by Lilia Ford
He was astonished and touched by how peacefully she lay there—trusting her future to him—though she understood nothing of what it would mean to marry into his family, or what would be demanded of her.
He wanted to howl with triumph—she was his! He’d actually found her. He wondered what his brothers would say. No doubt Donal would ask if she were pretty. How strange that he’d barely even taken note of her looks beyond the basics: blond hair, blue eyes, small. Except for her mouth: he’d noticed immediately how innocently carnal it was, as if made for taking a man between her lips. Donal would be driven mad by her.
He supposed by conventional standards she would not be considered a great beauty. Her figure was feminine, with small, gently rounded breasts, but not particularly well endowed. Her thinness and pallor hinted strongly of ill health. His bride clearly needed someone to take proper care of her!
But it was those clear blue eyes of hers that continued to stagger him. They hid nothing. Right now they wore a glazed expression, as they had every time he’d shown her even a hint of dominance. He was forced to shift his hold slightly. Just the thought of her responses made him shoot impossibly hard for what seemed like the fortieth time that afternoon.
There had probably been girls at the picnic whose beauty stood out more, but Damian hadn’t noticed anyone after he’d caught sight of Genevieve. The awkward way she’d stood outside the group of girls, as if she knew she could never truly belong, had called to him. The frothy, feminine dress she wore only underscored for him how tense she was. Then he’d caught her staring at him and noted the nervous, guilty way she’d looked away, as if she’d been indulging some very unmaidenly thoughts about him.
At that moment he’d known—she was his. Declan had told him to trust his instincts, but nothing could have prepared him for that overwhelming sense of certainty.
From then on he’d not stopped watching her. Her movements and expressions were remarkably easy to read even from a distance. But still, his observations had been nothing to the reality of meeting her, hearing her voice, seeing her adorable confusion.
It was as if a force had taken over, impelling him to push until he could feel that she was his irrevocably. He would stake his life that her heartwood box had changed to his color.
Unfortunately that was not the end of his problems. Declan had also given him strict instructions on dealing with the girl’s family. They must be treated with courtesy and their attachment to their daughter honored, but Damian must also assert control of everything to do with her immediately. He could allow no one, not even her mother, to speak to her without a member of his family present.
Now was the time that posed the greatest risks to both of their happiness. There were very few outside his family who could understand or accept their ways, and there was a great chance that the girl’s family or some well-meaning friend would poison her mind and lead her to fear marriage to one of the Black family.
He only had himself to blame that he must now appear to trample over her parents’ natural rights and keep them from their daughter. Declan was the proper person to explain matters to them and ease their fears for Genevieve. The Black Prince’s authority was such that they would find it impossible to deny anything he asked for, and they would trust his reassurances more than they could Damian’s. Declan planned to come, but he had many duties and no reason to think he would be needed today—the very first day of the Bridal Week.
The moment Damian arrived at the village, he found the servant who had accompanied him and ordered him to ride with all haste to the fortress, informing his brothers that they were needed. They would understand the urgency and would not delay, but it might be many hours before a message could be gotten to Declan in Faerie, and as many more before he could make his way to the village.
But first he must deal with Genevieve’s parents. The moment he knocked, her mother threw open the door. Her expression told him she already knew Genevieve’s box had changed color and did not regard the news with joy.
Her uneasiness only grew when she saw her daughter’s confused state. “Jenny! Is she hurt?”
“She’s not hurt, just a little dazed,” he said. “May I enter?”
Mrs. Miran reverted instinctively to proper village courtesy and showed him into the parlor, calling out to her husband. Genevieve’s box had been placed in the center in honor of her joining the Bridal Week. He could imagine the Mirans’ surprise when the pale wooden box had darkened to the same lightless black as his hair.
Damian ignored the seat Mrs. Miran pointed to and sat himself and Genevieve on a small sofa that enabled him to keep himself between her and her parents. She slumped against the back, so he pulled her to lean against him, keeping his grip on her arm. Genevieve’s parents both took seats across from him.
He didn’t waste time with the usual civilities but said his family’s traditional betrothal words. “I am Damian of the house of Black. I beg the honor of being allowed to guard the key to your daughter’s heartwood box.”
Damian wasn’t surprised that her father did not immediately hand over the key but said gruffly, “This is full hasty, sir—I don’t half like this.”
Damian could see the man’s suspicions growing as he took in the details of his daughter’s appearance—her shawl lost, her skirt stained with grass, her hair disheveled. He knew what it looked like, but still it took some effort to master his rage that they might suspect him. To take a girl’s innocence as a way to force a change of her heartwood box would be the gravest dishonor and an unthinkable offense to Titania. But the father and mother in front of him knew little of his family but the rumors.
“Let me take her upstairs,” the mother said, thinking to let her husband confront Damian.
“No!” Damian said more harshly than he intended. “The priestess promised she would come. I cannot let her out of my sight—I will not.”
“Well now, sir, this is my house!” the father protested.
Thank Titania the priestess arrived. She seemed amused at the sight of him clutching Genevieve. “Let him take her upstairs, poor creature,” she said with a wry smile.
