Magical Weddings (25 page)

This whole thing might be a mistake. The place magic had the wrong witch and warlock, but that didn’t stop Ax’s jaw from dropping when he saw her in her wedding gown.

Colleen’s procession wended its way through Drayhome’s secret garden, past witches and warlocks sitting not in chairs, but standing and encircling the small dais on which the fountain had been built, hands held in solidarity.

Ax reached out and took her by the hand, guiding her up the steps.

“You’ve never looked so beautiful, so much like yourself as you do right now,” he spoke into her ear, for her alone to hear.

“Ax,” she whispered back. “What do we do? I don’t want you to be stuck–”

“Ahem.”

They both started at the sound of a warlock from the crowd, censuring their whispering.

They waited. An uncomfortable minute passed. What were they supposed to do? We’re they expected to make up their own ceremony?

“What now?” Colleen said.

“I think…” Ax pointed. “…that!”

Incredulous, they watched a pair of hummingbirds buzzing up the path toward them. Between them, in their beaks, the jeweled birds carried a silk ribbon for handfasting. Hanging from loops in the ribbon was a wooden box, hand-carved and organic in design, made of cherry wood and measuring less than two inches on all sides.

Hovering inches away from their faces, the hummingbirds paused in front of Ax and Colleen, and then released their burden. Box and ribbon fell into Ax’s hands.

Colleen looked for and located Lysée in the crowd surrounding the fountain.

“It looks like one of your key boxes,” she said.

“That’s because it is,” Lysée said.

“But it’s too small to house any keys at Drayhome.”

“Keys come in all shapes and sizes,” Lysée said. “Open it.”

Together, they did, Ax holding the box out for her on the flat of his hand, Colleen lifting the lid.

Inside, on a bed of velvet were two rings. Simple, elegant, and made of platinum, each bore an inscription in Old Irish. She translated.
Love
, it read.
Courage
.

Colleen looked at the rings, and suddenly she knew. She
knew
. There, in the palm of his hand, lay the keys to their hearts.

She was terrified to look up from the box and see his face. She didn’t want to find the wrong thing there.

“Colleen,” he said, softly urging. “Colleen. Look at me.”

She breathed deep, gathered her courage and lifted her chin. He looked into her eyes.

“I
know
,” he said. “It’s you.”

Aileen Harkwood is a Readers’ Crown finalist for Best Paranormal Romance and the author of
Dangerous Dreams
,
Sapphire Ridge
and
Wolf’s Den
.
The Last Wedding at Drayhome
is a prequel to two concurrent series of fantasy romances.
Spell Touched
:
Breens Mist Witches, Book 1
was released in 2014, while
Wedding Spell
, first of the Breens Mist Weddings series, is due out in September 2015. Sign up for her to receive sneak peaks of upcoming releases.

Eve Devon

Copyright © 2015 by:

Eve Devon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

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Palazzo Ducale (The Doge’s Palace), Venice 1615

“These are the finished pieces I requested for the masked ball this evening?”

Caterina turned from the window at the sound of Margarita, dogaressa of Venice’s, voice. It would not do to look as if she had been day-dreaming. Besides, the sooner this inspection was over, the sooner she and fellow lacemaker Rosa could sneak across the palazzo grounds to the ballroom, peer through the slivers of carved wood in the heavy arched doors, and see.

She only needed one moment—just one moment to see the ballroom in all its glory. To soak up the atmosphere as preparations got underway. To breathe in the anticipation that was in the air.

She wanted to see the chandeliers being hauled back up to the ceiling. Every candle on them lit. Every droplet of Murano glass that draped the branching arms catching the light and creating a kaleidoscope of colour for the guests to dance under.

It was going to be so beautiful.

Magical even.

Bowing her head respectfully, Caterina answered, “We brought with us everything we have been working on, Dogaressa.”

Caterina’s gaze drifted to the bolts of lace that she and Rosa had set out. Long months of dedication had gone into weaving the fabric. Fierce pride spread through her, for in front of the doge’s wife was some of the finest needlepoint Caterina and her team of lacemakers had ever produced.

“
Si. Bene
,” the dogaressa murmured as she ran her hand over the lace woven with gold, silver and silk thread. Caterina had shown the girls how to pattern the lace into intricate swirling snowflakes that joined together emblems from the palace. “This is very acceptable. I will enjoy seeing them grace the marble tables in the ballroom this evening.”

Caterina breathed out a sigh of happy relief.

“You have an exceptional eye, Caterina,” dogaressa Margarita continued, “I will be sad to lose you when you marry. The wedding is soon, is it not?”

Hands that ached from working the lace all day clutched against the folds of her dress. “It is just three weeks away,” Caterina replied.

Three weeks.

Hardly any time at all to discover the secret that might save her…

With a slight shake of her head, Caterina strove to refocus. She would not think about that now.

But as if her employer suspected something, she stared at Caterina shrewdly. “I admit to have expected a little more joy on your face at the mention of your marriage.”

Caterina put a hand to her long blonde hair and nervously twisted a strand back into its simple plait. “If you saw sadness, perhaps it is only that I will miss working the lace very much.” She winced. Even to her own ears she did not sound convincing.

“Rosa,” Margarita called, turning to face her, “Who has Caterina’s father arranged for her to wed?”

