Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (39 page)

Dominic slumped in a chair beside her bed. When dawn finally broke over the Wealden hills, he had decided two things. He was going to keep out those shadows for Cathlin O'Neill, whether she liked it or not. Nothing was going to stop her from being free ever again.

And if it took a wedding performed at the order of a man who had been dead for two hundred years to accomplish that, then the abbey was damned well going to have a wedding that no one ever forgot.

I
T TOOK
D
OMINIC TWO HOURS
on the phone and Nicholas another three, but by eleven o'clock, everything was arranged.

The vicar was on his way. Serita was coming from London and several of Nicholas's friends had been invited. The wedding plans were set.

Cathlin had protested when Nicholas told her the ceremony was all arranged. She wanted to help solve the mystery of the will, but refused to believe an actual wedding ceremony was necessary. But Nicholas held firm. This was Gabriel's last wish, and he would see it carried out or the wine would indeed go into the moat.

When Cathlin had looked at Dominic, she'd seen a similar determination on his face. His reason was more practical: he wanted Cathlin cooped up at the abbey where he could keep an eye on her. His final words had been unequivocal.

It might be the wedding from hell, but it was going to take place whether she liked it or not.

 

I
T WAS A LOVELY WEDDING
.
The bride wore black and the groom was bleeding.

The study was bright with centifolia roses arranged in cut crystal bowls. Marston looked upon the proceedings with patent pride beside Nicholas and Kacey Draycott.

First to arrive was Michael Burke, one of Nicholas Draycott's closest friends and his neighbor to the north. With Michael came
his wife, who was looking rather pale after a bout with the flu. Soon after, Serita McCall made a grand entrance in a jumpsuit of gold lurex and seed pearls.

Introductions were completed and sherry passed by the discreet but ubiquitous butler. Nicholas was just helping himself to a glass when the vicar rushed in. “So sorry to be late,” he apologized haltingly. “There was an accident on the A28, and I'm afraid it's rather upset me. The fellow wasn't hurt, thank the Blessed Father, but the poor man's truck was left in most distressing condition. If I'm running on, do forgive me.”

Nicholas hid a smile. “Quite understandable under the circumstances.”

The vicar passed his hat and coat to Marston, then rubbed his hands and looked about him. “Now then, where is the bride?”

Draycott and Marston exchanged a quick look and Nicholas cleared his throat. “I expect she'll be down shortly, Vicar. Last-minute affairs to be taken care of and all that. Why don't you have a sherry while you wait?”

Right on cue, Marston passed a goblet to the vicar. The polite flow of conversation ensued.

Only someone looking very closely would have noticed the faint frown working down Nicholas's forehead.

 

C
ATHLIN PULLED OPEN THE
door to the closet and glared at the clothes inside. Muttering, she ran over her choices, on loan from Kacey. A simple but very elegant cocktail dress of ivory satin?

Too formal.

An off-the-shoulder designer knock-off from Paris, made in a clingy knit of striking amber that perfectly matched her eyes?

Too slinky. Cathlin wasn't about to give Dominic any reason to think she
liked
this idea of his.

Next came to simple suits in dark fabrics.

Possibly.

And then Cathlin's lips curved up in a smile. She'd marry Officer Montserrat all right, and it would be in clothes from her own bag.

And when she did, it would be a ceremony he
never
forgot.

 

A
HALF HOUR LATER THE
clock was chiming as Cathlin started down the stairs. Through the doors to the study she saw a dozen or so people talking quietly, trying to pretend it was the most normal thing in the world for a man to marry a woman he barely knew because of the will of an ancestor he'd never met.

An ancestor two hundred years dead.

The sun poured golden through the abbey's great mullioned windows as Cathlin looked down and smoothed her black silk blouse. Her black flowing trousers. Her black silk scarf.

She smiled faintly. The message should be clear enough even for a hard case like Dominic Montserrat.

 

D
OMINIC WAS ALONE IN THE
front hall when he looked up and saw Cathlin at the top of the stairs. The chandelier cast glints of gold, red, and amber through her hair as she moved down the steps, smiling.

Dominic blinked. Silky hair. Satin blouse. Flowing trousers.

All black.

A muscle twitched at his jaw. Even as he registered the solid black of her attire, Dominic felt a jab of admiration. No shy, awe-filled bride here, he thought ruefully.

Somewhere in the house a clock began to chime.

Dominic's arms tensed beneath his perfectly tailored jacket. Motionless, wary, he stared at Cathlin, dressed in black. At the jeweled satin rose in her hair, also black.

He found himself torn between fury and disbelief.

Very well, my dear, if it's war you want, it's war you'll get.
He took a step forward, poised for battle, a hard-faced warrior
clad in impeccable evening dress that played up the rich bronze hue of his skin.

Cathlin studied him coldly from head to toe. “Heavens, I seem to have made a terrible mistake. I'm dressed all wrong for the occasion.”

“I'm sure it was no mistake,” Dominic murmured, taking her arm. “Rather an unusual way to dress for a wedding, isn't it?”

“Is it, Officer Montserrat? I wouldn't know, having never been married before.”

“I'm not exactly a veteran myself. However, the guests have arrived, the vicar is waiting, and Marston is positively on the verge of a crisis of nerves. So let's just get the damn business over with, shall we?”

“Of course,” Cathlin said tightly, trying to pull free of his hand. But he slid his arm under hers and guided her inexorably toward the noise and lights of the study.

Dominic was attuned to her every emotion now. He felt her slight tremor and knew the moment that her step faltered. His fingers tightened, firm but gentle, as he guided her forward.

