Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“You have your own bedroom.” I feel my brows pinch.
“Where?”
“It’s on the third floor,” I reply without thought.
“Ah, so you do know where I sleep.”
“Of course. Archie, told me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come yourself.”
This feels like a tiny explosion of delight. I dip my gaze to hide what that knowledge does to me.
“No.” He tips my chin again. “You can’t look at me without blushing. There won’t be any spare bedroom for me, will there, darling?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He chuckles again. My eyes widen, sanding kicking up and tickling my feet as he pulls me to him. “You can lie to yourself.” A tremor runs through me as his warm lips brush the space below my ear. “But you can’t lie to me.”
As he pulls away, his smile somehow looks mildly pornographic.
“This isn’t a real marriage, Niko.”
“Isn’t it?” His brow arches, matching his words. My nerves begin to rattle like keys in a pocket. Is this it? Is this my answer to what our marriage will be? The answer to what a real marriage looks like to him. Me in his bed as and when he wants me. We’ve been in that place before—fifteen years ago, as I recall. And it didn’t work then. I suppose I wasn’t expecting for better and worse, in sickness and in health—the whole shebang—but I also wasn’t expecting this.
“You can’t tie me to you with a gold band—”
He dips, pressing his mouth to mine and my heart stops. Not because he cuts off my denials with his mouth, but because, for the briefest moment, I see a flash of truth in his expression. I see hurt and anger and pain. But that’s as far as my insight goes as he moves into this kiss, moves into me. My brain is a wash of confusion, my mouth one part of this hot tangle of lips and questing tongues. Of rough breaths and half moans. Our bodies flush, he lifts the hair from the nape of my neck, and my brain switches off. His fingers curl, holding me as my hand slides up his chest and curls over his shoulder. The moment is fervent but brief, and as he takes a step back, his eyes are all pupil and I no longer have a thought in my head. He opens his mouth to say something, seeming to change his mind when his expression firms as he reaches for me again.
“Can’t I? Make your excuses if it’ll make you feel better, milaya. But this is until death do we part. This is my solemn vow.”
I feel naked as I stand under the pergola, reviewing the legal paperwork. The boys didn’t seem to pay attention to that hot and heavy moment, but I can’t say the same for the small army of people here to help facilitate this union.
A real marriage.
His solemn vow.
Marriage until death.
My hand shakes as I take the pen the magistrate proffers, my handwriting like a spider scrawl as I begin to fill my portion of the paperwork. Apparently, strings had been pulled for Niko—no surprises there—as we were supposed to visit the equivalent of the town hall yesterday.
But I didn’t know I was getting married yesterday. I mean, I knew. Just not when. Bugger, I’ve made a mistake already.
“Oops!” I send the magistrate a wobbling smile.
“You’re doing fine.” He meets my smile with his broader one. “When nerves make you vomit over the paperwork, then we’ll have a problem.”
I take a deep breath and plow on. I’ve had a lifetime of pretending everything is well, I can do it again. The key is to keep half an ear on the conversation. Smile and nod when you think it’s appropriate. And it works quite well. Mostly.
“I’m sorry. Did you say you were from Peckham?”
“I did, my lady,” the man answers jollily. His black hair is graying at the temples and his shirt is pulled taut around his wide girth. “I was a magistrate in my previous life. I live on the mainland now. It’s the island semi-retiree life for me.”
“How wonderful.”
“I think so. Marrying folks in love is much less stressful that sentencing criminals.”
My smile fixed, I try to ignore the tiny voice in my head that suggests I should ask him how he feels about conducting the marriage of a self-confessed criminal.
“Mummy, shall we?” Hugh offers me his hand this time as the officiant takes his place at the flowered pergola, a leather folio in hand. Niko, serious faced, stands to the right of him. With flowers in my hair and my boys by my side, we step barefoot across the petals as “Bach’s Prelude in D” layers over the endless soft swish of the tide.
I wanted Niko long ago. This moment, or variation of, could be something plucked from my secret reveries. And that’s what this feels like. Just a dream.