“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”
“You mean that?” His voice was almost a snarl.
“Oh, yes, yes. Don’t leave me, Rafe. Come to me!”
“No. You come to me!”
My legs were lowered as he went in again, his body covering mine. His hands made a frame around my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks gently as if apologizing for his cavalier treatment. But tenderness was not what I wanted now. I wanted the surging rhythm, and my hips began to move as if I could move him. His muted laugh was one of sheer triumph as he slowed the tempo. I trembled and twisted under him, trying to get him to increase the pace. He was adamant. I felt I could not endure his leisurely method. I felt I would burst. And then, suddenly, when I was all but certain I should explode, he began to thrust with unbelievable force, lifting me, higher and higher, until I did explode-within, without, all over. But he didn’t stop, and before the first fantastic sensation had quite died from my loins, there was another, and then a third before he arched his back with an inarticulate cry.
How long we lay locked together, I don’t know. His body was a beloved weight against mine, his hands warm on my shoulder and hip, his head beside mine on the pillow, his breathing quiet.
“Marchmount doesn’t count, Nialla. I had you first, because you have given yourself to me, haven’t you?”
His eyes were clear. I could see the fine lines at his eyes, the deep grooves from nose to mouth, the damp, black lock falling to his forehead.
“Sure, Mr. Clery.”
We were married the next morning. Rafe tried to find Pete Sankey to be one of the witnesses. I thought Pete’d like that, and I felt that he was the nearest thing to family I could present. In his absence, Jerry MacCrate obliged, embarrassed and nervous, turning apoplectic when Bess Tomlinson put in an unexpected appearance.
“You’ve no kin, m’dear,” she said as she walked in, two white boxes under her arm. “And you are young enough to be my daughter, Gawd knows I hate to admit it. Of course, if you’d rather…”
“How’d you hear, Bess?” Rafe asked when I’d reassured her.
She grinned. “Mac, of course. Can’t keep a thing to himself. Nor can Jerry, for that matter. Good men with horses, though. Actually, I called A-Barn to find out how your gelding was doing, Miss Dunn. Frankly, Rafe, I didn’t think you had this much sense left. Or is it her horses you’re after?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. Rafe threw back his head and howled. “Nialla’s Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Bess. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”
Bess eyed me closely, then chuckled. “You obviously resemble your mother’s side of the family, child. However, since she’s obviously grown up…” And she put down the boxes, opening the longer, flatter one first. From it she lifted a beautiful white lace veil, attached to a white velvet bandeau. Her eyes met mine, saw my hands lift and reach for the lovely thing, and suddenly her face lit with a warm, happy smile. “A bride must have something bridal. And borrowed. I may be a trial to him, but Gus Tomlinson and I have been married twenty-seven years, my parents fifty-five, and I’m told my grandparents lasted forty-two. We brides all wore this veil. I sincerely trust it’ll work its charm for you two!” Though she spoke in a light voice, she deeply felt what she said.
She clipped the veil to my head and fluffed the fragile white lace over my shoulders, then drew the front veil over my face. She turned away abruptly and fumbled with the second box.
“These help, too, I fancy.” And she presented me with a white orchid, its stem wrapped with streamers of white ribbon, to which were attached the blossoming twigs of a curious white flower. “It’s stephanotis, dear, which the Greeks insist must be part of a wedding bouquet. I’ve a Greek gardener. Their marriages tend to last, too.”
“Going to make sure this time, huh, Bess?” Rafe asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Ha!” She started to make a sharp remark, her eyes darted to me, and she said instead, “You’ve a suitably accoutered bride, witnesses, and I’ve got a meeting at twelve. Let’s ask Reverend Norse to proceed.”
I don’t think that the minister approved of her gruff levity, but he was evidently too well acquainted with Mrs. Tomlinson to give any sign of dismay. He cleared his throat and began the marriage service in a sonorous voice.
And so Irene Nialla Donnelly married Rafael Stephen Timothy Rodriguez Clery, with Greek flowers and a Venetian heirloom veil lent by her matron of honor.
“I ought to stand you to a champagne lunch, but I can’t,” Bess said, hugging me and kissing Rafe. “You always take fences fast, you…” She ended her sentence in a sudden cough, nicking a glance at Mr. Norse’s disapproving face.
“I’ll… Well”-Rafe squeezed my arm-”accept the thought for the deed, Bess. I want to be back on the Island by evening, and we’ll have to drive slowly for the gelding’s sake.”
“Then the hoof is healing, isn’t it?”
“Looks to be.”
“Well, then, good-bye, good luck. He’s a good man, m’dear. And such an experienced rider,” she added with the kind of twinkle in her eye that left no doubt of her allusion. Then she was off, veil box tucked under her arm. Fortunately the minister was busy with the marriage certificate and didn’t hear her parting quip. He still looked slightly troubled, despite the appearance of such a well-known personage to give countenance to a rushed wedding. Rafe never did tell me how he’d persuaded him to officiate in the first place.
Rafe grinned impishly as he placed my marriage “lines” in my hand. Jerry had driven over a custom ranch wagon with “Clery Stable” in gold leaf on the green paint of the driver’s door.
“Meet you back at the stable, boss?”
“Follow us.”
We’d packed after breakfast, and our luggage was in the Austin-Healey. Including the new suitcase that held my new clothes. My trousseau. We left the heavy station wagon behind as the Austin zipped down the quiet streets and onto the highway. When we reached A-Barn, I saw Mac leading Phi Bete, her legs bandaged, her body sheeted by Clery Stables’ green and gold, up the ramp to an almost new two-horse trailer with heavy padded sides and heavy springs showing underneath.
“The vet and me bandaged the gelding, Mr. Clery,” Mac said. He appeared to be surprised that he’d survived the experience. “Congratulations, Mrs. Clery. Did Mrs. Tomlinson get there in time?”
“Veil, stephanotis, and all, thank you, Mac,” Rafe said, embracing me, to my embarrassment.
“Is my cat about?” I asked.
“He damned near-begging pardon-wrapped himself up in the bandages,” Mac said, disgusted. “He was on top of us all the time. He’s there, sitting on the black’s rump and growling.”
“Oh, dear.” I broke free of Rafe’s possessive grasp and hurried into the stable. At the sound of my footsteps, Dice started to complain garrulously, walking up and down Orfeo’s backbone as if on sentry duty,
I ignored Rafe’s chuckle as I hastily scratched Dice’s ears and throat in reassuring approval.
“I’ve the bag of goodies for that mountain lion, Nialla. If we put him and the beef in the back of the wagon, it ought to be cat paradise enow. Or would he stay put in the trailer with the horses?”
“Well, yours is big enough so he wouldn’t be stepped on, but it’s strange to him.”
So Dice was captured and put in the station wagon. He had plenty of space in spite of the suitcases, which Jerry had transferred from the Austin. When Dice discovered that there wasn’t an open window and his protests were going unheard (he did look funny, mouth opening and closing and no sound reaching us), he stalked over to the roast beef.