by Day Leclaire
Jordan shrugged carelessly, taking another big bite of pastry. “Beats me,” she mumbled. “Ask your husband.”
“Husband-to-be.”
“Picky, picky. A few more hours will take care of that. I’ll tell you one thing.” A sly look entered her bluish gray eyes. “You’re the only one who thinks this marriage is temporary.”
Andrea shot to her feet, nearly overturning her coffee cup. “Then you’re all kidding yourselves,” she insisted. “If it weren’t for the problems at Constantine’s, I wouldn’t be marrying Thor.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“You don’t love him?”
“No.”
“And he doesn’t love you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Jordan brushed the crumbs from the shelf of her stomach. “Sounds like an excellent foundation for marriage to me. Why don’t I draw your bath? I think you should soak your head for a while.”
Andrea’s lips twitched. Jordan glanced at her and started to chuckle. The next minute they were both laughing helplessly. “You always were a brat,” Andrea said, hugging her pregnant friend. “I’m glad you’re going to be my sister-in-law. You’re good for me, you know that?”
“I do. And it’s about time you realized it, too.” With a final hug, Jordan trotted off toward the bathroom. She turned the tap on full blast and upended a jar of gardenia-scented bubble bath into the tub. “I’ll also make you a little bet.”
Andrea regarded her with suspicion. “What?”
“I’ll bet by the time this baby makes its appearance in another two months or so, you’ll have forgotten all about this temporary marriage stuff. I win, you deliver a pallet-load of your biggest, juiciest ruby-red grapefruit to my produce market. Gratis, of course.”
“Of course. And if I . . . win.” Andrea gulped. Why had she almost said “lose”?
“I’ll give you a good swift kick and hope it implants a little common sense.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’ll find you two new customers.”
Two new customers. She couldn’t afford to pass that up. “You’re on.”
Jordan grinned. “I can taste that grapefruit already. Your bath, madam, awaits your pleasure.” With a surprisingly graceful curtsy, she slipped from the room.
Andrea climbed into the steaming water, sliding down into the bubbles. Jordan was a good friend, if not terribly realistic. As yummy as pie in the sky might seem, it didn’t have much taste.
She scooped up a mound of foam and blew gently into her cupped hands. A clump of bubbles spun into the air, floating high overhead. Light caught in them, revealing rainbow swirls of color. Thor didn’t love her. Oh, he wanted her, she didn’t doubt that for a minute. But it wasn’t love.
She blew into her hands again. This time the foam burst into a thousand independent bubbles, raining down all around her. Regardless of what he’d said, business was his life, just as it had been her father’s. To imagine any other explanation asked for trouble of the worst kind.
She knew Thor well, but he’d only proposed because of the risk to his account with the Milanos. Business first, pleasure second. That was Thor. A last puff of air scattered the remaining bubbles, leaving her hands empty. As empty as her soon-to-be marriage?
She sank deeper into the warm water and closed her eyes, her imagination defying all attempts at control. Images flashed through her mind. Jordan with a baby snuggled in her arms, perched atop a stack of grapefruit boxes, a smug expression on her face. Thor looking at her the way Rainer looked at his wife. Celebrating a fifth and a tenth and a fiftieth anniversary . . .
Close to her ear, the bubbles filling the tub began to burst, as temporary and ethereal as her daydreams. Face facts, she ordered fiercely. It’s not going to happen. But that didn’t prevent a wistful tear from escaping beneath one eyelid.
It crept slowly down her cheek, plopped into the soft foam, and dissolved.
B y ten o’clock, her bedroom overflowed with helpful relatives-to-be. Each commented about her hair and makeup, her dress and jewelry. Finally, with a few pointed Norwegian words, Sonja cleared the room.
“Don’t mind them,” she told Andrea. “They all adore Thor and wish to help his bride any way they can.”
“It’s all right,” Andrea reassured with a smile. She ran a cautious hand down the apron of her bunad and peeked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t believe the change in her appearance.
Sonja had coaxed her short flaxen curls into a sophisticated plait, a style flattered by the embroidered bridal crown. She fingered the trim on the bright red vest, aware her cheeks were almost as rosy. Excitement, along with a touch of fear, gleamed in her large brown eyes, their color darkened with emotion.
“How do I look?” she asked, shy for perhaps the first time in her life.
Sonja gave an encouraging smile. “Stunning. It is good you are tall and slender. A few little tucks and the dress fits perfectly.” She gave the green skirt a final twitch. “Of course, Thor would think you beautiful no matter what you wore. But in this . . . He will be very pleased.”
Andrea busied herself with touching up her lipstick. She wanted Thor to be pleased. She wanted him to look at her with hot desire in his electric blue eyes, wanted to see the heat of passion creep across his high cheekbones. She longed to hear the husky rasp in his voice when he spoke to her and know she’d moved him as no other woman could.
Her hand trembled and she set the lipstick down on the dresser. Face it. She craved an impossible fantasy, and the knowledge terrified her. It shouldn’t matter what he thought or felt. Her happiness shouldn’t depend on that. So why did it?
“It’s time to go,” Jordan announced from the doorway. “Rainer says everyone’s lined up for the processional. The police have all the streets cordoned off and ready for the parade.”
