wind carried gull cries as dark clouds swarmed overhead.
With his cousin Edmund, Uncle Winslow’s nephew, who was the local doctor, Rowen entered the small lichen-covered village church, bitter cold air lashing at his face.
Behind them, Uncle Winslow led Cassandra up the steps.
Edmund stood at his side as their witness.
Aunt Isobel arranged the train of the bride’s dress as she made her way up the nave to him.
Nay, not even a Northumbrian storm would ruin this moment for them.
Let it rain, let it thunder, he thought, for such a cataclysm would only herald this great, violent change in both their lives.
A change he had effected himself. A change, he knew, would never have occurred if it weren’t for Lady Cassandra of Redthorne deciding to seduce him in the forest; for her showing extraordinary boldness at the very moment her uncles and his father meant to ruin her.
Her uncles were banished. His father was dead. His bastard half-brother as well. The compass that had steered his life from the very first was gone. For the first time, his course was now his to decide.
Rowen stilled as Cassandra walked toward him, down the narrow aisle of the damp church, past the scarred wooden pews, her gaze unwavering. The girl who had stalked the woods like a huntress now came to stand beside him.
My bride.
Cassandra was a vision of elegance. She was resplendent in a pale blue silk gown with gold ribbon. Her hair tied back loosely in curls, she wore the diamond tiara, the sapphire necklace at her delectable throat. Finally, she reached him, and he held out his hand to her. She took it.
A compact. A promise. A declaration to the world to be damned.
Her cheeks stained pink as they turned to face the curate. Rowen was sure that, except for her brother and parents, no one had ever shown her a dot of care, if not decency. He would.
The curate began to speak, and Rowen’s heartbeat kicked up. He felt an attachment to Cassandra the likes of which he had never known. He did not know if this was love, but he knew he was fond of her. Admired her. Desired her.
Regardless of the fiery passion they’d already shared, she was a brave young woman whom he would proudly stand beside.
Over her shoulder, the stained glass window of St. Michael the warrior archangel, his flaming sword in hand, caught his eye.
Yes, he would protect her like a warrior. Like an avenging angel.
It wasn’t only about his promise to her brother and his feelings of guilt and obligation. Those were there, but it was something else. In the past weeks, the two of them had formed a bond. They had supported one another, trusted each other.
He had always known he would marry one day for the sake of his title, but he had never fashioned in his mind the sort of woman he wanted for a wife. Events had moved with such force that the choice became undeniable. And he found that he was grateful it was Cassandra.
Rot and ruin, scandal and blood, had driven them here to this wind-bitten church in the north, to stand before God and the law.
“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”
Rowen kissed his wife.
No man would dare.