Page 57 of His Noble Savior

It was rare for a couple to enter the church together, but a human baron and an elf knight were of the same rank in the social hierarchy, and James and Raziel took obvious pleasure indisplaying their unity.

“They’re so beautiful,” Lilian whispered, and Richard nodded. As an elf, Raziel was gorgeous by nature, and James had always possessed an elf-like beauty.

“Not as beautiful as you are.” Lilian wore a pale pink silk robe, which underlined his fair locks and kunzite eyes. Thankfully, Lilian hadn’t come to hate the latter. The color of his irises was a visible mark of his reduced lifespan, but Richard found his eyes striking.

Lilian leaned in. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” Richard had gone for an unobtrusive taupe ensemble, but the way Lilian’s gaze ate him up spoke volumes.

With a final swell of the organ, the ceremony began. Unlike Henry and Malorn’s wedding, James and Raziel’s wouldn’t create a soulbond—at least one partner had to be fae for that. They were so in tune with each other, they didn’t need a bond to know what the other was feeling. Theirs was a rare love marriage. Lucky bastards.

Richard watched with mounting envy as the priestess wed them. He yearned to have this connection with Lilian. All Richard had to do was ask for his hand. It meant forgoing all political opportunities. Would it matter? He couldn’t bear the idea of being with anyone but Lilian. Even in a marriage of convenience, Richard would be expected to sleep with his spouse. He might not be physically able to do that—Lilian owned his body and soul.

At the altar, the priestess was speaking the words prescribed by the Book of the Lady while the acolytes rang bells and swung censers. As the ceremony drew toward its conclusion, quiet anticipation filled the congregation.

“Let this union be sealed with a kiss,” the priestess said.

James and Raziel looked at each other with agonizing longing, like they’d waited far too long to celebrate their loveopenly. They pressed against each other, and in a momentary loss of control, their lips parted. The kiss lasted a heartbeat too long to be proper, but they didn’t care. When they separated, the heat in their eyes promised an epic wedding night.

Next to Richard, Lilian squirmed. His cheeks were flushed—the public display of desire didn’t leave him unaffected. Richard leaned back in his seat so he and Lilian were obstructed from view by Nathan, George and Resh—how the last had gotten into the church without going up in flames was beyond him. Lilian gazed at him with his large, gorgeous pink eyes, and Richard cupped his cheek and slotted their mouths together in a kiss that conveyed the fire in his belly. It was inappropriate in public, but Richard couldn’t hold back. He wanted with Lilian what James and Raziel had—official recognition of their love.

Once the ceremony concluded, the wedding party moved to the castle on the hill. The guests gathered in the great hall where pale yellow walls and enormous refectory tables, set up in the shape of a horseshoe, created a rustic atmosphere. Castlehill’s steward, Andre, was in charge of the festivities, directing the servants in his calm but stern manner. As so often, he’d pulled his brown hair in a tight braid, highlighting his pretty features.

The guests mingled, and Richard took the opportunity to introduce Lilian to the wedding party. Without an official title, Lilian was “a guest from the Spring Court at Somerdale Castle,” which felt inadequate. People had seen Lilian sitting next to him during the ceremony, which implied he was a lot more than that, but no word adequately described their relationship. Raziel was James’s husband; Ogharod was Nathan’s mate. George brazenly introduced Resh as “my master” or “the owner of my soul.”

Everyone was polite, complimenting Lilian on his stunning robe, but Richard longed to give him a title. When King Malorn of the Autumn Court shook Lilian’s hand, Lilian showed no signs of distress. Malorn was a powerful dark fae, but Lilian radiatedconfidence and smiled at him without a hint of fear. He’d come so far.

From across the room, a flash of copper drew Richard’s attention. There, in a quiet corner, a red-haired boy was speaking with Prince Elior. The prince was regal through and through in his elegant, brocade-trimmed robe. His long, strawberry blond hair fell around his shoulders like a silken veil, his locks shimmering golden. In contrast, the young man wore ordinary clothes and an apron—he wasn’t part of the wedding party, Richard realized, but one of the attendants serving food. He wiped his greasy fingers on his white apron, leaving stains. Prince Elior didn’t notice or care, leaning in closer as they talked in hushed whispers, grinning.

