This was it.
Another twenty miles until she embarked on the walk that would change her life forever. Any lingering ambivalence she'd harbored about becoming Queen evaporated with the rising sun. Today, she felt deserving the title, that she could—and would—do it justice. She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment her mentality changed, or what incident altered her perception. All she knew was that she doubted her ability no longer.
As if time had wings, the church came into view, made stunning by the backdrop of slanting sunlight against the stained glass windows and floral sprays lining the drive leading to the doors. No less than a hundred photographers and cameramen lined the grass on either side, held at bay by velvet ropes and military dressed specially for the occasion. Thousands of people had gathered beyond the media, cheering, holding signs, some even throwing white rose petals when the limousine passed by.
“Oh wow, look at that,” Wynn whispered, staring out the tinted window. “So many people. I hope I don't trip over my own feet.”
“You won't. Don't jinx us.” Chey nudged Wynn with her elbow.
The limousine came to a stop before the walkway to the steps and Chey waited while the other women got out before she accepted a hand from Mattias, resplendent in his uniform, boots polished to a high shine. He had been kind enough to accept Chey's proposal that he walk her down the aisle.
A roar from the crowd drew Chey's attention their way. She waved and smiled, none of it contrived or feigned. She was genuinely happy to see them.
“You look stunning,” Mattias said with a polite bow of his head.
“Thank you.” Chey smoothed out the skirts while Hanna fanned them out from behind, making a straighter line.
“I knew you'd choose this one,” he murmured, bending his head closer.
Chey muffled a laugh behind her teeth. “Sander did, too. The rascal.”
Mattias smiled a knowing smile, winked, then stood in place while Wynn, Krislin and Esta entered the church.
Somewhere down at the front near the altar, Chey imagined Gunnar and Sander waiting for the procession to begin. Sweet and lilting, a wedding melody played by a live string quartet floated through the air, announcing the start of the ceremony.
Taking a deep breath, careful to keep her features neutral with all the photographers snapping endless pictures, Chey accepted the bouquet from Hanna and stood still while the assistant fixed Chey's veil, the modest train and any other minute detail that caught her eye.
The coordinator at the door gestured Chey and Mattias inside the foyer while another attendant closed the second pair of doors, so Sander couldn't see her yet. Chey ascended the steps and entered the foyer on Mattias's arm, concentrating on breathing and not tripping on her dress.
A photographer hired just for the wedding stepped forward and snapped several shots of Chey and the Prince from alternate angles, capturing these moments just before the doors opened. Chey knew there were other photographers, too, placed around the interior of the chapel to get different perspectives. Somewhere, a video camera rolled to capture it all on film.
The music faded, then began again. A wedding march as sweet as the last melody had been.
That was her cue.
“On three,” the coordinator said, hand on the doorknob. “Three, two, one...”
The doors opened. Chey got her first look at the chapel in all its decorated glory. Each pew sported small bouquets of white lilies while larger sprays stood at the head of the room, made colorful by added greenery and the large Stargazer lilies as the main focal flower. White petals scattered over a red carpet led the way to the front, where Sander stood waiting, broad shoulders filling out his uniform.
Chey's breath caught at the sight. Hair combed back into a low tail, jaw shaven clean of whiskers, he looked even more handsome than any of her imaginings. A red sash cut across the navy blue of his uniform, setting him apart from the rest. At his hip, a sword rested secure in its sheath, gleaming against his thigh. As ever, he commanded the entire room with his presence—at least until every single eye swiveled her way as Mattias made the first step forward.
Holding Sander's gaze, she paced Mattias with careful steps. The admiration and appreciation she saw in Sander's eyes sent a blossom of warmth spiraling through her chest. In that moment, she knew she'd made the right choice of dress. She smiled, sudden and stunning—and then she saw something in periphery that would have made her stumble had Mattias not been the rock that he was.
