Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“I already checked,” he said. “If we get married in Cedar Bayou, there’s a three-day waiting period.” He presented the ring, dazzling her with a grin that drew out the cleft in his chin. Lord, how she’d missed that smile. “This ring belonged to Juliette Mauvais. I think I was meant to find it, because it belongs on your finger. This wedding is a hundred years overdue. Please don’t make me wait another minute.”

With tears spilling down her cheeks, she extended her left hand. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

The lobby erupted in cheers and wild applause with shouts of “Congratulations!” and “Kiss her!” rising above the din.

Marc slipped the ring on her finger and drew her in for a soft kiss. The touch of his mouth sent a wave of comfort washing over her. She locked both hands behind his neck and took more of his warmth. The brief taste wasn’t enough to sate the hunger rising low in her belly, but Allie reminded herself that they had the rest of their lives to make up for lost time. It seemed too good to be true.

When they parted, Devyn jogged forward and took Allie’s hand. She studied the ring for a long time and asked, “Was this really Memère’s?”

“Yep,” Marc said. “It just turned up last week.”

Dev turned and assessed Marc, staring him down for several silent beats. “And you love my sister?”

“More than anything,” he said.

“You’ll be good to her?”

“I swear it.”

Devyn gave a slow nod. “Then I guess the spirits have spoken.” When she reached out her arms to hug Allie, tears shone in her icy blue eyes. “Let’s have a wedding!”

There were no supernatural forces standing in Marc and Allie’s way when they linked hands in the resort chapel and prepared to recite their vows. If anything, the stars aligned to give Allie the wedding of her dreams . . . even if it was a tad unconventional.

A stately gentleman dressed like King Arthur cleared his throat and announced, “Hark, all ye fair maidens and knights, for we come together on this hallowed eve to bind together Marc and Allison in sacred matrimony.”

Allie bit her lip to contain a giggle. The folks at the Grand Palace Royale really took their work seriously.

The chapel walls were lined with a gray stone façade that mimicked the interior of a castle, complete with richly embroidered red tapestries. Clusters of wick-shaped bulbs flickered from a wrought-iron candelabra hanging from the ceiling, casting the wedding party in a soft glow. The experience reminded her of the Renaissance fair, minus the jousting horses and the oversized roasted turkey legs.

“Who giveth this maid to be joined in marriage?” the king asked.

Devyn stepped forward wearing a leopard-print sarong around her waist and a medieval-inspired circlet of daisies on her head. “I do, my liege.”

“And do ye know of any cause that might impede this solemnization?”

Devyn shook her head. “No, I do not.” She grinned at Allie and placed a kiss on her cheek before resuming her place beside Lady Guinevere.

“Then let us begin,” declared the king. “Marc Gerard Dumont, wilt thou take Allison Catrine to be thy lawfully wedded wife? Wilt thou love and honor her in sickness and in health, keeping only to her for as long as ye both shall live?”

Marc took her free hand and gazed at her with so much love, it brought a fresh set of tears to her eyes. In that breath, Allie knew he was right when he’d said this wedding was a hundred years overdue. It felt like every step she’d ever taken had led her to this moment.

“I will.”

The king nodded sagely and turned to her. “Allison Catrine, wilt thou have Marc to be thy lawfully wedded husband? Wilt thou serve and obey him in all—”

“Excuse me?” Allie asked over Marc’s snickering. Serve and obey? They were taking this “Middle Ages” thing a little too far.

“Ah,” King Arthur said. “I see thou art a modern wench, Allison Catrine. I shall adjust thy vows accordingly.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she said with a bow of her head.

“In times of feast and famine, wilt thou love, honor, and cleave to him for as long as ye both shall live?”

Now that she could do. “I will.”

Lady Guinevere handed the king the simple gold bands Marc and Allie had purchased from the adjoining shop just minutes ago. Arthur explained the symbolism of the rings and handed the smallest one to Marc, with instructions to place it on Allie’s finger.

“With this ring,” Marc said, sliding on the band with a sure and steady hand, “I thee wed, and pledge to thee my troth.”

Next it was Allie’s turn. “With this ring I thee wed. And with my body and soul, I honor thee, for all the days of my life.” The sight of the polished band standing in contrast against Marc’s tanned skin filled Allie with so much joy she feared she might burst. He squeezed her fingers and gave her a smile that reflected all the love in her heart. There, wearing her bikini and tacky borrowed veil, she’d never felt more like a princess.

King Arthur took their joined hands between both of his and raised them high in the air. “What God and the great state of Nevada hath joined together, let no man put asunder. I now proclaim that Marc and Allison are husband and wife. May their union be long, fruitful, and filled with merriment!”

The wedding party’s applause was followed by the recorded music of lutes and tambourines playing through speakers in the ceiling. As soon as the king released their hands, Marc took Allie’s face between his palms and kissed her, slow and sweet.

“I love you, Mrs. Dumont,” he whispered against her lips.

“I love you, too.” She held him close and tried to make room inside her for this newfound happiness. “I can’t believe we’re really married.”

“Me neither.” Marc admired his ring and then hers. “I think we should lock ourselves inside our suite until it starts to feel real—even if it takes all month.”

“Let’s get a picture first,” she said. “Then I’m yours.”

They posed for the digital camera, and minutes later, Guinevere brought their souvenir photo tucked inside a cardboard sleeve titled YE OLDE WEDDING MEMORIES.

Together, they laughed at their portrait—Allie’s wild curls barely contained by the sunglasses pushed atop her head, her nose sunburned, a line of deep cleavage spilling from her bikini top. Marc’s eye was swollen and blackened to a sickly shade of purple, his bow tie askew, and his shirt rumpled. But they were smiling like they’d won the lottery.

And in a way, they had.

“Not the most traditional wedding,” Marc said, “but I’ve never seen a happier groom.”

“Or a more dashing one.” Gently, she touched the edge of his swollen eye. “There’s nothing sexier than a man willing to fight for his fair maiden. Does it hurt?”

A soft grin lifted one corner of his lips as he took her hand and kissed it. “Sugar, a grand piano could fall on me right now and I wouldn’t notice a thing.”

For Allie it was the opposite—she was so filled with joy that it almost hurt to breathe. Every cell in her body called out to Marc in need for closeness, to feel him inside and above and all around her. She rose onto her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Take your new wife upstairs. This honeymoon’s a hundred years overdue, remember?”

She didn’t need to ask him twice. After a round of quick good-byes to the wedding party and a hug for Devyn, Marc scooped Allie into his arms and carried her over every threshold all the way to his suite on the seventeenth floor—which turned out to be right across the hall from hers.

What were the odds of that?