CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  "Exactly," she agreed, holding out her arm to Cole and addressing him directly. "Do I go in alone, or are you coming with me?"

  Cole shook his head, a faint smile adding a rueful edge to his simmering frustration. "Logan didn't stand a chance, did he?"

  Rachel's cheeks heated up. "I told you, it just happened."

  "Yeah, like the time you manoeuvred Jamie Hanson into a dark corner and kissed him."

  "That doesn't count. I was six years old!"

  "And he was nearly twice your size and a manly eight but you herded him in that corner and planted one on him just the same."

  "I'm surprised you remember that."

  "Oh, I remember," he said softly. "We all drew straws, and I was the one that got to beat the living hell out of him."

  The smugness in Cole's voice was infuriating. "Then it's probably just as well I went to live in Auckland," Rachel retorted. "With you lot circling me like a pack of hungry Rottweilers, I never would have got to meet anyone."

  "Yeah, well," he returned in a low, irritated rumble, "we tried our best, but we never could stop you. Witness what we're about to do now."

  Rachel glared, jerking him with her up the first step. As they entered the open doors, the first strains of the wedding march filtered into the late afternoon air, and Cullen turned, his gaze immediately settling on her.

  She barely recognised him. He'd cut his hair and was wearing military dress uniform, and the four men lined up beside him were similarly dressed. The church seemed packed full of soldiers. Maybe because they were all so big and the church was tiny.

  She heard one of her brothers mutter something, and then they were walking down the aisle. Cole's forearm tense as corded steel beneath her fingers. Finally she was standing beside Cullen, all her brothers belligerently lined up with her, glaring across and through her at the soldiers. She could feel them each selecting who they would fight first. Doyle, who had always been hot-tempered, would be picking the two largest, meanest specimens. She recognised the soldiers. They were the same dangerous crew who'd stopped for petrol across the road from her salon yesterday. They were here for her wedding.

  Her wedding.

  Rachel forced a shaky smile for the nice old vicar. The same one who'd married her last time.

  If anything, Cullen seemed even more remote in uniform, and her stomach tensed at the knowledge that he was still in the army, merely on extended leave. This whole cowboy routine was just a break for him, and his newly cropped military short hair, the crisp olive uniform with its distinctive SAS wings, the gleaming row of medals running across his broad chest, all served to remind her that her hold on him, despite this ceremony, was tenuous.

  The vicar began to speak.

  Cullen let out a slow breath. Now he knew he was living a dream.

  She looked like a dream in a soft, silky confection of a suit, that veiled hat tilted on her satiny head while she watched him with dark, grave eyes, as if this were what she'd always wished for. Always dreamed about.

  And God help him, but she was wearing white and fulfilling every one of his hungry fantasies. He hadn't expected that. Just like he hadn't expected her to be carrying flowers. White flowers. Roses, and something more heavily scented. Gardenias, maybe. The fragrance filled his nostrils, and he knew that whenever he smelt it he would be instantly reminded of this moment.

  He'd only given Rachel a few days to prepare, but somehow, despite the opposition she must have faced—and the shock of receiving that anonymous letter—she'd managed to make this a wedding and not the expedient ceremony he'd wanted. Cullen's jaw tightened with a savage regret. Damn it. This wasn't going to go away, no matter how hard he tried to lock it out of his consciousness. The images were too powerful: the graceful old church with the sun slanting through tall, arched windows; the massed white flowers; the echoing sound of the vicar's voice intoning words that were ancient, binding. The sheer beauty of the woman standing beside him. And the child she was carrying.

  This shouldn't be happening. Just like his throat shouldn't be choking up, and his gaze shouldn't be locked with Rachel's as he drowned in her mesmerizing combination of vulnerability and fierceness.

  He wanted to be able to forget this. He was pretty sure he was going to need to forget this or go mad.

  Rachel barely noticed when the vicar finished the first part of the ceremony. She was too intent on Cullen and the unaccustomed softness in his eyes.