Rosa cast a quick apologetic look to Caterina and then stared down at the floor. It was not her place to remain silent at a direct question. “She is betrothed to Guido de Mosta, Dogaressa. He is a good man.”

The dogaressa swung her gaze back to Caterina. “Good enough that you will not have to work once you are married?”

Good enough that I won’t have to do anything, ever, Caterina thought, her heart sinking.

That was the crux.

Three weeks until she shared her life with staid, sensible, why-would-you-want-to-see-the-world-when-everything-you-could-want-is-right-here, Guido de Mosta.

She had overheard him telling his good friend Matheo that very thing and a voice inside of her had wanted to scream aloud that one did not have to be at the expense of the other. Venice might be home—but there was a big, wide, wonderful world out there. And when Matheo had replied resolutely that staying here was not for him—that he intended to see the world many times over, Caterina’s heart had seemed to squeeze for an instant and then restart. What adventures would Matheo undertake and how long would she and Guido have to wait before he returned to regale them with his tales?

“You do not like this Guido de Mosta?” the dogaressa asked Caterina outright, cutting through her thoughts.

Caterina stared at the lace before her. What did it matter if she did or did not? And if she, late at night, wondered why it could not have been Matheo of the deep blue-green eyes her father thought the best match for her, then she was a fool.

A fool stuck in a time she could not change.

Especially without knowing the magic.

From a little girl, looking out over the waters and wondering what lay across them, Caterina had felt the winged bird in her breast, fluttering to escape and fly the world.

Her father had seen it in her too. She knew he had because he had brought her up to know her place was to keep that bird tethered, rather than let it set free.

The world could not change fast enough for her to have a life other than one lived through her own imaginings or other people’s adventures. She would be better off setting aside notions of magic saving her from that and instead adjust to all she had to be grateful for.

“Rosa is right,” Caterina said softly, dutifully, as guilt cloaked her, heavy and cloying. “Guido is a good man. I am honoured to be marrying him.”

Dogaressa Margarita watched her for a few moments, and then, perhaps because she understood the life Caterina was about to enter into had less freedom than the one she had now, said, “You have my permission to set the lace on the tables in the ballroom. I imagine it is quite the scene in there.”

“
Grassie
, Dogaressa.” Caterina thanked her and as she caught Rosa’s eye she saw a matching twinkle of excitement in her friend’s eyes.

All over Venice guests would already be getting ready for the masked winter ball that evening. Caterina felt the excitement build inside of her as she imagined what it would be like to attend. To hold a mask up to her face as her eyes roved the room, taking note of every single detail as she danced and laughed and
lived
.

Hours’ worth of memories she would make to hold in her heart.

Hours’ worth of memories she could then take out at will and examine and relive.

Company for the long days ahead of her where work would be replaced by socialising with other women she had nothing in common with.

Caterina sighed. What was wrong with her that one night at a masquerade ball felt a thousand more times exciting and romantic than a whole life married to Guido de Mosta?

City of Bath, England 2015

Cait stood in the line for coffee, trying to gauge how long she was going to have to wait. She was craving a caffeine hit after working so late the night before, but not if it was going to be at the expense of making her late.

Nervously she brought her phone up to her face and switching it to selfie mode, did a quick inspection of her reflection. Good, she thought. Her long blonde plaits were still neatly pinned. She looked neat, professional and on-trend without looking like she was trying too hard. Hopefully the Museum Director and the assorted money-people she was meeting with this morning would think so too and approve the extra budget to get the one last piece of lace for the exhibition she was curating.

Butterflies flitted about in her belly.

She needed that piece of lace to complete the story. If they didn’t sanction the extra cost to have it released and transported from Venice she was going to have to start thinking way, way outside of the box and she was running out of time.

The sudden movement of a pair of broad shoulders drew her attention, making her peer past her reflection in the phone screen to the queue behind her. Wait—was that..? She angled her phone to get a better look.

No.

Fate wouldn’t be this unkind, surely.

The butterflies inside of her gave birth to a whole new swarm, increasing the fluttering and making her feel queasy as Cait pushed the zoom function on her phone’s camera and focussed in on the man standing three behind her in the queue.

Great.

What the hell was Matthew Searle doing back in Bath?

And why, she wondered as she peered at her phone’s screen again on the pretext of checking her makeup, was he dressed in an exceptionally sharp navy blue suit and snowy white shirt?

Lowering her phone she tried to breathe in positive, breathe out negative. When that didn’t work she stared hard at the station-sized clock hanging above the coffee shop menu.

Damn.

Still way too early in the morning to ring her friend Rosie and get out of her why Matthew was back.

She supposed he was back for Rosie and Guy’s wedding in three weeks time.

Double great.

She had been so sure she wouldn’t have to bump into him until the actual day.

Her gaze snagged on a stack of newspapers. She’d buy one with her coffee and hold it up to her face on her way out.

Pleased with her plan, she managed twenty seconds more queuing before she gave in to temptation and turned her body back slightly in his direction. Sincerely hoping she wasn’t about to detach a retina or something, Cait squinted out of the corner of her eye to check Matthew was still there.

“Cait Langdon, is that you?”

Cait whirled back into position in the queue, her heart pounding. His deep voice still had the power to make her already-nervous nervous system zing and ping all over the place, then.

Triple great.