This was it. Andrea took a deep breath and left the bedroom behind. The full petticoats and skirt danced gracefully around her white-stockinged calves. Once outside, she followed Sonja to the front of the line of carts and horses and buggies.
The pageantry of the scene amazed her. Everywhere she looked silver jewelry glinted and bright costumes flashed, the noisy crowd a happy festive sight. Carts stood loaded with children, as well as those who couldn’t walk or ride the distance. Horses, curried and braided, stood patiently waiting, their elaborate bridles and oiled leather saddles gleaming in the warm sunshine.
She grinned, realizing someone thought to arrange for official “scoopers” to follow the parade and clean up any natural equine occurrences. Marco called to her from the crowd, and she waved, spotting several of her other employees, as well. Thank goodness she knew someone in this mass of humanity!
Then she saw Thor.
He stood by a pair of buff-colored horses, his expression remote and serious, his eyes as clear and light as the Seattle sky. She studied his costume, impressed at how naturally he wore the forest-green knickers and red, silver-buttoned vest, his muscular legs encased in white stockings almost identical to her own. He’d left his black overcoat open, the fabric stretched taut across his shoulders.
As though aware of her scrutiny, he glanced her way and froze. His gaze swept over her with singular intensity, an unidentifiable expression flitting across his face. She paused, not quite certain of her role, and ridiculously self-conscious as a result.
Thor must have sensed her insecurity. He crossed to her side, standing tall and firm before her. “God morn, kjæreste,” he said, bowing low.
Kjæreste . She’d heard Alaric use that word. Sweetheart, Sonja had interpreted. “God morn, mannen man,” she replied, giving him a curtsy in turn.
His eyes darkened and he took another step forward. She stared at him, instantly lost in his gaze. “Husband. I like the sound of that,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”
She blushed, unable to say another word. He offered his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, walking with him to their position in line. When she reached her horse, she stroked the velvet nose, smiling wryly. How ironic that Thor looked at her with all the passion and desire she could ever want, and she’d been unable to respond. What had gotten into her?
“The horses are lovely. What kind are they?” she asked with genuine curiosity, as well as a desperate need to say something . . . anything.
“They’re Norwegian fjord horses, very rare in this country.”
Her brows drew together. That sounded expensive. “Where’d you get them?”
“From a cousin with a farm near British Columbia.”
She relaxed somewhat. “Another cousin?”
“Frightening, isn’t it?” Thor stroked the docile animal. “He breeds these beauties and loaned us two for today’s parade for his wedding gift.” He introduced her to the youth holding her reins. “This is his son, Erik. He’ll lead your horse.”
Andrea nodded in relief. She discovered riding sidesaddle was much more difficult than it appeared. Ever since she’d heard the details of their wedding, she’d dreaded this part. She’d been haunted by the image of tipping over and tumbling to the pavement, her skirts around her ears. Perhaps Erik would prevent that from happening. Better still, perhaps Erik could ride and she could lead.
Before she had time to suggest it, Thor placed his hands around her waist and, in a single easy movement, swept her off the ground and onto the horse. He waited until she’d settled into a comfortable position, shooting her a wicked grin. Taking his time, he rearranged her skirt and petticoats.
“Now you look perfect,” he said as if to excuse his protracted attention.
She shivered, the brush of his callused fingers along her calves and ankles heightening her awareness of him. “Please,” she murmured, darting a swift look around. “People are watching.”
“We won’t always be in the middle of a crowd,” he answered in an undertone. “What will you say then?”
Yes! “No.” Maybe.
“We’ll see when the time comes, won’t we?” With seeming reluctance, he released her and vaulted into the saddle of his horse. The animal shook its head, tiny silver bells attached to the halter tinkling gaily in the still morning air. “We should start in a few minutes. There’s a certain order to all this, a tradition.”
As though they’d heard him, the people joining in the parade scurried to get into line, their laughter and boisterous comments drowned out by the unexpected strains of a violin.
Andrea turned and spotted a man standing in front of the procession tuning up his instrument. Minutes later, he broke into a lively march and danced into the blocked-off street. With a slap of the reins, a large, keg-laden cart driven by Caesar Milano rattled after him.
“Why is Caesar first?” she wanted to know.
“He’s the kjøkemester , the host or master of ceremonies. In Norway, he’d be an important figure in the town, a prominent landowner, or a successful merchant.”
She shot him a speaking glance. “Very diplomatic of you to pick Caesar.”
“I thought so.” Thor grinned. “Since the host is in charge of the food and Milano’s is catering our reception, it seemed a logical choice. It’s also the host’s duty to see all the guests get to the ceremony sober. And considering some of my relatives, he’ll have his hands full.”
She burst out laughing. “So why the keg?”
“They can have all they’d like of that. It’s full of apple cider.”
“Fermented by any chance?”
Thor shook his head. “Not according to Caesar, though I didn’t quite trust that gleam in his eye.” The cart bearing his parents creaked down the driveway behind Caesar, and he explained, “Normally both fathers would come next. But since that’s not possible, my mother is riding with Dad, instead of behind us with your mother.”
