Shit.
I’ve gone too far.
He’s going to kill me.
I feel rather than see Tom tense in the doorway.
Demachi points the gun at me and shouts, “Do të martohesh me time bijë!”
The Albanians look flabbergasted. Tom is ready to pounce. And all eyes are on me: Mrs. Demachi’s. Alessia’s. Thanas’s. They all gape in shock. And Thanas quietly translates, “You’re going to marry my daughter.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oh, Babë, no!
Alessia realizes that she hadn’t thought through her lie about the pregnancy. In a panic she whirls away from her shotgun-wielding father, desperate to explain the truth to Maxim. She doesn’t want to force him into marriage!
But Maxim is sporting the biggest grin.
Joy shines in his eyes, evident for all to see.
His expression takes her breath away.
Slowly he sinks onto one knee, and from the inside pocket of his jacket he produces…a ring. A beautiful diamond ring. Alessia gasps, and her hands fly to her face in utter amazement.
“Alessia Demachi,” Maxim says, “please do me the honor of becoming my countess. I love you. I want to be with you always. Spend your life with me. At my side. Always. Marry me.”
Alessia’s eyes fill with tears.
He brought a ring.
This is what he came here to do.
To marry her.
She’s breathless with shock.
And then it hits her. Like a freight train. Her elation. He really does love her. He wants to be with her. Not Caroline. He wants her with him, always.
“Yes,” she whispers, tears of joy running down her face. All watch, speechless and as amazed as Alessia, while Maxim slides the ring onto her finger and kisses her hand. Then, with a whoop of happiness, he springs up and sweeps her into his arms.
* * *
“I love you, Alessia Demachi,” I whisper. Setting her down, I kiss her. Hard. Closing my eyes. I don’t care that we have an audience. I don’t care that her father is still holding his shotgun pointed in my direction or that her mother is still in the kitchen wide-eyed and weeping. I don’t care that one of my closest friends is looking at me in shock and alarm as if I’m crazy.
Right now. Here. In Kukës, Albania, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
She said yes.
Her mouth is soft and yielding. Her tongue caressing mine. It’s been only days, but I’ve missed her so much.
Her tears rub off on my face. Wet and cooling.
Fuck. I love this woman.
Mr. Demachi coughs loudly, and Alessia and I surface, winded and giddy from our kiss. He waves the muzzle of his shotgun between us, and we both step back, but I grasp her hand firmly. I’m never letting her go. Alessia is grinning and blushing, and I’m light-headed with love.
“Konteshë?” her father, his brow creased, asks Thanas. Thanas looks to me, but I have no idea what Demachi said.
“Countess?” Thanas clarifies.
“Oh. Yes. Countess. Alessia will be Lady Trevethick, Countess of Trevethick.”
“Konteshë?” her father says again, and it seems like he’s feeling his way around the word and its meaning.
I nod.
“Babë, zoti Maksim është Kont.”
Three Albanians turn to stare at me and Alessia as if we’ve each grown an extra head.
“Like Lord Byron?” Thanas asks.
Byron?
“He was a baron, I think. But he was a peer. Yes.”
Mr. Demachi lowers his gun, continuing to gape at me. No one else in the room moves or says anything.
Well, this is awkward.
Tom shuffles forward. “Congratulations, Trevethick. Didn’t expect you to propose on the spot.” He puts his arms around me and claps me on the back.
“Thanks, Tom,” I reply.
“This’ll make a great story for the grandchildren.”
I laugh.
“Congratulations, Alessia,” Tom adds, giving her a little bow, and she rewards him with a glorious smile.
Mr. Demachi turns to his wife and barks an instruction. She heads deeper into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of clear spirits and four glasses. I glance at Alessia—she’s radiant. Gone is the harrowed woman who walked into this room earlier.
She shines. Her smile. Her eyes. She takes my breath away.
I’m a lucky guy.
Mrs. Demachi fills the glasses and distributes them—only to the men. Alessia’s father lifts his glass. “Gëzuar,” he says, and there’s a look of relief in his shrewd, dark eyes.
This time I know what that means. I raise my own glass.
“Gëzuar,” I repeat, and Thanas and Tom echo the toast. We all upend our glasses and down our drinks. It’s the fieriest, most lethal liquid that I’ve ever poured into my throat.
I try not to cough. And fail.
“That’s great,” I lie.
“Raki,” Alessia whispers, and she’s trying to hide her smile.
Demachi sets down his glass and refills it, then refills the rest.
Another? Shit. I mentally prepare myself.
Alessia’s father raises his raki once more. “Bija ime tani është problem yt dhe do të martoheni, këtu, brenda javës.” He downs his shot and brandishes his gun with a look of glee.
Thanas quietly translates. “My daughter is your problem now. And you’ll be married, here, within a week.”
What?
Fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A week!
I give Alessia a bemused smile, and she grins and releases my hand.
“Mama!” she blurts, and I watch her run to her mother, who’s been standing patiently in the kitchen. They embrace and cling to each other as if they’ll never let go, and both begin to silently weep in that way that women do.
It’s…affecting.
It’s obvious they’ve missed each other. More than missed each other.
Her mother wipes away her daughter’s tears, speaking rapidly in her native tongue, and I have no idea what they are saying. Alessia’s laugh is more of a gurgle, and they hug each other again.
Her father watches them and turns to me.
“Women. They are so emotional.” Thanas translates his words, but Demachi looks relieved, I think.
“Yes,” I answer, my voice gruff, and I hope I sound manly. “She’s missed her mother.”
But not
you.
Alessia’s mother relinquishes her, and Alessia steps toward her father. “Baba,” she murmurs, her eyes wide once more.
I hold my breath, poised to intervene if he so much as lays a finger on her.
Demachi raises his hand and gently holds her chin. “Mos u largo përsëri. Nuk është mirë për nënën tënde.”
Alessia gives him a timid smile, and he leans down and kisses her forehead, closing his eyes as he does. “Nuk është mirë as për mua,” he whispers.
I look at Thanas, waiting for his translation, but he’s turned away, giving them this moment—and I think maybe I should, too.
* * *
It’s late, I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep. Too much has happened, and my mind is racing. I lie awake staring at the dancing, watery reflections on the ceiling. The patterns that form are so comforting in their familiarity that I grin. They mirror my ecstatic mood. I’m not in London, I’m at my soon-to-be-in-laws’, and the reflections are from the full moon, skipping over the deep, dark waters of Fierza Lake.
I didn’t have a choice about where I stayed—Demachi insisted it should be here. My room is on the ground floor, and though sparsely furnished, it’s comfortable and warm enough and has a splendid view of the lake.
There’s a rustle at the door, and Alessia sneaks in and closes it behind her. All my senses come alive, and my heart starts pounding. She tiptoes toward the bed, her body swathed in the most virginal, all-covering, Victorian-style nightdress I have ever seen. Suddenly I feel that I’m in a gothic novel, and I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation. But she places her finger to her lips and then in one swift move draws her nightgown over her head and drops it onto the floor.
I stop breathing.
Her beautiful body is bathed in the pale light of the moon.
She’s perfect.
In every way.
My mouth dries, and my body stirs.
I toss back the covers, and she slides into bed beside me, gloriously naked.
“Hello, Alessia,” I whisper, and my lips find hers.