"Awake, my love?" Cross' gravelly voice called her from her musings.
"No," she teased as she wiggled enticingly.
"Liar," he mumbled as his lips nipped at her ear.
"Never," she replied, reached behind her to grasp his dark hair, tugging on it slightly.
"Don't stop," Cross murmured against her neck. Trailing kisses to her shoulder, he reached around and traced circles on her stomach.
"Never," Essie replied tenderly, then turned to face her husband. "Thank you," she added softly against his lips.
"For?"
"Loving me. For relentlessly pursuing me… for risking your heart." Leaning back, she lost herself in his piercing eyes.
"My sweet Essie… any effort on my part was worth every risk for the small hope that I'd one day be here, as I am." He kissed her nose. "Men, true men will go any distance for the love of a lady. And for you, for this…" He kissed her deeply. Pulling away he met her gaze once more. "…is worth any cost. And I will spend my entire life living up to that honor of being called your husband."
Essie felt tears prick her eyes as she stared back into the face of her husband. "As will I," she murmured as she took his lips with a ferocity born of desperate love. Of a love she almost missed.
But a love that held her body, mind, and soul. Because what Cross said, rang true.
There was no risk too great, for the love of a lady.
CLOAKED IN RED
A Shattered Fairy Tale
by Kelly Martin
Once Upon a Time
Brighton, Lithorland
Red.
That's all I remember about the first time I met Rebecca Eaton. That isn't entirely true. I also remember how pale her skin was, how blond her hair, how her cheeks were slightly tinged pink from the chilly wind that blew snowflakes around her. It looked like a scene one would see in a snow globe. Normally, I do not care for such poetic scenes. I don't think I'm much of a sentimental person — not now anyway. But at the time, in that one brief moment, I could have stood there and looked at her forever.
It was her smile that drew me in closer. Her red lips, the same color as the wondrous cloak that covered her body, letting only a little bit of the color of her dress slip through — enough to make a man interested, but not turn him away in its vulgarity. She smiled at me. Only me. In the group of men who surrounded me: future earls, marquesses, the son of a duke, she looked at me. Her eyes met mine and, in that one glorious instant, she smiled at me.
And I returned the favor.
I took off my hat and held it in my hand quickly to show her respect. I had been raised with some manners, mind you. The wind swirled snow around my head and my ears instantly chilled, but it didn't bother me at the time.
I'd just seen an angel.
I assure you I wasn't the kind of man who fell in love — or became infatuated — easily. In fact, in my three years at university, I had never courted a woman. I had been to many balls. I had been introduced to ladies and I'd danced with several. Some were so beautiful I couldn't imagine them waiting long to find a husband. And some… what can I say? God gives some people more beauty that others.
And, in my mind, He'd given every drop of beauty on Earth to the woman in red. I didn't know her name, not yet. But I knew I wanted to. I wanted to know everything about her, and tell her nothing of myself.
Not that there was much to tell, mind you. My father died before my birth. My mother moved us to the family estate in Darenset. A benefactor paid for my tutor and my entrance into university. Simple. Easy. Nothing horrible about my childhood. Nothing sinister like I hear rumblings about now. Even all these years later, people still whisper about me being the son of the devil. They wouldn't be entirely wrong, if I had to be perfectly honest. But at the time, I didn't know that. I only knew those two facts: my father was dead, and a wealthy person had taken pity on me and sent me to school.
The other two men whom I had arrived with were both at university because of their titles. Simon Hartwell, a man a few months younger than I, wasn't a particularly close friend of mine. We were acquaintances. Nothing more. Nothing less. He was the first and only son of a baron and would inherit a place called Enhurst someday. To be honest — and I'm nothing if not honest — I didn't think much of Hartwell. He wasn't incredibly bright. I always outscored him on our work. Always. And he was not the best looking person to admire from afar, and I mean that in the way a lady would admire a man. He was sinewy, gangly, nothing special. He wasn't me, let me just say that. He wasn't me and he never would be me. He always let someone else do the talking for him. No, ignore that. He didn't always.
Simon Hartwell was the biggest scoundrel ever to live in Europe.
Don't believe me? You will. He was… he is… one of the worst sorts of people. The type that is always good to your face then stabs you in the back when you least expect it. I didn't expect what happened from him.
I certainly didn't expect it from Anthony.