Chapter Twenty-Three #4
Of one accord, five women exited the room, hurrying towards the staircase where Lord Cunningham waited, each woman presenting him a large smile and a quick curtsy.
Then he turned to where Freya waited at the top of the stairs.
The others quickly claimed their wraps and darted out the door to their waiting coach, but Freya’s eyes were on her father, whose frown purposely turned up when his gaze fell on her.
“You are beautiful, my child. Lord Graham assuredly does not deserve you.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she said softly as she descended the steps. “I did not believe I needed to hear your praise, but I shall cherish your words for the remainder of my days.”
Her father cleared his throat of the emotions passing between them. “The carriage awaits, my girl, and so does your groom.”
Donning her cloak, Freya accepted her father’s arm. Finally settled in his coach, she watched out the window. An open barouche would return them to Thom Manor, but, for now, the warmth of her father’s coach was both familiar and comforting.
As they traveled the lane to the village and the church, Freya considered the idea of Lord Aaran Graham waiting for her.
The idea brought a smile to her lips. She loved His Lordship, body and soul.
Today was her wedding day, and Aaran Graham waited for her at the church—a beautiful church carved in the Norman style.
One she would be glad to show her children someday.
A perfect church. Within the hour, her life would forever be linked to the Grahams. She would be Lady Graham.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said softly, “for permitting my heart to know today’s happiness and its future promise.”
They had stood together throughout the wedding breakfast, thanking people for attending—holding hands—fearing to let go.
Now, they were in Lord Graham’s home. Her home now, Freya kept telling herself.
They likely should have stayed in Thompson’s dower house, but Freya had wanted her first night as Lady Graham to be in their own home.
It had been dark when they arrived, though Mr. Jamison had made excellent time.
They had spent much of the time either kissing or hugging.
There was a time she thought Lord Graham would have seduced her in his carriage, but he was a man with an iron will if there ever was one.
“You deserve better than a crowded carriage seat,” he had said.
A small meal had been served in the adjoining sitting room of their suite, but neither of them appeared hungry, though they had not eaten for many hours.
They were tangled together on a small sofa, and Aaran was stroking his fingers through that independent lock of hair that often fell over her forehead.
Her husband, though he would never admit it, required someone to translate the world for him—to teach him to recognize both his kindness and his passion and the stubbornness of his nature, which did not always permit him to accept kind emotions in return.
Meanwhile, she required his calming strength and his unquestionable reliability.
He whispered, “What are you thinking, my lady?”
“Just how much I adore being in your arms, my lord.”
“Excellent answer.” His grip tightened on her thigh, pulling her into his body as he leaned in to kiss her.
His lips opened urgently over hers, giving her a taste of the brandy he had sipped on while they waited for their evening meal to be set before them.
Their tongues met and danced together. Freya wound her arms about his neck and then tunneled her fingers through his hair, lifting herself into the tender assault of his firm lips.
His lips moved to her jaw, her earlobe, and the side of her neck.
Eventually, his hand dropped to the bottom of her gown and pushed it upward and over her head to expose her to his view.
“Dear God,” he moaned. “You are perfection.” Freya wanted to cover herself, but she made herself lie very still.
Both Lady Emma and Lady Annalise had described this moment in the little talks they had provided her—one Freya had found embarrassing, but exciting at the same time.
“Legs. Around my waist now!” he ordered in tones of urgency.
“I can walk to the bed,” Freya countered, though she did not wish to parade before him without her gown.
“I am strong enough to carry my wife to our bed,” he nearly growled.
“It is less than a dozen steps, and my leg shall hold me, for I am carrying the most precious thing in my life.” He bent then to lift her into his arms, and Freya thought him the most romantic man God had ever created.
Every muscle in her body tensed, but not in fear, but rather in anticipation.
Later, as she came to her senses and her thumping heart settled into a steady beat and in rhythm with Aaran’s, Freya was already falling asleep.
Her head was nestled on her husband’s shoulder, and he pulled the blankets up and over her.
They were man and wife, and their love was not going anywhere soon.
Reminding herself to treasure the gift that God had presented her, Freya snuggled into the circle of Aaran’s arms and enjoyed the heat of his body as it aligned with hers.
He would always shield her and, later, their children with his strength.
He had quite literally saved her, and she had saved him from the fears and vulnerability and loneliness.