“That means we’re next.” She stated the obvious.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.” She reached up to check the position of her crown, tucking away a wisp of hair.
“It’s perfect,” he assured her. “You’re perfect. I want to thank you.”
She glanced at him uncertainly. “Thank me for what?”
He gestured around them. “For going along with all this. It can’t be easy for you.”
She didn’t deny it. “Or you.”
“It was my choice.”
True. Which reminded her of Jordan’s earlier comments. She fixed him with a determined stare. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you decide on such a—”
“Hang on, love. It’s our turn,” he interrupted.
Andrea’s eyes narrowed. Did he suspect what she planned to ask? Suspect, and preferred to duck the question? Sonja turned and waved, the ribbons of her bonnet rippling behind her. Deciding to drop the issue, Andrea waved back. Her horse danced forward and she quickly grabbed the pommel. Instantly Thor’s arm shot out, steadying her.
“Easy,” he murmured, his hand lingering on the curve of her elbow long after the necessity passed.
Crowds of people lined the street, fascinated by the spectacle. At first, Andrea felt self-conscious, aware of being the focus of all eyes. She kept her gaze fixed on the horse’s white forelock, reluctant to look left or right.
“Relax,” Thor urged. “They’re all happy for you. Try to enjoy yourself, sweetheart. This will only happen once in your entire life. Savor it.”
Andrea peeked at the sidelines. A small girl jumped up and down and pointed at her. Never before had she seen such an enraptured expression on a child’s face. It gave her an odd, humble feeling. She smiled hesitantly and waved.
Thor was right. She should savor these moments. Then and there, she determined to save up each little memory, preserving it for a time when memories were all that remained.
“How long will the ride take?” she asked after a few minutes.
“About an hour. Once there, we’ll file into the church in the same order as the procession.”
“The fiddler, too?” She pictured herself dancing down the aisle behind him. “That’s different.”
“No.” Thor’s glance was indulgent. “He’s not allowed to enter. He’ll stay outside and play until all the guests have arrived.”
She scowled, taking insult for the poor man. Dancing down the aisle would have been fun. And it would have taken her mind off the real reason for her presence at the church. “Why can’t he come in?”
Thor nudged his horse nearer and adjusted the tilt of her crown, his fingers lingering on her cheek. The crowd reacted instantly, the laughter and applause causing warm color to flood her face. He must have noticed her embarrassment because he flashed a teasing grin.
“Devilry, my love. Fiddles and fiddlers are not for the pious. The church frowns on all the carousing and carrying on they represent.”
Just then four riders, two on each side, broke rank, and with loud shouts galloped out ahead of the procession, disappearing down the street. Instantly Thor moved closer, grabbing her horse’s bridle. His cousin, still in the lead, kept a firm hand on the reins, speaking softly to the startled animal.
Andrea clutched at the pommel, oddly defenseless. In business, she’d always been the one in control. She’d made the decisions, handled the problems. For the first time she felt vulnerable, aware the man beside her assumed the role of her protector. It unsettled her, while at the same time offered an odd reassurance.
“What just happened?”
“They’re foreriders.” He held up a hand. “Don’t blame me. This one’s Rainer’s bright idea. I’d never heard of it before.”
“What are they doing?”
“They ride back and forth between the church and the procession three times, raising as much ruckus as possible.”
Her da
rk eyes gleamed with laughter. “That sounds like something Rainer would dream up. I assume there’s a good reason for it?”
Thor lifted an imperious eyebrow. “Of course. It’s to guard you against attacks by evil powers.”
Evil powers? With a grin she made a production of peering around. “Thank you. It seems to have worked. I feel much better knowing I’m so well championed.”
He gazed at her, his expression dead serious. “I’d never let anything hurt you,” he promised.
For a long minute, she couldn’t look away. She knew he meant every word. She also knew nothing could hurt her more than Thor himself. How could he protect her from himself? Only she could guard her heart against such a risk. And right now her guard was practically nonexistent.
The hour passed in a blur of sights and sounds and laughter. The people gathered along the way waved, and the members of the procession waved back, calling to friends and family. Finally, they approached a large, gray stone church set in the middle of a stand of pines. The fiddler stood on the church steps playing a lighter, gentler tune.
Thor dismounted and approached her horse. Without a word, he gripped her waist and pulled her to him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, the firm muscles bunching beneath her fingers. Their eyes met and locked.
Slowly he set her on the ground, holding her in a secure embrace. Murmuring something in Norwegian, he lowered his head and settled his mouth on hers. She shut her eyes and clung to him, distantly aware of the cheering crowd, acutely aware of the incredible power of his kiss.
Eventually, he released her. “It’s time,” he said quietly, and took her hand, leading her up the steps of the church. In front of them walked Thor’s parents, behind came their attendants, Rainer and Jordan. An organ played within, the lovely strains of Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream filling the chancel.
They paused in the vestibule and Andrea’s grip tightened in his. He leaned toward her, speaking close to her ear. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Don’t panic. Look around. The greenery along the aisle is myrtle, symbolic in Norwegian ceremonies of Aphrodite. The candles are scented with spices. Can you smell them?”