  The vicar asked for the ring. The soldier closest to Cullen, the one with the long hair and the earring, dug in his pocket and presented a ring. Rachel jabbed Cole in the ribs with her elbow, then snapped out her hand. Cole grudgingly dropped a heavy ring onto her palm. Rachel placed the ring on the vicar's open bible alongside the other smaller one.

  Cullen stared at the two seamless circles of gleaming gold. He'd bought a ring for Rachel, as was expected, but she'd got one for him, as well. The symbolism of the ring slammed through him. The perfect joining. Oneness.

  No, he would never be able to forget this, and now he knew he didn't want to. It would hurt, but he would keep the ring. Always.

  He could hear the boys shuffling uneasily, and Carter's whispered, "Oh, man, where does that one go? Through Cul's nose?" then Blade's terse, "Shut it, Carter." Then the ceremony was rolling on into the scary part. The part he knew he had no right to.

  Rachel listened to the evocative power of the wedding vows, memories of her first wedding skating through her mind. She'd been filled with an innocent, carefree joy then. She'd been marrying the man she loved, the man she thought loved her. She'd believed they would be together all their lives.

  The failure of that marriage pulled at her, made her stiffen her spine and square her shoulders. When the time came for her to respond, she did so clearly and firmly. Cullen's replies were firm, too, but quiet, rasping with the underlying strength that was so much a part of him.

  When the brief ceremony was finished, he held her face between his hands and kissed her with a gentle purpose that brought tears to her eyes.

  A collective sigh sounded from the soldiers, a kind of resigned exhalation from her brothers.

  As the warmth of the kiss left her mouth, she began noticing just how many people there were in the church. Helen was near the front with her mechanic boyfriend, Gerry. Several of Rachel's customers and some long-time friends of her family had come. Dane was there—looking tanned and, after weeks of outdoor work, remarkably healthy—his eyes fixed on Cullen with something like awe and hero worship all rolled into one. Rachel hadn't formally invited anyone—there hadn't really been time—and she was profoundly touched by the unexpected support.

  After signing the official documents in the registry, she and Cullen walked out into the softening light of late afternoon. This time her arm was enfolded by Cullen's. Even though she knew he was only doing what was expected of him, the warm clasp of his hand over hers was a bittersweet comfort.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps, the SAS men lined up, two on each side. Blade barked an order, and they stood stiffly to attention. A shiver went down Rachel's spine at the sight of the big men forming an honour guard, their uniforms pristine, chests decorated with what she knew must be some of the highest military awards in the Commonwealth. As she and Cullen walked between them, they saluted.

  Cullen groaned. "I didn't know they were going to do this."

  Rachel surveyed the surprising gathering of people outside the church, all of them standing stock-still, quite a few of them with their mouths gaping at the military display. She smiled with grim satisfaction, thinking about the poisonous letter which Dan Holt was now investigating, and of all the malicious gossip and "advice" she'd been offered. "I'm glad they did."

  The long-haired soldier, who Cullen introduced to Rachel as Blade, was the first to shake Cullen's hand, and after that there was a steady stream of well-wishers.

  Blade kissed her on the cheek, and Cole, who'd taken up a position next to her, eyed him coldly. "I know you f
rom somewhere."

  Rachel jabbed Cole in the ribs again. Her brother's tone was deliberately goading. She would not allow him to start a fight. Cole ignored her, but Blade slanted her a surprisingly reassuring look. Surprising because he looked at least as untamed as Cullen did.

  "I'm Cullen's cousin," he said in a soft, dark drawl that held just a hint of menace. "Cullen's father married my aunt, Celeste Lombard."

  "Lombard," Cole echoed. "That's an unusual name around here. Any relation to the hoteliers'?"

  "My family have hotels, among other things."

  "Yeah, right," Cole said drily.

  "And of course, Cullen," Blade continued in that same soft drawl, "like every other member of my family, is a shareholder in Lombards."

  Cole's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"

  "Cullen doesn't choose to have anything to do with the running of the company, but he could if he wanted to. If he ever sold out his shares—which he won't, because he's family—he could buy and sell this town."

