On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Portia, the third of Luc's sisters, wrinkled her nose as she returned Louise's embrace. "As I recall I was a grubby little squirt last time I was here, so I was hoping he might."

"Oh, no, Miss Portia," Webster assured her, his customary magisterial calm in place but with a twinkle in his eye. "I remember you quite well."

Emerging from a wild hug with Amelia, Portia pulled a face at him, then turned to greet Honoria.

"Indeed, my dear." Honoria's eyes danced over Portia's jet-black hair, not curly but falling naturally in deep waves, "I really don't think you can hope to be forgotten. Any crimes you commit will haunt you forever."

Portia sighed. "With these eyes as well as the hair, I suppose it's inevitable." The black hair and dark blue eyes that in Luc were so dramatically masculine, in Portia were startlingly feminine. A born tomboy, however, she'd never appreciated the fact.

"Never mind." With a smile, Amelia linked one arm in Portia's and slipped her other arm around Penelope's waist. "We're just sitting down to lunch, and I'm sure you must be starving."

Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. "Oh, we're always interested in food."

Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon greeting arrivals and helping relatives to their rooms. She had little time to think of the wedding other than as a list of things to be done; even when, later in the afternoon, she tried on her wedding gown for a final fitting, with Amanda, Louise, and the rest of her aunts looking on, not the slightest hint of nervousness assailed her.

Later, she and Amanda retired to her room, to lie on the bed and talk — as they always had, as they always would, married or not. When, weary from traveling, Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.

She'd wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.

The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story went, had lasted through time. That wasn't why she'd chosen to marry beneath its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she'd been christened here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life and embark simultaneously on the next.

She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones. Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped in. And realized she wasn't the only one who had come seeking peace.

Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn't them that filled his mind.

He couldn't put his finger on what did, couldn't sort one feeling from another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole — they'd all merged, all subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.

To have Amelia as his wife.

It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she would be his.

The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.

Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the future — facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary, here.

He'd always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he'd visited intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something, but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind — and if he was honest, his heart and his soul — attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving need, the same warrior's desire.

Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn't know. Perhaps the potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the right woman, to give it life, to set it free.

To rule him.

He drew breath, refocused on the altar. That was what, when he married her tomorrow, he would be accepting. When he made his vows, they would not be just to her, not just to himself, but to something beyond them both.

Air stirred behind him; he looked around, and saw Amelia closing the door. Smiling gently, calmly, she came toward him; he turned and faced her.

She halted before him, close, but with space yet between them. She studied his eyes, her composure unruffled. Curious, but not demanding.

"Thinking?"

He'd been drinking in the sight of her face; he brought his gaze to her eyes, then nodded. Forced himself to raise his head and look around. "It's a wonderful old place." He looked back at her. "You were right to choose it."

Her smile deepened; she, too, looked around. "I'm glad you think so."

He didn't want to touch her — didn't want to risk it; he could feel desire humming through his veins, feel need prickling his skin. "I'd assumed we wouldn't meet, at least not alone."

"I don't think anyone imagined we would."

He met her gaze, knew what she was thinking. For one instant, he considered telling her the truth, all of it. Getting it off his chest before tomorrow…