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Authors: Lecia Cornwall
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of her face as she walked up the aisle was her mouth. She had full lips, sweetly pink, damp and parted. He watched in fascination as she caught her lower lip between white teeth the moment she saw him. He let his gaze roam over the rest of her. Her gown was a shade of pink that resembled a blush. It almost matched the color of her skin, making it appear from a distance that she wore nothing at all. She was tall, but her figure was impossible to gauge behind the massive bouquet of roses. His gut churned with frustration, and anger—at her, at his grandmother, at himself for agreeing to this sham.
He frowned, and she stopped in her tracks.
Hector Bryant tugged her forward, and her pretty mouth set itself into more determined lines as she came the last few steps toward him. The pulse in her throat throbbed, and the roses shivered against her bosom. In any other situation, he would have been sorry for her fear, done his best to soothe it.
But this woman had chosen to marry a stranger, and she was being well paid for it. She didn’t need his pity.
She glanced back at Hector as she put her hand in his, and he noted the slimness of her waist, the delicacy of her figure as she turned. He tightened his grip on her hand, and she looked up at him. At least he thought she had. He couldn’t be sure through the heavy layers of lace that fashioned her veil.
She took her place beside him and squared her shoulders like a soldier going into battle, finding comfort in her own courage since he hadn’t offered any. He felt a surge of admiration that belonged on a battlefield, and shook it off.
He could smell her perfume over the scent of the roses, something soft and enticing, slightly spicy, definitely intriguing. He turned away, studied the rear door, wondering what would happen if he bolted through it, left her here. He didn’t hear a word of her breathless vows.
When the time came to lift the veil and kiss her, he held his breath, steeling himself not to flinch, no matter what she looked like. Not for her sake, but because he wouldn’t give his grandmother the satisfaction. He could feel Granddame’s gaze on him like a blade at his throat.
He braced himself and lifted the veil.
He stared down at her. She wasn’t hideous.
She was beautiful.
He met wide eyes that held a kaleidoscope of colors, gold, brown, and green, set in a lush fringe of copper-tipped lashes. Her features were delicate, perfectly formed, her nose dusted with faint freckles that suggested she spent time outdoors and didn’t always wear a bonnet or carry a parasol. Under his scrutiny, she blushed. He was trying to recall the last time he’d seen a maidenly blush when his eyes found her mouth.
Her lips were parted slightly, perhaps in awe of him, perhaps in anticipation of the kiss that would seal their vows.
He lowered his head, intent on that unexpectedly glorious mouth, but the instant his lips touched hers, she slammed her mouth shut, and the kiss was disappointingly hard and unyielding, a virgin’s kiss. He frowned as she pulled away and dropped the veil back over her face. He felt as if a curtain had been drawn too soon on what he’d hoped would be a very tantalizing performance. Disappointment warred with anger as he turned to face the bishop.
M eg barely heard the last few words the bishop spoke over them. She was trembling when Temberlay led her down the aisle, her wrist clenched in his fist. She had to run to keep up with his long strides. All she could think of were his eyes. They weren’t green. They were gray, and as cold and forbidding as the winter sea. A dozen emotions had passed through the depths of his eyes as he stared down at her—resignation, surprise, curiosity, and something she couldn’t name that made her intensely aware that she stood just inches from the heat and power of a male body for the first time in her life.
When he bent to kiss her, she felt the soft exhalation of his breath on her mouth, smelled the spice of his
He frowned, and she stopped in her tracks.
Hector Bryant tugged her forward, and her pretty mouth set itself into more determined lines as she came the last few steps toward him. The pulse in her throat throbbed, and the roses shivered against her bosom. In any other situation, he would have been sorry for her fear, done his best to soothe it.
But this woman had chosen to marry a stranger, and she was being well paid for it. She didn’t need his pity.
She glanced back at Hector as she put her hand in his, and he noted the slimness of her waist, the delicacy of her figure as she turned. He tightened his grip on her hand, and she looked up at him. At least he thought she had. He couldn’t be sure through the heavy layers of lace that fashioned her veil.
She took her place beside him and squared her shoulders like a soldier going into battle, finding comfort in her own courage since he hadn’t offered any. He felt a surge of admiration that belonged on a battlefield, and shook it off.
He could smell her perfume over the scent of the roses, something soft and enticing, slightly spicy, definitely intriguing. He turned away, studied the rear door, wondering what would happen if he bolted through it, left her here. He didn’t hear a word of her breathless vows.
When the time came to lift the veil and kiss her, he held his breath, steeling himself not to flinch, no matter what she looked like. Not for her sake, but because he wouldn’t give his grandmother the satisfaction. He could feel Granddame’s gaze on him like a blade at his throat.
He braced himself and lifted the veil.
He stared down at her. She wasn’t hideous.
She was beautiful.
He met wide eyes that held a kaleidoscope of colors, gold, brown, and green, set in a lush fringe of copper-tipped lashes. Her features were delicate, perfectly formed, her nose dusted with faint freckles that suggested she spent time outdoors and didn’t always wear a bonnet or carry a parasol. Under his scrutiny, she blushed. He was trying to recall the last time he’d seen a maidenly blush when his eyes found her mouth.
Her lips were parted slightly, perhaps in awe of him, perhaps in anticipation of the kiss that would seal their vows.
He lowered his head, intent on that unexpectedly glorious mouth, but the instant his lips touched hers, she slammed her mouth shut, and the kiss was disappointingly hard and unyielding, a virgin’s kiss. He frowned as she pulled away and dropped the veil back over her face. He felt as if a curtain had been drawn too soon on what he’d hoped would be a very tantalizing performance. Disappointment warred with anger as he turned to face the bishop.
M eg barely heard the last few words the bishop spoke over them. She was trembling when Temberlay led her down the aisle, her wrist clenched in his fist. She had to run to keep up with his long strides. All she could think of were his eyes. They weren’t green. They were gray, and as cold and forbidding as the winter sea. A dozen emotions had passed through the depths of his eyes as he stared down at her—resignation, surprise, curiosity, and something she couldn’t name that made her intensely aware that she stood just inches from the heat and power of a male body for the first time in her life.
When he bent to kiss her, she felt the soft exhalation of his breath on her mouth, smelled the spice of his
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