Page 51 of Embers

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“You won’t.” Tanner pushes his shoulders back. He’s wearing a white shirt, loose and billowy, with dark brown pants and tan boots. He lets go of me and puts his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you at the chapel.”

When he’s gone, I wait alone by the stream. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the water. Something familiar is in the distance. A waterfall. I hug my arms around my waist, then look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a dress. Deep, forest green with a white blouse beneath it that peeks up over the neckline. I smooth my hands over my hips. They graze my stomach.

I look up at the sky again before following the river away from the meadow. A little way down a lane sheltered by trees, I emerge on a sloping path that leads up toward a collection of buildings. Some wood. Some stone. Ducking down an alleyway, my shoes crunch on uneven ground. Now I’m walking down a wide street. A horse and cart trots noisily past me. At the end of the street sits a chapel. White with a steepled roof.

Walking toward it, I feel as though people are whispering, staring, stopping to follow me with their eyes. I smooth my dress again and try not to look at them.

When I reach the chapel, I pause outside its large wooden doors. I wait a moment. Then the doors open.

A tall, silver-haired man with a neat beard greets me. He smiles, glances behind me, then ushers me inside. We’re standing in what feels like a porch. Another door is in front of us. The hum of people’s chatter tells me there’s a congregation on the other side.

“You’re beautiful.” The man allows his fingers to brush mine. In his other hand, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers. As our skin meets, my breath catches in my chest. His eyes sparkle as he presses the bouquet into my hands. “Are you ready?”

I nod and loop my arm in his.

As we enter the body of the chapel—small, dark, and wooden—the sea of people in front of us turns around. They watch as I walk slowly toward the minister, my arm tucked into the arm of the man with the sparkling eyes. When we reach the front of the chapel, the minister turns to the man and says, “Rhone Mackenzie, you are here because you wish to give your charge over to be married?”

A shiver grips my spine.Mack.

“I am.” Mack unhooks his arm from mine and stands with his arms behind his back, fingers laced together, feet apart.

“The name of the man who shall take your charge as his wife?” The minister is looking past me.

I turn and follow his gaze. First, I see Tanner. He’s at the far end of the front pew, sitting with his hands braced on his knees. He smiles at me, then looks down at the floor. Next to him, a guy with dark, curly hair. He looks down at the floor too.

My eyes move along the line. There is a large gap, filled with two plump women who have large lips and long blond hair. Then another figure I recognize. Tall like a Viking, with a long dark beard, this man does not look at the floor—he looks straight at me as if he’s trying to see inside my soul.

“Luther Ross.” Mack speaks loudly. His words bounce off the chapel walls and seem to fill it up.

I look away from the Viking. Next to him, a man with thick, black hair is staring at his hands. They are knotted together in his lap. He raises his head. Something flashes in his eyes.Luther.

Fixing his eyes on me, Luther stands. He steps forward and moves to my right while Mack stands on my left. With both of them next to me, I feel suddenly safer. More at ease.

“Very well.” The minister nods at Mack. “Rhone, you may take a seat.”

Mack dips his head, then pats my shoulder and takes Luther’s place in the pew behind us.

When I look at Luther, something swells in my chest. Excitement. Happiness.Love.He smiles at me. It brightens his face.

“Luther Ross,” the minister raises his voice, “will you take this woman as your wedded wife?”

“I will.” Luther takes my hands. His fingers are warm. He strokes my palm with his thumb.

“Ava Sparrow, will you take this man as your wedded husband?” The minister’s eyes narrow as he waits for my reply.

“Yes,” I say. “I will.”

30

NOVA

It is dark. A fire crackles in the grate. I am lying on a sheepskin rug, a blanket draped over me. Hanging from a hook by the fire is the crown Tanner made for me. I study it as a hand traces the curve of my back. I turn and look up into the face of my husband.

Luther strokes my hair from my face. He kisses my temple, my cheek, my mouth. His hands slide down my body. He pulls the blanket aside, then lowers his lips and peppers my stomach with a row of kisses.

I close my eyes and push my fingers through his thick, beautiful hair. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

He looks up at me. His eyes dance with pleasure. “You’re certain it’s aher?”


Tags: Cara Clare Fantasy