“Priestess, what is going on? What has he done to her?” her father demanded.
“Tsk, tsk, she is fine, Cyrus. He is Declan’s brood—you mustn’t cross him. They are madmen when it comes to their brides. Genevieve’s so shy. I’m sure he turned the poor girl head over heels with his wooing, that’s all.”
The priestess’ words helped mollify the father. “I didn’t know what to make of it—she isn’t herself. I feared….”
“No descendant of Declan’s would ever dishonor himself or his bride that way, you may trust me on this, Cyrus. But they are an overwhelming bunch the lot of them. He knew they were matched, and he just couldn’t help rushing to the point with her. Take her upstairs, Damian.”
“I must have the key to her room.”
“What?” the mother cried.
The priestess rolled her eyes and said lightly, “That’s Declan speaking, I’m sure. Humor him. You’ll see: he’ll want to guard her as if she were Titania herself now that he’s found her. There’s no reasoning with this clan, I’m afraid.”
Damian wanted to kiss the priestess. Her light tone was exactly right. The father shifted from wordless terror at the thought that his daughter might have been molested, to grumbling about hot-headed boys. The mother looked unsure but led him upstairs to Genevieve’s room and showed him where the key was kept.
The priestess called from downstairs, “I’m sorry to trouble you, Lilia, but I’m a bit overset from rushing to get here—if you could spare a cup of water or perhaps a spot of tea?”
The mother was horrified at the idea of failing in hospitality to the priestess. She hurried downstairs, leaving Damian to gently place Genevieve on her bed.
“Damian,” she said dreamily, still too dazed to question why he was in her bedroom.
“I’m here, Genevieve—you’re safe. Can you take off your dress yourself, dar
ling?” Genevieve just blinked at him. He kissed her forehead. “Here, love, I’ll help you.”
He quickly undid the back of the dress and pulled it off, leaving her in her shift. He removed her shoes, undid her garters, and took off her stockings. Through the whole process, she sat passively. He knew that tending to her needs like this each night would prove to be one of the most gratifying aspects of their life together, but after the scene in the wood, his desires were roaring.
Making a superhuman effort, he mastered his will and forced himself to behave exactly as if her mother hadn’t left the room—the most difficult thing he’d ever done. He would have given anything to be able to tie her to the bed and teach her some of the pleasures that awaited her. Such intimacy would go a long way to counteract any officious counsel she might receive.
But he had already pressed his limits too far. Declan would be seriously displeased if Damian acted as if he had no regard for the sensibilities of Genevieve’s family. Moreover, he knew that if the Mirans had deep reservations about the marriage, there was no way he could keep Genevieve from knowing. It would cast a shadow on what should be a happy day for her, one that might extend to their married life as well.
He helped her settle under the covers and said softly, “Genevieve, you are tired. You must rest.”
“What is happening?”
“Your heartwood box changed, love.”
“Yes,” she said vaguely.
“Genevieve, this is very important. You may not leave your room until I come for you.”
Once again her eyes glazed—she seemed incapable of resisting him when he asserted authority over her. He needed to leave before he lost control.
“You are mine now, darling, and must obey my will. Do you understand?”
“No, not really,” she said, curling up sleepily against him, “but I won’t leave.”
He felt a rush of affection for her and kissed her forehead. Suddenly, more than anything he just wanted to crawl under the covers and hold her while she slept. Soon, he reminded himself, very soon.
He locked the door to her room, pocketed the key, and crept downstairs quietly. Though he doubted Declan would approve, he couldn’t stop himself from listening at the door to the parlor. Genevieve’s happiness was at stake, he reasoned. She would be miserable if her parents were, and he owed it to her even to stoop to listen at a door if that would help him ease things for her.
The parents were far from reconciled to this unexpected turn of events. “Priestess, this can’t be right,” her mother pleaded. “The Blacks… we hear such stories.”
“Fie on you for listening to gossip, Lilia,” the priestess said firmly. “Their ways are not for everyone, to be sure, but they are men of honor. And let us not forget: this is Genevieve we speak of. How happy would she be married to one of our village swains? Her torments are painful enough, but the guilt she’d feel would crush her—it’s crushing her now.”
“Guilt?” Cyrus said fiercely. “She’s our daughter—how can she feel guilt? We would do anything for her. We’ve always only wanted her happiness.”
“Would that it were that simple,” said the priestess. “Genevieve has long tormented herself for many imaginary sins. Lilia, Cyrus, you must listen to me. You carry no guilt for Genevieve’s troubles. Now, she needs your love and to know you accept her.”
“He did something…. If he hadn’t…” Lilia pleaded.
“There is no forcing or fooling the heartwood box. This is her path. I swear by everything holy: every member of the Black family considers her the greatest blessing Titania could give them. No action of hers, no dark mood will change that for them. You have raised and loved her, but she is a woman now, and she belongs with them. The only question for the two of you is can you let her go? Damian acts as he does because he fears you will poison Genevieve’s mind and make her fear him. Is he so unreasonable?”
The Mirans must have acknowledged the point.
