Stephanie Laurens - What Price Love?

Drawing breath, she spread her hands; speaking truth at this level, this directly, was harder than she’d thought. “And what we have now-you, me, and what’s between us-that’s created by both of us, and if I lose you, I lose that, too. You can’t expect me not to act to protect you, just as you would me. We’re wild, we take risks, but we protect what’s important to us-that’s how we are, how we’ll always be.

“I can’t change, any more than you can. The price of my love is that you accept me as I am, not as you-or at least some part of you-might prefer me to be. My price is that you acknowledge what you know to be the truth-that I won’t be your possession, yours to rule, that I’m as wild and reckless as you, that what ever danger you court, I’ll be there, by your side, that what ever comes in the future to threaten us we’ll meet it together, defend us together.”

She paused. There was no sound in the room bar the crackling of the fire. She continued to hold his gaze, too dark for her to read, and slowly raised her hand-offered it to him. “I’m willing to accept you as you are-exactly as you are, all you are.” His fingers closed, tight, about hers. She smiled. “I can’t ask if you’ll pay the price for my love when you already have it…but will you do the same for me? Will you accept me as me?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer, then he closed his eyes and sighed. “Not willingly.” He opened his eyes; a flame lit the darkness. “But I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”

Dillon stared into her emerald eyes, and wondered where his violence and the terror behind it had gone. He could only marvel at her ability to cut through to the heart of him, to the soul of his needs, and soothe him. “To night…” He grimaced. “Just now-”

She came into his arms. “To night’s behind us, past-and we have more than enough to deal with tomorrow.” She held his gaze for a moment, then laid her hand on his cheek. “Let it go.”

She was right. They were here, together, safe and free. Their future, joint and shared, beckoned. Their partnership for life.

He couldn’t argue, didn’t want to.

And she knew.

She took his hand and led him to her bed, and he let her. Let her take him in her arms, into her body, and lead him to paradise. To the wild and reckless place that together they could journey to, to the world that was wholly theirs, one of shared pleasures and joys created and embellished by one powerful, undeniable, irresistible force, their shared love.

They gave themselves up and it took them. Lifted them high, filled them with glory, fractured and claimed them, then, like warmed husks tossed on the wind, left them to drift slowly back to earth, to the soft sheets of her bed, to the warmth of each other’s arms.

He settled her beside him, within the circle of his arms, felt the power drift like a benedictory hand over them.

She nuzzled his chest, then sighed.

Eyes closed, his arms around her, he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, “Regardless, I’m not letting you near a pistol again.”

She chuckled, then softly humphed.

He smiled, and slept.

Late the next morning, Dillon stretched beneath the covers, then glanced at Pris, slumped, sated, beside him.

He hadn’t left before dawn; he much preferred waking up beside her-he might as well start as he meant to go on.

“You should go,” she mumbled, prodding his side.

The prods were weak; he grinned and remained where he was. From where he lay, all the world seemed rosy…except for one thing.

He glanced at the tumbled jumble of black curls poking above the covers. “This wedding of ours…does it really have to be so large? So involved?”

She stirred; one eye opened and regarded him, then she raised a brow.

“What I mean…” He sighed, shifted to face her, and confessed, “I’d much rather get a special license, do the deed, and whisk you away, back to Newmarket, so we can make a start on setting up our home together.” He raised his brows back. “What do you think?”

The truth was he was feeling rather desperate, especially after the previous evening. Especially after all he’d felt, all he’d realized. Being married to Pris, getting her married to him, was his most urgent priority.

She studied his eyes, then smiled, raised a hand, and patted his cheek. “I think that’s a pleasant dream, but it is a dream.”

He managed not to frown, but disgruntlement wasn’t far away. “So you really want a huge wedding?” He wouldn’t have thought it of her-she was normally as impatient, if not more so, than he.

“Heavens, no! But they do.”

He frowned then, but she shook her head at him. “You can’t disappoint them, and, in truth, they’re doing it for you.”

“But…” He wheedled, he whined, he tried every argument he could think of, but, finally, he realized she was right; he didn’t have it in him to disappoint Flick, Eugenia, Horatia, and all the rest. Especially not after all they’d done to help him.

He pulled a face at her, then inspiration struck. “Perhaps if you ‘persuaded’ me?”

She grinned, and did. She put her heart and soul into addling his brain sufficiently for him to smile and accept the inevitable.

A monstrous big wedding, complete with all the associated tortures.

In the blissful end, a quiet voice whispered that it was a small price to pay for this much love.

They were married in the church at Newmarket. The event, held just after the end of the racing season, was hailed as the highlight of the social year.

The other members of the Dalloway family and a host of connections traveled from Ireland to be present; still others journeyed from all over england to witness the nuptials of the Earl of Kentland’s eldest daughter. The Cynsters and various other Caxton connections thronged the town; the gathering outside the church when the bride and groom emerged from the chapel was immense, swelled by hordes of local residents eager to see their hero wed.

Smiling proudly, Dillon refused to let go of Pris’s hand as they stopped here and there on their way to the waiting carriage; they’d already weathered a veritable storm of rice. There were many among the crowd they owed a word, a greeting, an acknowledgment, but finally they reached the carriage, and amid rousing cheers, rolled away to the wedding breakfast.

Demon and Flick had insisted on holding the celebration at their home. By the time Dillon and Pris stepped out on the lawn beyond the drawing room, the wide expanse was already dotted with guests.

Dillon’s two closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Charlie Morwellan, had stood as his groomsmen. Gerrard was waiting just beyond the terrace with his wife, Jacqueline; Dillon and Pris joined them. As Gerrard and Jacqueline had wed only a few months before, the four had much in common.

“I’m still struggling to keep all the names and connections straight,” Jacqueline confessed. “And the clan only keeps growing!”

Pris laughed. “And in more ways than one.” She met Jacqueline’s bright eyes; Jacqueline had whispered that she was increasing, something anyone seeing her beatific smile would surely guess.

Charlie came up as Gerrard and Jacqueline moved on. “Two down. I’m the last man left standing.”

Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”

Pris listened as Dillon and Charlie ribbed each other; when she and Dillon were about to venture on, she murmured, “Just remember-there’s no escape.”

Charlie stared at her. She smiled, patted his arm, and let a chuckling Dillon lead her away.

There were so many guests to speak with that her head was soon reeling, but it was a giddy, pleasurable feeling, one she embraced. While she hadn’t specifically wished for it, she was now glad she’d listened to older and wiser heads, agreed to the large wedding, and persuaded Dillon to do the same. There was something so special in having everyone there to share the day; she would never forget these moments for as long as she lived-and that felt very right.