The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(29)
Meagan hesitated, realizing she’d touched a nerve. “’Tis in your eyes. You think of her often, do you not?”
Egan grasped Meagan’s elbow with an iron grip and leaned to her. “You keep that to yourself, lass, all right?” His words were light and scented with whisky but Meagan sensed pain and deep anger in them.
“Of course,” Meagan said quickly. “I would never gossip about a private matter of yours.”
Egan’s grip had eased but his voice still grated. “No, that you wouldn’t. And for your kindness, I’ll give you a bit of advice. Tread lightly around Alexander. I know why you’re marrying him—he told me—but he’s a ruthless cur, and there’s something not quite right about him.”
Meagan’s face had heated. “He told you?”
“Aye.” Egan’s eyes went quiet. “And had I known before this, I’d have plunged a knife into his heart, but I suppose a wedding’s a better thing than bloodshed. He’s a dangerous man, lass. If you ever need help, you call upon Egan MacDonald. I owe it to Princess Penelope to look after you. She’s a great lady, is Penelope.”
“I know.” One of Meagan’s deepest regrets was that Penelope could not be here to see her married. There was no time for Penelope to make the journey, and she had many duties now, and she was a new mother. Penelope wrote often, but that was not the same as sitting with her while Meagan poured out her heart.
Meagan blinked back tears and turned to see Alexander standing at her elbow. He hadn’t been there a moment before, she was certain of it. The man moved like a cat, graceful and predatory, and often so silently that Meagan never knew he was next to her until too late.
Alexander made no sign that he’d heard Egan’s declarations but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. His eyes were neutral, his mouth straight. “It is time, Meagan.”
Meagan felt the touch of the love spell as he put his fingers on her arm and guided her to where his servants were forming a circle. The spell was always there when he touched her, threads of magic that drew her to him. His tall body at her side made Meagan feel protected, even with Egan’s warning drumming in her head.
The ritual was much as the one she remembered for Penelope and Damien. Alexander’s men encircled them, and the tall man called Myn held a tray that contained a ceremonial knife, a thin cord of rope, and goblet of blood-red Nvengarian wine.
Meagan studied Myn as she took her position at Alexander’s side. Myn had blue eyes, rather larger than most men’s, and he wore his linen shirt, breeches, and boots as though they were uncomfortable, as though they trapped him. His face was slightly pointed, and he gazed back at Meagan with unblinking calm.
Meagan realized where she’d seen that look before—in a small boy who could shape-shift into a demon on a moment’s notice. The boy-demon had been sent to murder Prince Damien last year and had ended up giving Penelope his undying devotion.
Meagan grasped Alexander’s sleeve. “He’s logosh,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Alexander said smoothly, as though shape-shifting demons were an everyday occurrence. He gave Myn a cool nod. “Please begin.”
In a deep, melodious voice, Myn spoke the ceremony that would bind Meagan to Alexander forever in the Nvengarian way. He spoke only Nvengarian, and Nikolai translated for the English guests.
One person notably absent from the gathering was Lady Anastasia. It would look odd were she to be present, Alexander had explained when she’d asked him about it, and Meagan said no more.
Alexander’s six-year-old son, on the other hand, was very much present, and stood beside Egan. Meagan had been nervous about meeting young Alex, but he’d given her his allover assessment and sensed, with a child’s keen perception, that Meagan was as out of place in Alexander’s world as he was. Alex had bowed formally, then darted forward and flung his arms about Meagan’s legs. Meagan had knelt to gather Alex in a hug, both of them huddled on the floor while Alexander stood straight and tall beside them.
Now Alex joined in the foot stomping with Alexander’s men, which grew louder and louder as Myn held up the knife and solemnly handed it to Alexander, hilt first. Alexander slashed the knife across his own palm, then quickly across Meagan’s, too quickly for pain. Myn bound their cut hands together with plain cord. Alexander lifted the goblet and drank, then held it steady while Meagan sipped from it.
And so they were betrothed, in the Nvengarian way. The Nvengarian men cheered, voices rocking the garish ballroom. Drums and a fiddle came out, and the retainers grabbed the hands of the guests and began to dance in a wild and chaotic circle. Alexander, his wrist still bound to Meagan’s, leaned down and brushed a kiss to her lips.
Fire began with the kiss, and Meagan couldn’t help lacing her free hand behind Alexander’s neck.
“Mine,” Alexander breathed against her mouth, and the word held finality.
* * *
It was traditional for the betrothed couple to retire to bed together afterward, but Meagan returned home with her father and stepmother instead. Michael said sternly that Mayfair was not ready for the permissive customs of Nvengarians, and Alexander did not argue with him.
Alexander seemed to understand when he should concede to English ideas of propriety and when he could be Nvengarian. In the game of smooth give and take, Alexander was master.