The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (32 page)

“Yes. Oh, yes,” she cried, tightening with anticipation. “Take me. Fill me. Fuck me. Claim me as your wife.”

Just as he started to push into her, a knock at the door startled them both. He jumped back as if caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

“Is everything all right?”
the wedding planner called through the door.

“Yes,”
the blushing bride returned more shrilly than intended. “Everything’s fine.”

“Or would have been in another minute,”
he grumbled as he went to retrieve his sporran.

“What are
you two love birds doing in there, warming up for the honeymoon?”

Cat felt her blush
deepen. “We’re just...talking.”

“Right
.” Mrs. Worthington laughed. “And I’m the tooth fairy. Now get your costumes sorted and get out here. It’s time to cut the cake.”

* * *

The cake was simple, but beautiful: three white tiers faced in wide tartan ribbon with an arrangement of roses, heather, and thistles on top. Not one of those cheesy plastic couples, thank Hecate. Together, they cut a slice from the bottom layer. She was surprised, but also pleased to see the cake itself was chocolate. Feeling edgy and unfulfilled, she broke off a chunk and aimed it at his mouth, but stopped just short of shoving it in.

A concern struck her: What if he didn’t like chocolate? Since his curse was broken, they’d shared several meals
, but she still didn’t know his tastes. He had a decided preference, she’d noticed, for red meat, the rarer the better, and blood pudding, but what other foods might he like or dislike? Would he expect her to cook for him?
Oh, no.
Please let him not ask her to make haggis.

“Is something wrong?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. He was aiming a hunk of confection at her face, his graceful fingers smeared with white frosting and dark crumbs.

Fighting a smile, she
opened her mouth to receive the offering. The cake was delicious. The chocolate was rich and bursting with flavor and the icing was butter cream, her favorite.

She moved
the cake toward his mouth. “Are you okay with this?”

“Of course
.” He scowled at her. “Now feed me the bloody cake so we can get on with it, eh?”

Displeased with his tone, she shoved in the cake, smearing as much of it as she could around his mouth.

He gave her a hard look as he swallowed and licked his lips, but she could see amusement dancing in his eyes. Laughing, she grabbed a napkin off the table and started dabbing at the mess. He pushed her hand away, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard. Both of them were laughing—and covered in frosting—by the time he let her go. He then seized her wrist, pulled her hand to his mouth, and very sensually licked the frosting off her fingers. A thunderbolt of desire struck so hard her knees nearly buckled.

The last thing before they could escape upstairs was the throwing of the bouquet.
She ran up to the landing, turned her back to the banister, and, with a twinge of regret, tossed the flowers over her shoulder. When she spun back around, Avery was clutching the bouquet with a look of triumph.

C
limbed the rest of the way to the top, she waited for her groom to join her. They were spending the wedding night in his bedchamber before leaving for an extended honeymoon in Paris, where he promised to take her to all the places they used to go when she was Catharine.

Je t’aimerai toujours
. I will always love you.

Me
too my dear husband. Me too.

He
took her hand in his and led her down the hall. At the door, which stood ajar, he let go and told her to close her eyes. She did as he asked, startling when he scooped her into his arms. She felt him carry her over the threshold, heard him kick the door closed behind them. Every cell in her body hummed with nervous excitation. He carried her a little farther before setting her on her feet with care.

“
You can look now.”

Ever so slowly, she opened her eyes
, not sure what to expect, though she could smell the faint fragrance of roses intertwined with melting wax. The scene greeting her made her heart skip a beat. The room was alight with tiny flames. Votives floating in shimmering glass bowls on every possible surface. Tears welled when her eyes found the bed: hundreds of red rose petals blanketed the sheets and pillows.

Turning back to him, she met his eyes,
which twinkled in the candlelight like faceted emeralds. “This is why you wanted to wait, isn’t it? And I almost spoiled it.”

“No,
m’aingael
.” He took her hand and led her toward the bed. “You could never spoil anything. You are my salvation.”

As he gathered her into his arms, her mind reached back to the night she’d summoned him to her cottage
and the final card she’d drawn. The Ten of Cups. And now, at last, they’d achieved the happy ending that had eluded them for two centuries.