Near the bridesmaids, on a high easel facing the podium and the aisle both, was a large, gilt framed picture of her parents. Their beloved faces watched over the proceedings, faint smiles on their mouths, a picture Chey herself had taken at their house in their library near a window with a garden blurred past the panes.
As if he sensed her surprise, Mattias tightened his elbow, trapping her hand more firmly against his body.
By the time Chey tore her gaze off the thoughtful gift, there were tears in her eyes. Finding Sander, her smile wobbled in gratitude for his foresight. He winked, watching her like a hawk. Gunnar, also in uniform, stood at Sander's side.
A familiar face lining the pews near the front captured Chey's attention, just for a moment. She met Natalia's eyes, surprised to see her in the crowd. Chey hadn't expected her or Paavo to show. But there she was, inclining her head with what Chey thought was a show of support. Chey smiled, pleased Natalia had come this far. Put at least some of the bad blood behind them. Paavo's absence, notable and regrettable, couldn't be helped. The former Queen Helina, still in mourning, was also not in attendance. Chey doubted anyone expected her to be there considering the recent history between the family.
And then they were there, Mattias handing Chey off to Sander. Mattias eased the veil up over her head, careful not to snag the fine netting on the tiara. After a quick grin, Mattias took his place between Sander and Gunnar as best man.
Sander helped Chey up the shallow step to stand opposite, blue eyes glittering while he regarded her features, the front of the gown. “You look stunningly beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Chey didn't realize her hands were shaking until he gently squeezed the one not holding her bouquet. “You look every inch a King.”
He bowed his head a fraction. “Ready to become my Queen?”
Chey smiled. “I've been ready my whole life.”
. . .
“I didn't prepare anything ahead of time. I figured it would come to me naturally once we were up here, about to become man and wife—and it did.” Sander paused, staring into Chey's eyes. Then he continued with his vows. “You're everything I need. Everything I've ever wanted. You don't let me get away with anything, you call me on it when I'm wrong, and you're never afraid to stand up for what you believe in. I always thought marriage should be a give and take, and that's what we've got together. I know I can lean on you, trust you, confide in you. I like that you lean on me when you need to. I've never felt about anyone like I feel about you. That's how I know we'll last a lifetime.” He paused, then said, “The sassy streak? We'll work on that.”
Laughter threaded through the crowd.
“Your turn,” Sander said with a rogue's grin, throwing the ball in her court.
Chey waited until the trembling ceased from her silent laughter. Eyes bright with unshed tears, she scoured her mind for the things she wanted to say. Sander obliterated everything with his vows. Finally, the words came.
“I'm grateful that you tackled me off my horse the first time I met you. It got things off to an interesting, dynamic start. And it hasn't faded since. I've been furious with you, enamored, amused and a host of other emotions too complicated to name. Love? Loving you was never complicated, though. You made it easy pursuing me across the world, showing me things I'd never seen, introducing me to all the facets that make you, you. Even when you cheat at Scrabble. Floray is not a word.”
Sander erupted into laughter, along with the room.
“So. I win.” Chey meant in more tha
n just the game. In love, in life. Sander's eyes gleamed, conveying he understood exactly what she meant. He took a step closer, like he might kiss her before it was time.
The priest cleared his throat. “Rings?”
Wynn stepped forward, as did Mattias.
Sander didn't immediately release Chey. He held her gaze, enigmatic and roguish, glancing between her eyes and her mouth.
“You better not,” she whispered, muffling a laugh behind her teeth.
Titters of amusement flickered through the crowd.
Wynn pressed Sander's ring into Chey's palm whether Sander released her or not. Mattias waited with brotherly patience, a curl of mirth lurking at the corner of his mouth. Finally, Sander eased back two inches and took the rings from Mattias.
“Do you, Sander Darrion Ahtissari, take Chey Marie Sinclair to be your wedded wife?” the priest asked.
“I do,” he replied in a clear, strong voice. He slid both rings on Chey's finger over the glove.