“Is—is Serita here yet?”

“Offering healths to anyone who'll listen. She's already got Nicholas's promise to tour the wine cellars later. And Nicholas's friend, Lord Burke, has asked her over for a consultation next week.”

“That sounds like Serita.” As Cathlin spoke, the flower above her ear swayed and slid to the floor. Dominic went for it at the same instant she did, and their shoulders butted beneath the five-hundred-year-old chandelier casting warm sparks over the oak floor.

Pain streaked through Dominic's shoulder, his memento of yesterday's scuffle in the wine cellar. He winced as his fingers closed on the satin flower. Already he could feel blood seeping beneath the bandage on his arm, but he'd be damned if anybody got the slightest hint that he was uncomfortable.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“So I can put this damn bow back in your hair. Since you seem so intent on wearing the bloody thing, it's the least I can do to see that it stays put.” He caught her shoulders and spun her around, and his long fingers smoothed the hair back from her cheek and slid the anchoring pin deep into her hair. It felt like satin in his fingers and left his blood on fire. “Stop moving, damn it.”

“I'm
not
moving!”

“Then stop breathing. Since you've gone to all this trouble to tell the world exactly what you think of this wedding, dressed like some sacrificial virgin going off to be beheaded and deflowered, the least you can do is stand still until this ugly flower is back in place.”

Cathlin's shoulders tightened. “It's not a wedding. At least not a real and proper one. I just wanted to make my opinions clear on that.”

“Oh, you've made yourself crystal clear, O'Neill. I expect everyone will be thinking you're a widow rather than a bride-to-be.”

Her eyes glittered. Color slashed over her high cheekbones. Oh, yes, it would be a lovely ceremony all right.

Dominic scowled, wanting to shake her, wanting to order her to be careful. Wanting to kiss her, until she gripped his shoulders and poured over him like slow, still water and he had his fill of her.

Except something told Dominic he'd
never
get his fill of this woman.

He bit back a curse as Marston came through the study doors, magnificent in a black coat and new orange running shoes. “It appears as if we are ready, my lord. You will be wishing for the ring, of course.”

Dominic opened the case Marston gave him. Inside lay a square-cut emerald, outlined in tiny pavé diamonds. “Thank you, Marston.”

The ring had been passed down through his family for centuries, maybe even back as far as Gabriel's time. Family legend said the emerald had come from somewhere in the Sri Lanka hill country and that the stone changed hands a dozen times within the first two hours of its discovery.

Dominic looked down, remembering how it had flashed on his mother's strong, capable hand. She had given it to him, smiling tenderly, only an hour before her death.

“My stubborn, serious son, take this and believe. Believe that you'll find her, the one who is the other piece of your heart. You'll know who she is because she'll fit into your soul, completing something you didn't even know was missing until that moment.” She had waved her hand, dismissing his protests. “Hush, my love. Let me finish, for my time is nearly gone.” Dominic could still remember how the ring's sharp corners had cut into his skin. He had been repulsed at the thought that the only way the ring could be his was with his mother's death.

“When you find her and your heart whispers that she is the one, listen, my love. And give her this. When you do, I'll know it. Somehow you'll feel it, too, my dearest Dominic. Somewhere you'll know I'm smiling.”

As her fingers had closed over his, her eyes had flickered shut. An hour later she was dead.

Dominic wondered if she was watching now. If so, what would that calm, practical Frenchwoman make of this bizarre ceremony performed at the wish of a man dead for two centuries.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

“Shall we begin, my lord?” The balding vicar moved from foot to foot, clearly ill at ease. Nicholas had explained the whole odd story to him, and in the end he had given way before Nicholas's persuasion, contenting himself with a single, muttered, “most extraordinary.”

The heady scent of roses filled the air where the French doors stood open to the golden valleys.

Dominic felt a sudden pressure in his chest. He ignored it, just as he had been trained to ignore anything without relevance to his job. “Your hand, my dear.”

Only Dominic saw the swift burst of color that filled Cathlin's cheeks. Only Dominic felt the tremor that shook her fingers, then was quickly suppressed as his hand closed over hers.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

Dominic's jaw hardened as the vicar began to speak. A will was a will, after all, and a million pounds was a million bloody pounds. Oh, yes, it would be a lovely ceremony, he thought grimly.

Especially if the bride and groom managed to keep from murdering each other before it was over.

 

“…
TO BE JOINED TOGETHER
…”

Cathlin's knees felt like Seacliffe's disintegrating roof beams.

“…in holy matrimony…”

She was really here. She was really consenting. This was
really
happening.

“…an honorable estate, instituted of God in paradise…”

The air was full of the scent of roses. She could feel the cool slide of her satin blouse, heavy against her sensitized skin. She caught every smell, registered every noise and movement around her, however small.

“…not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly…”

She took a quick, steadying breath, ignoring the strong hand on hers, ignoring the urge to look sideways, toward the man whose startling eyes reminded her of a pine forest at dawn, full of secrets.

But Cathlin discovered that she didn't have to look to see Dominic.

Every detail of his face was already burned into her memory.

 

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER IT
was done. The vows were said, the oaths exchanged. Dominic's elegant emerald ring now sat gleaming upon Cathlin's slender finger.

The whole ceremony had gone smoothly, in fact, if one discounted the tension between the bridal pair so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Nicholas and his wife looked on in high good humor, delighted by Cathlin's unusual style of dress. The vicar, downright uncomfortable, limited himself to a few uncertain smiles.