A memory struck Richard—he’d seen these two together before. At Henry’s wedding, where the young man had served food. Later, when the fae danced, he’d joined in—with Prince Elior. Richard remembered because it’d been shockingly stupid on the part of the boy. If a human danced to faerie music, they couldn’t stop unless the music did. People had danced themselves to death before. Yet he had smiled and blindly trusted the prince. Did these two know each other? But how would a human commoner know a fae prince?

An apron-wearing woman with the same bright red hair as the boy stepped through the door and impatiently waved him out of the room. Wasn’t she Castlehill’s new cook?

As the boy followed her outside, Richard couldn’t help but notice the family resemblance. What was a prince of the Summer Court doing with a cook’s son? They seemed close. The Winter King wouldn’t be happy if the rumor that he was courting Prince Elior was true.

When Richard looked back at Prince Elior, he caught him staring. Their eyes locked, and the prince pushed off the wall, striding over to him. Richard’s gaze snapped to Lilian, but hewas in an animated conversation with King Malorn.

“Lord Dalton,” the prince said.

As custom demanded, Richard bowed to him. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

Prince Elior’s smile was bright and genuine, and if Richard had been worried that he’d observed something he wasn’t supposed to, the prince’s light manner put him at ease.

“I see you have a companion,” Prince Elior said, and Richard’s arm instinctively curled around Lilian’s shoulders.

“This is Lilian, my guest at Somerdale Castle,” Richard said, again wishing he could introduce Lilian with a title to underline his importance.

Lilian bowed to the prince and rose with pink cheeks, snuggling into Richard’s side. Before they could say anything else, the copper-haired boy returned carrying a tray of wine goblets. He beamed at Prince Elior, looking directly at him without bowing. Any other royal guest would’ve demanded the boy be thrown out of the castle, but the prince smiled back and grabbed a goblet of wine. “Thank you.”

Beside Richard, Lilian froze. It took Richard three seconds to realize why—“thank you” wasn’t something fae said. In their culture, the phrase was seen as rude. The boy, who ought to know this, grinned so widely, his cheeks had to hurt.

He hurried away to serve other guests, and Richard glanced after him, wondering what to make of him and the prince. They were, at the very least, close friends. Richard itched to ask, but he wouldn’t. Prince Elior was being courted by the Winter King, and wondering aloud whether there was a “close friend,” a human commoner no less, was disrespectful. Richard had no intention of getting on the prince’s bad side and put the matter out of his mind.

The celebrations culminated in a great feast with food, wine, song and dance that lasted well into the night. In the smallhours, Richard and Lilian retired to their guest chamber. It lay in the castle’s narrow north wing and overlooked Castlehill town at the foot of the hill. When the sun rose in a few hours, they’d have a stunning view of the White Mountains, perhaps even see King William’s castle in the distance. The Winter Court wasn’t far from there.

Oil lamps lit the chamber, bringing the crimson walls and the creme carpet to an amber glow while rustic wood furniture cast deep shadows. Richard led Lilian to the four-poster bed, which looked like it’d fallen out of a fairy tale: pristine white sheets lay under an enormous tester from which velvet curtains depicting roses and tendrils hung. Big, fluffy pillows sat against the headboard, and the nightstands sported three-armed candle holders, a small yellow flame dancing on each wick.

Lilian perched on the bed and made to take his clothes off, but Richard stepped in. “Let me help you.” He sank to his knees before Lilian, hands running down his long legs. A thought had hooked itself into his mind. His hands glided to Lilian’s feet and helped him out of his shoes. They were rarely in this position, Richard on his knees, Lilian’s bright eyes smiling down at him. He liked it. They should do this more often.

“I have something to propose to you,” Richard said, “but it must stay between us until we return to Somerdale Castle tomorrow. Can you keep a secret?”

---