“Do you, Chey Marie Sinclair, take Sander Darrion Ahtissari to be your wedded husband?”
Chey smiled and said, “I do.” She eased Sander's ring on his finger, admiring the gleam of platinum against his skin.
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife. Now you may kiss the bride,” the priest said with a smile.
Amidst a round of applause and cheers, Sander cupped Chey's jaw and bent down to place a firm kiss against her lips.
Light-headed, Chey lingered there just a moment more. Drawing back, she stared into his eyes, dazzled and dazed. This man was now her husband. What a rush.
“I love you,” Sander whispered.
“And I love you.”
. . .
There she was, staring down another aisle. The red carpet led straight to the front of the room where two thrones waited, one empty, the other hosting the King. Sander, replete in uniform, cape and staff, watched with sharp eyes along with the rest of the witnesses tucked into seats on either side.
The click and snap of cameras caught every moment, every expression. Chey felt the pressure in the tightness of her shoulders, in the prickling heat on the back of her neck. Gestured forward by several official looking councilmen flanking the throne chairs, Chey made her way along the red carpet, holding tight to Sander's gaze to help keep her centered.
Two days had passed since their wedding. Only two days before the advent of her coronation, an event anticipated by the leaders and the population now that she was Sander's wife. For the ceremony, she'd chosen a gilded gown with a snug bodice and long sleeves. A brocade pattern the same color as the dress added texture to the skirt, swirling up from the hem. Hanna had styled her hair into an artful array of curls piled high and held with pins.
Arriving before the councilmen, one holding a decree, the other a sword, and still another a staff, Chey listened to the ritual intoned to the room and went down on a knee when it was time. She made her promises to the crown, the country, and her King. Gleaming, the sword touched one shoulder, and another.
Chey glanced at Sander. A quick deviation. He regarded her with pride in his eyes, along with a wealth of affection and encouragement.
The crown settled onto her head, placed carefully with gloved hands. Chey swallowed a knot of emotion.
Queen. She was Queen of Latvala.
Rising, she signed the decree with a shaky hand, hoping her signature didn't come out too sloppy or skewed. Releasing the pen, she straightened to accept the staff the third councilman placed in her hands.
“Congratulations, your Highness,” he said with a bow of his head.
“Thank you.” Chey took three steps up to the throne next to Sander. Easing around, she sat, keeping the staff at an angle in front of her body.
A flurry of pictures commenced once the men moved out of the way. The witnesses cheered and stood, applauding the ceremony. Somewhere out there, Chey knew Wynn watched, probably dabbing a few tears from the corners of her eyes.
As with Sander's coronation, the witnesses, reporters and other important personages were guided from the throne room after a short time, leaving the King and Queen alone. After the last person exited, and the guards closed the doors, Chey exhaled a long breath.
“You were excellent,” Sander said beside her.
She glanced over. “Thanks. I was a nervous wreck. Did it show?”
“Not at all. How do you feel?” he asked, a gleam in his eyes.
She smiled. “Very...Queenly. I'm glad I don't have to wear this stuff all the time though. I keep worrying I'll drop the staff or tilt my head too far and the crown will go rolling across the floor.”
“I'm sure Wynn will magically appear from somewhere to catch it,” Sander said, voice dry as dry could be.
Chey guffawed. At the reception, when Chey had tossed her bouquet behind her to the gaggle of single women clustered in a group, it had been Wynn who came out on top. Literally. Not without a squeal and a scrabble and an unfeminine leap. The spectacle was still being talked about and probably would be for some time to come.
“She's advantageous,” Chey said, humor lacing the words.
Sander gave her such a droll look that Chey laughed again.
“You need to kiss me now,” Chey said once she recovered.
“Bossy already, hm? Has ten minutes even passed?” he joked, grinning deviously.
“Quit pretending you don't like it. We both know you do.” She leaned toward him, one hand lifting to make sure the crown didn't topple.
