Page 148 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
Mr. Darcy’s free hand rose. His fingertips brushed my temple and cheek. “I do not require a year and a day to accept this most profound honor to myself and my family.”
The pinpricks of light in the forest rushed skyward like shooting stars, then swooped and circled into the clearing—needledrac, the same tiny draca that had come to rescue me earlier, but in the thousands, their bodies shining in the night. They swirled around us, a cyclone of blurring color that lit us like lanterns, then rushed around the clearing, darting among the people as joyous cries rose.
Mr. Digweed’s eyes were wide and joyful. “Bel has blessed you!” he cried. “Behold our May Queen and Oak King. This is the sacred wedding. The union of Earth and Sky!” A cheer rose.
In the noise, Mr. Digweed bent his head close and said, “It is customary, though not required, to exchange rings. Do you, by any chance…”
With my free hand, I drew the chain with my father’s ring over my head. I let go of Mr. Darcy’s fingers to open the chain and remove the ring.
I looked into Mr. Darcy’s eyes. “When my father returned from your rescue of Lydia, he knew we were destined to marry. He gave me his ring as his blessing. He would wish you to wear it.” Mr. Darcy, his eyes brightened, nodded. I placed the ring, still warm from my breast, on his finger.
Mr. Darcy withdrew his pocket watch and pressed a catch that opened the back, revealing a delicate ring of braided hair. “My sister wove this after our parents’ death. It is her symbol of our continuing family. She would wish you to wear it, at least until I can provide something more permanent.” He gave a wry smile. “I know this because she has expressed great frustration with what she calls my ‘glacially slow courtship’ of a woman she wishes were her sister.” Even as the significance of his offer pulled my heart, I laughed, remembering her unsubtle hint to me.
I offered my left hand, and he slipped the ring on my finger. Emotion flooded me, cool and profound and purifying as ice-cold water.
Mr. Digweed lifted a wooden cup. “Repeat these words: The sweetness of honey for love. The sharpness of spirit for challenges to overcome. Under the night sky, I am wed.” We said the words together. The cup touched my lips. Idrank, mead sparkling on my tongue, then Mr. Darcy drank. My husband drank.
Then we were standing, facing each other, grinning like fools, our tied hands clasped again, and the crowd cheering while blue and violet streaks filled the sky with celebratory corkscrews and twists.
Hands pushed and tugged us across the clearing. Voices shouted “May Queen” and “Oak King.” Branches of yellow blossoms were banged over our heads, raining golden petals.
In the frenzy, Aggy caught my arm, her grin touched with friendly concern, and asked if she should shoo people away.
“This is glorious,” I answered. I had never been so happy.
White cloth was drawn aside. Eager hands pushed us through, and the cloth closed behind us.
We were alone in an improvised tent of linen draped over a frame of willow branches. Two small oil lamps lit the intimate space. Amber and gold blossoms were tied in graceful sprays and scattered over the ground, soaking the air with sweetness. Woolen blankets and cotton quilts lay thick atop a mattress of soft green branches. Our marriage bed.
Outside, the music resumed, and the sounds of revelry retreated.
My right wrist was still tied to Mr. Darcy’s left, and our fingers were twined in their own knot. I took his other hand, looking up at him.
“This is the bed of the May Queen and Oak King.” His tone was stilted, a return of the old, excessively formal Mr. Darcy. He drew a deep breath. “It is a custom of the Britons. I… I am excruciatingly happy. We will marry again, of course, under English law. Miss Bennet, with the suddenness of this, if you would prefer—”
“I am not Miss Bennet,” I whispered.
His grip on my hands tightened. “Elizabeth.”
“You are getting closer.” The smile on my lips was trembling.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he whispered. “Wyfe.”
I stood on my toes and pressed my lips to his. Our tied hands were clenched tight, but I freed my other hand and buried my fingers in the tousled hair on the back of his neck. His arm caught my waist, pulling me into a kiss that was stunning, and ferocious, and hungry.
I jarred awake.My closed eyes held the shimmering afterimage of a distant silver line. My ears heard the echo of a joyful chord.
Hesitantly—remembering where I was—I opened my eyes. It was dark in our tent, the lamps extinguished. The sole radiance was moonlight illuminating the cloth roof. Outside, there was the creaking of crickets.
I lay curled against Mr. Darcy, our bare skin together, a quilt pulled crookedly over us. The chill of night cooled my exposed neck and shoulders.
The muscles of his shoulder and chest shifted under my cheek. “What was that?” he muttered, his voice blurred with sleep.
“A wyfe has bound,” I said. “By the lake.”
His breathing was already returning to the rhythms of sleep.
49
