Waterlocked
Page 8

“I don’t like talking about it,” she said.
“Please tell me. I can tell it bothers you, and knowing you, you’ve kept it to yourself. Does Father know?”
She gave a stiff nod. “Father and Ioan. They knew. It… it was a long time ago.”
“Well?”
A laugh roared from the bar as a group of men heard the punchline of a joke. Laughter. It seemed like William had always laughed when he spoke her name. At least he had at first. “He was human. Didn’t want to turn. We married anyway. We were married for fifteen years.”
“He died?”
“Yes. There was an accident. We were out riding at night. I’d asked him to come. He fell off his horse. He was a good rider, but at night—“ She broke off. “There was no one else there. His neck was broken, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t let him go.”
Her brother let out a low breath, knowing exactly what had happened. The moment Gemma had saved William’s life and turned her lover, the unique blood magic that tied them as sire and child had ravaged their feelings as husband and wife. Gemma would never forget it. She was weeping bloody tears when her husband had woken that first night. Ioan had been there, trying to comfort her, but nothing could. Everything about the man she had loved—had adored—had been utterly destroyed. William was still himself, but he could not look at her without shame. He had met the morning sun within months.
“I don’t like talking about it,” she said in a low voice. “That is the only time I married. I didn’t need to follow the ridiculous customs of humans after that. I took whatever lovers I chose.”
“You loved him. Your husband.”
She cleared her throat. “Deeply. But I don’t love Terry, so that’s a relief.”
“Gem—”
“Young.” She turned and placed a hand on his cheek. “You are so young. Do you know how old I am, Daniel?”
“No. Younger than Ioan was.”
“And older than Deirdre. We’ll leave it at that. I do not fear solitude or the shifting tides of power. I take care of myself and those I am responsible for. My family, most of all. Marrying Terry is a good decision for me and our family.”
“You should not marry for that reason.” Poor Daniel looked as if he had tears in his eyes.
Gemma tried to comfort him. “I thought once there was someone I could love again, but he was not for me. I tried, Daniel. Terrance Ramsay is a wise choice.”
“Wise?” he scoffed. “What of love? Passion? Romance? A mate to spend eternity—”
“Marriage and mating are two very different things. You should know that by now.”
As often and as intense as their lovemaking was, Gemma had never offered her blood to Terry and he had never offered his to her. To offer and accept would bind them far more permanently than any trifling legal terms the humans set.
He sighed. “I just want you to be happy.”
“And I am.” She smiled. “I’m very pleased with Terry, even though he’s irritating me at the moment. And if, in a hundred years I feel differently, then we’ll go our separate ways. That’s the benefit of marrying someone for practical reasons, Daniel.”
“Isn’t marriage supposed to be for the rest of your life?”
Gemma almost snorted. “We’re not marrying in the church. This is a civil arrangement, that’s all.” Still, the thought of speaking vows—even civil ones—caused her stomach to clench. Then she pictured Terry saying them back and took a longer drink, ignoring the rush of blood that suddenly churned her veins.
She straightened the lace along the collar, stubbornly refusing to look into her reflection in the full-length mirror behind her.
“You look stunning, Gemma.” Deirdre stood behind her, smiling wistfully. “I’m happy for you.”
“Don’t, Deirdre. It’s not the same.”
“You care for him, I can tell.”
“Of course I do. He’s an excellent companion. Trustworthy. Smart—”
“Yes, trustworthy and smart were exactly what your eyes were saying last night at dinner. You looked like you wanted to tear him to pieces or have him on the Chippendale buffet. I couldn’t decide which.”
“Neither could I.” Did she say that out loud? She was distracted. She usually indulged in Terry’s very ardent attentions every other night or so, but since he’d wrangled the marriage promise out of her as he had, she’d been avoiding him. Idiotic, infuriating, stubborn, attractive, mouth-watering… why was she mad at him?
Gemma caught a glimpse of cream satin in the mirror. Wedding. Right.
Deirdre and Wilhelmina fussed with her simple dress. She hadn’t wanted a veil or bustle. She’d lived when both were necessities of society and she found the fashions irritating and borderline insulting. No one would walk her down the aisle. In fact, she and Terry were walking in together. Equals in every way. Partners.
It was a marriage of practicality. An alliance of shared interests. Nothing more. She had no reason to feel nerves.
His mouth at her breast, worshiping her body as she writhed in pleasure.
She batted back the stylist who was hovering over her hair.
His arms braced over her, moving in that hard, steady rhythm.
At the last minute, she decided she didn’t want to carry a bouquet. She left it dangling in Deirdre’s hands.
His eyes as they focused on her, darkening as the tension built. Closer. Closer…