“Let it go. Let the Blacks do things their way—it will be very hard to stop them anyway. So don’t fight it. Show Damian the hospitality that is his due and make Genevieve feel her wedding is a day of joy for you. It is the greatest wedding gift you can give her.”
Damian bowed his head in silent thanks and then retreated up the stairs and came down again with loud steps. He received a rather forced invitation to stay with them from Mrs. Miran, but nothing suggested they were readying themselves to refuse his suit outright.
“Damian, I would have your arm back to the temple. I am old, and all this walking is hard on me,” the priestess said.
Damian was on his feet in an instant offering his arm and promising to return as soon as he had seen the priestess home and made arrangements for his horse.
As soon as they were out the door, the priestess released his arm and said angrily, “I will see Declan as soon as he arrives.”
“Holy One….”
“I did what you asked, but I’m not pleased about it. You swept her off her feet and used me to pacify her parents, but Genevieve has rights. Tell Declan I would speak to him.”
She held up her hand to stop him from following her and bustled off.
Chapter Five
Damian felt some contrition that he’d upset the priestess, but not enough to overcome his joy. He could hardly believe how well things were going. His satisfaction was greatly increased when he saw his youngest brother standing near the green—the servant must have found him. That he’d arrived so quickly told him that Donal had been lingering on the road close to the village. He must have suspected something would happen today. How well his brother knew him!
They embraced, both feeling an emotion too strong for words. For a moment, Damian felt almost staggered by the momentousness of what had happened.
It was a great event for Donal as well. By the traditions of their family, the unmarried males of his generation were charged with his bride’s well-being, in this case Donal and their middle brother, Derek.
The hope was that his brothers would share their house, so that when Damian’s duties required him to be absent, one of them would be present at all times to see to Genevieve. Neither brother had found a bride during their Bridal Week, so they had a great stake in Damian’s success.
“Where is she?” Donal asked.
“Asleep in her room.”
“You left her!” Donal bristled.
“She is safe—she’s locked in her room.” He showed Donal the key.
Donal’s eyes widened. “How did you manage it?”
“Thank Titania the priestess arrived and smoothed things with Genevieve’s parents.”
“Genevieve,” Donal said, savoring the name. “Is she pretty?”
“Beyond anything I’d dared to hope for,” he said with utter sincerity.
A sharp voice accosted them from across the green. “You left her unguarded?” Donal gave him a sympathetic glance as Damian steeled himself to face their brother Derek, who in his mellowest mood could be described as abrasive.
“She is asleep, locked in her room,” Damian repeated.
“Which is her house?” Derek demanded.
“Derek,” Donal said, “Damian doesn’t need you terrifying the girl’s parents. It would delay the wedding if one of them died of an apoplexy after meeting their new in-laws.”
Derek’s expression did not relax by so much as a hair. “Which is her house?” he demanded again.
Donal and Damian exchanged a glance, but there was no arguing with their middle brother. Damian pointed to the small white cottage with bright yellow shutters and window boxes overflowing with red geraniums. It would be hard to imagine a building more antithetical to their austere, temperamental brother.
“Her name is Genevieve Miran—in case you’re interested,” Damian added dryly.
Derek nodded and walked towards the house. Damian wondered if he should begin praying to Titania for mercy, when Derek called over his shoulder, “Declan is just behind me.”
“Say the
word, brother, and I’ll skewer him,” Donal said. Damian shook his head. In truth neither of them could take Derek in a fight when his blood was up. “Go after him. I’ll bring Declan as soon as he arrives.”
Damian jogged after Derek, who spared him only a cool glance. Damian knocked on the door, conjuring up his warmest smile for Mrs. Miran, who paled as soon as she saw Derek. Though all three brothers closely resembled each other, there was something in Derek’s expression that women especially found forbidding.
“As you see, I have returned,” he said in his most soothing tone. “Mrs. Miran, may I present my brother, Derek, of the house of Black.”
Though Derek’s manners within the family were abrupt to say the least, he had been raised by a knight of Titania’s royal court, who demanded they all follow proper forms of courtesy.
To Damian’s relief, Mrs. Miran seemed more awestruck than terrified when Derek bowed over her hand and said with grave formality, “It is an honor to make the acquaintance of the parents of my brother’s bride.”
“Please, make yourself at home,” Mrs. Miran said nervously, ushering them into the parlor. “May I offer you something? My husband will be here in just a moment.”
Derek made only a grim nod, and Damian said, “That would be extremely welcome.”
The poor woman practically bolted from the room. He wished Donal were here: their youngest brother could charm a dragon into donating its gold to charity and was far better than Damian at smoothing over Derek’s rough edges.
Damian had been too distracted earlier to get much of an impression of the Mirans’ home, but sitting in their parlor he felt some sympathy for his bride’s parents. Mrs. Miran appeared to have a taste for all that was sweet and feminine. There were crocheted lace doilies on all the furniture and framed satin hearts on the walls. Various surfaces held small vases filled with silk flowers along with a collection of ceramic terriers at play.
It had its charm and wasn’t at all ugly, but the decor provided a poignant contrast to Genevieve’s heartwood box, standing black and stark on a delicate painted table. It would be next to impossible to imagine anything belonging to the Blacks inside this room.