  "Point taken. He's richer than us."

  Blade's mouth curled into a grim smile. "Considerably."

  This time, when Rachel jabbed Cole in the ribs he paid her some attention. "You asked for that," she said tightly, suppressing her own dismay at the news. Cullen was a deeply complex man, but she'd thought she was coming to know him. Blade's information that Cullen was wealthy and connected to a powerful family seriously dented her perceptions. She was in love with Cullen, but the enormity of the vows she'd made still reverberated through her. Regardless of Cullen's intentions, she had meant every word, and she could no longer hide from what she'd done. She'd walked out of the ruins of one marriage and straight into another, and in doing so she'd linked herself to a stranger.

  She almost groaned out loud. After what Cole had learned about Cullen's financial status, he and her other brothers were standing around, tense and thin-lipped, levelling cool sizing-up looks at Cullen.

  And Cullen wasn't backing down.

  "If you fight on my wedding day," she said, loudly enough for them all to hear, "I will cook every night for the next month, and you, Cole, will be invited over for dinner."

  Cole groaned, and Cullen shot her a wary look.

  "She can't cook," Cole said bluntly.

  "I didn't marry her for her cooking," Cullen replied in a goading, rough-silk voice that made Cole go ominously blank.

  Rachel could feel the close attention every single word was getting from the soldiers and her brothers. Helen's mouth dropped open. Every other conversation stopped as people tuned in to what was shaping up to be a brawl.

  The look Cole and Cullen exchanged went on and on, the male aggression flowing with a tangible force. The soldiers bunched up behind Cullen, her brothers behind Cole. Then, so suddenly it felt as if someone had just flicked a switch, Cole nodded curtly, reached her in one long stride and kissed her on the cheek. Ethan, Nick and Doyle stepped forward, one by one, each kissing her cheek and quietly, curtly, offering their "services" if this marriage should fold.

  "Keep in touch, Sis," Cole growled, slanting Cullen another meaningful look; then he jerked his head at his brothers, and they all strode away.

  "What was that all about?" Carter asked as he watched Cole drive away, followed by another car pocked with Sinclair brothers.

  Cullen didn't reply. He was too busy watching Cole. Seeing him off the premises, Rachel fumed to herself.

  "This is a wedding," she said with a delicate edge to her voice. Cullen's simmering metallic gaze swung bock to hers. "My brother just gave me away—literally—to Cullen."

  Carter nodded, as if that were perfectly logical.

  Rachel could see he might never fully understand her point of view.

  Blade smiled grimly. "Got a sister, Carter?"

  "You know I've got one."

  "Then just imagine her marrying a horny bastard like you, and you'll get the picture."

  "Oh, yeah," Carter said, nodding, then, "No way!"

  Rachel handed her small bouquet of flowers to Helen. "You'd better have these. Although I don't know why any sane woman would want to get married."

  Ben turned to West and spoke in a considering voice. "Isn't the bride supposed to chuck those, West?"

  West nodded sagely. "Aww, but you know how slow Carter is. I think she's afraid he might catch them, and then we'd be saddled with the job of finding Carter a wife."

  "Oh, very funny, guys," Carter said. He smiled at Helen, dazzling her with a maximum wattage, killer-beach-boy grin. "Don't you go wasting your time with either of these old married men, darlin'. They had their shot at domestic bliss, and the sad truth is, they were both too wild to be tamed. Now take me." He planted a confiding hand on his broad chest. "I'm house-trained. I can do dishes, I pick up socks, I get takeout like you wouldn't believe, and," Carter's voice dropped to a gravely whisper as he delivered his clincher, "if you stroke me, I purr…"

  "Ah, geez, Carter," Ben groaned. "Give it a rest!"

  Helen blinked at Carter's magnificence, then, without dragging her gaze from his flashing white teeth, mumbled, "I've got a present for you, Rachel. I'll get it."

  She backed off a few steps, then turned and hurried off down the uneven path.

