Finally, blessedly, Fiona and Christian were alone.
They stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by the detritus of celebration—half-empty glasses, scattered petals, thelingering scent of flowers and candle wax. The castle was quiet now, settling into the peaceful hush of evening.
“Well,” Christian said. “We did it.”
“We did.” Fiona leaned against him, suddenly exhausted. “We are married.”
“We are married.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “You are my wife.”
“You are my husband.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“So do I.”
He was quiet for a moment, his chin resting on the top of her head. Then, softly:
“Come to bed with me.”
It was not a question, not quite—more like an invitation. Fiona tilted her head back to look at him.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
***
He carried her all the way to his chambers—their chambers now, she supposed—and set her gently on her feet before the great canopied bed. Someone had been here before them:candles had been lit, the fire built up, the coverlet turned down invitingly. Rose petals scattered across the sheets.
“Mrs Blackley’s doing, I imagine,” Christian murmured. “She has a romantic streak she tries very hard to hide.”
“Remind me to thank her.”
“Later.” He turned her to face him, his hands settling on her waist. “Much later.”
The look in his eyes made her breath catch.
They had been intimate before—many times, in fact, during those golden weeks before everything fell apart. She knew his body as well as she knew her own. She knew what he liked, what made him gasp, what undid him entirely.
But this was different. This was their wedding night. This was the beginning of the rest of their lives.
“I love you,” he said. “I know I have said it a thousand times. I know the words are probably losing their meaning. But I need you to understand—”
She silenced him with a kiss.
It started soft, tender, the kiss of a new wife greeting her husband. But it deepened quickly, heat building between them, months of longing and loss and desperate love pouring into the contact. Her fingers found the buttons of his waistcoat; his hands worked at the fastenings of her gown.
“I want to see you,” he murmured against her mouth. “All of you. In candlelight. As my wife.”
“Then see me.”
He undressed her slowly, reverently, peeling away layers of silk and lace until she stood before him in nothing but firelight and shadow. His eyes travelled over her—not with the desperate hunger of their earlier encounters, but with something deeper. Wonder. Gratitude. Awe.
“You are so beautiful.” His voice cracked. “I still cannot believe you’re mine.”
“Believe it.” She reached for him, pulling at his cravat, his shirt, baring the chest she loved with its wine-dark mark. “And let me show you.”
They came together on the great bed, amid rose petals and candlelight, moving with the slow deliberation of two people who had all the time in the world. There was no urgency, no desperation—just the steady building of pleasure, the whispered endearments, the gasps and sighs of two bodies that knew each other perfectly.
When they finally shattered together, crying out each other’s names, Fiona felt tears slip down her cheeks. Not from sadness—never from sadness—but from the overwhelming rightness of it all.