“I like sassy. Bossy is up for debate.” He matched her lean, coming in slow, gaze ticking between her eyes and her mouth.
“I'm both. You get a twofer.”
“A what?” He frowned, mouths three inches apart.
“Two for one.”
“That sounds kinky--”
“Sander. I will beat you with this staff.”
Laughing, he leaned back and rose from the chair.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Chey huffed, indignant she hadn't gotten her kiss.
Sander set the staff carefully on his throne, then took hers from her hands. It joined his. “The ritual that comes after the coronation. Or have you forgotten?”
Chey gave up her staff, grinning when he scooped her off the chair, holding her bridegroom style. Oh, she remembered what happened after his coronation all right. “No, my memory serves me just fine.”
“Why have just one kiss here when we could have a hundred elsewhere?” He wagged his brows and prowled toward the side doors, carrying her with ease.
“I think we should have coronations every day,” she teased.
“Trust me. I can make it happen.”
“I dare you.”
He laughed. “You're on.”
Epilogue
“This will feel a little cold.”
Chey didn't mind the squirt of cool fluid across the swell of her stomach. Reclining on a patient table in a room made purposely dim, she held tight to Sander's hand and stared at the monitor where, soon, a fuzzy picture of their baby would appear. This was her third ultrasound, and the one, with any luck, where they found out the gender of their child. She was anxious and impatient to know if it was a boy or a girl. A string of bets had been going on between the inner circle that had turned playful and a touch rowdy.
The doctor found a good angle and pointed out the obvious: head, spine, legs, arms. At twenty-two weeks, they were easy to see. He assured them everything looked to be right on schedule. He spent long minutes making measurements, the equipment clicking and humming.
Finally, the doctor said, “Would you like to know the gender?”
“Yes.” Sander and Chey spoke at the same time, one over the other. Grinning, Chey glanced at Sander, who smiled back, then they looked at the screen. In the background, the reassuring thump of the baby's heartbeat could be heard.
The doctor examined the screen, clearly aiming for a better angle.
“It's got to be a boy,” Sander said.
�
�It's a girl,” Chey argued, probably for the thousandth time. All during their lovely honeymoon—two blissful weeks on Barbados—they had bantered, bet, used tarot cards and every other possible gimmick to guess the baby's sex. Sander had presented her with a tiny gold crown in a blue velvet box to indicate his surety they were having a boy.
Chey had returned the favor the next morning by hanging a frilly pink dress on his shower door.
The doctor chuckled. “Ah, here we go.”
Chey held her breath.
Sander tightened his hand on her own.
“It's a boy.”
“I knew it!” Sander let go of Chey to make touchdown arms. He strutted ridiculously around the room, causing Chey to guffaw.
“Stop preening! You probably cheated! Doctor, did Sander call you ahead of time and ask? Did you tell him from the blood tests?” Chey eyed the physician with good natured mirth.
The doctor, grinning, held up his hands. “I know nothing.”
Chey gasped and looked at Sander. “You cheated!”
“I didn't cheat! I just knew it was a boy.” Coming back to the table, he leaned over to lay a blatant kiss on her mouth.
“I'll let you two clean up her stomach. Congratulations.” Laughing, the doctor exited the room.
Chey stroked her fingers over Sander's jaw. “A boy.”
“The next one will be, too,” he predicted.
“Just how many do you think we're going to have, Mister?” Chey trembled with amusement.
“As many as I deem necessary.” Sander inflated his chest importantly, doing a poor job of hiding his mirth.
Chey scoffed. “As many as I want to have, you mean.”
“No,” he said, using the imperious tone that had once caused so much friction between them. “We need at least three boys and two girls.”
Chey squawked in protest. “What? Are you crazy?”
“Not yet. Give me time.”
“Are you suggesting I'll make you lose your mind?” She feigned indignation.
The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) Page 19