  Cullen's arm slipped possessively around Rachel's waist. His eyes were narrowed, intense, wholly centred on her. Rachel's knees went weak when she identified his expression. He looked like that when he was making love. As if he were wild for her and couldn't get enough.

  He gathered her in, his arm an iron bar at the small of her back, one hand gripping her nape. His mouth dropped on hers with the faintly cruel force of extreme arousal, parting her lips, forcing his entry in a kiss that claimed her completely and had her clinging to the lapels of his jacket. The furnace heat from his body burned through layers of clothing. When he finally lifted his mouth, Rachel had a fuzzy view of Helen standing nearby, holding on to a large parcel.

  "Good luck," she said, as she handed the parcel over. "Although somehow I don't think you're going to need it."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Rachel unpinned her small confection of a wedding hat as she walked up the steps and into Cullen's house. Her home.

  She almost stumbled as the reality of her situation shifted into sharp focus. Up until this moment, she'd been solely concerned with the wedding; the future had been blurry, distant. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to survey her surroundings. She'd made her decision, and her needs were painfully simple: she wanted to love and be loved; she wanted babies; she wanted family; and she needed Cullen.

  She'd been inside his house twice now, once to make coffee while Cullen had dealt with Frank Trask, then again just two days ago to drop off a suitcase of clothes and several boxes of kitchen utensils and crockery.

  The hallway was long and unexpectedly wide, as if whoever had built it had had an eye for grandeur. And in its day the house had been grand. It was certainly big enough. And oh, so empty.

  Cullen strode in behind her, carrying more of her possessions, which they'd picked up en route from the church—another suitcase of clothing and a bag of perishables from her fridge. His gaze lingered on her, and he frowned. Ever since they'd left the church, he'd been frowning.

  "You look tired," he said. "I'll show you to your room."

  Your room. Not our room.

  A small lash of pain sliced through Rachel's carefully managed serenity as she watched Cullen off-load the bag of groceries on the floor. When they'd stood together in church exchanging vows, the emotion flowing between them had been a tangible thing. And later, outside, when he'd held her and kissed her, she'd almost forgotten that their marriage was a sham. She'd come close to forgetting her own name.

  Cullen turned toward her, and Rachel drew in her breath at the purpose in his light gaze. She had the definite impression he was going to touch her, maybe place his arm around her waist and help her upstairs. But even as she watched, a subtle change took place, a c
losing out of emotion, and she realised he was deliberately distancing himself from her. His gaze glittered over her again; then he picked up the suitcase he'd just brought in and started up the stairs.

  Abruptly, tiredness overwhelmed Rachel. She reached to steady herself against the rich wood panelling of the wall. She'd been running on nerves and little else lately. There had been so much to do, to arrange. So much to block from her mind so she could continue to function in a normal, rational way. She should have been prepared for Cullen's coolness. Despite that kiss outside the church, he'd made his position clear when he'd proposed this marriage.

  Squaring her jaw, she kicked off her shoes and forced herself to move.

  Cullen wasn't in the first room she came to. There was nothing in there. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was bare. Sterile. He wasn't in the room opposite, either, although there was evidence of his occupation in the large, neatly made bed with his beret and uniform jacket slung over the end of it. She heard water splashing into a basin; then Cullen appeared at what must be the bathroom door.

  He watched her critically as she padded toward him. Her chin came up in automatic response. There was a brooding tension about Cullen, an air of suppressed fury that she was at a loss to understand. Or maybe it was just the short hair. He'd looked dangerous and untamed with long hair; now he looked even harder, more remote.

  Rachel didn't like the change. It emphasised his air of control. He wore the veneer of civilisation as comfortably as he wore the primitive, muscular beauty of his body, deepening the distance between them in a way that sent panic flaring through her.

  He was no longer wearing his wedding ring.

  The absence of the gold band shoved reality at her again. She hadn't known whether he would wear the ring or not. Some men simply objected to wearing jewellery of any kind. But the ring had been important to her; it had been a claiming of her own, a message that she hadn't given up on a real marriage.