Lucinda and Bridget gathered my tissue-soft train and followed me down the narrow staircase and outside, my feet slipping around in my satin pumps that were half a size too big. My heart sank a little as I caught sight of the overcast sky. It hadn’t looked that grim when I went upstairs. The next to meet my vision was Thomas Grey, also wincing at the clouds before he spotted me and dropped into a gentlemanly bow.
Nervous excitement hummed low in my belly at the sight of Nick. He stood before the Bishop of Winchester in a coat of marble-colored satin pinned with solid-gold buttons, an affectionate smile adorning his regal face. Tufts of tousled hair peeked from beneath his crown of glittering crosses and fleur-de-lis.
Smiling so wide that my cheeks could’ve touched my eyes, I strolled toward him to a gentle rendition of “Lady Greensleeves” performed by a flutist. I halted beside my fiancé and gazed up into the blue-green stare that possessed every part of my heart.
Bishop Winchester delivered most of the service in Latin, and I copied Nick when he knelt on a cushion and read from a prayer book, the somberness of the ceremony surprising me. In my time, weddings were cheerful expressions of love and commitment, but in Tudor England, it was a deadly serious vow before God that I felt could never be undone. That might’ve freaked me out had I been marrying anyone else, but with Nick, the assurance that he’d always be mine made me feel safe and warm all over. We were halfway through the ceremony when the skies made good on their threats and freezing raindrops began spilling from the clouds. At any other time, I’d have shrieked and run for cover, but I just giggled as Nick made an adorable scowl at the sky.
“A most glorious day indeed for the wedding of God’s chosen king!” he cried with mock anger, and we all laughed before the ceremony was sped up.
Thomas Grey quickly presented matching gold rings carved with the entwined initials N&E. Nick slid mine over my fourth finger, and a taut balloon burst inside me, releasing a euphoric feeling of calm. My fingertips brushed the ridges of an inscription on the inside of the ring, the Latin words Ne Dimittas.
Nick smiled at me, reading my thoughts. “It means ‘do not let go’,” he said under his breath. I beamed, kissing the gold band circling his fourth finger. It was the phrase I’d whispered to him when we first traveled through time together.
Do not let go.
Ne dimittas.
Thunder whipped the sky, and Nick hurried me inside to where the cooks had squeezed a feast of dishes onto the circular dining table. There was just enough space for our small wedding party, and we dug into platters of duck, quail, and swan, enjoying the closeness and chatter that reminded me of Thanksgiving at my friend Mia’s house. Between courses, Nick held my hand beneath the table, our thumbs caressing in a way that made my thighs press together. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten that tonight was also our wedding night.
The moment I remembered what that meant, I could think of nothing else. My eyes locked on Lucinda Parker as she chatted politely with the bishop between small bites of violet-flavored marzipan. Lucinda knew what to do—she’d been with Nick before. I chugged an entire cup of water, but it didn’t cut through the drought in my mouth.
“The hour is late, and our lady is undoubtedly wearied,” said Nick, dabbing his lips with a silk napkin. “We are grateful for your service and bid you retire to bed.” Everyone rose to bow to the king, and Nick walked me toward the stairwell. He paused there, my heart beating into my throat.
“You may expect my short return, my lady,” he said a little huskily, pressing his lips to my hand.
Despite my nerves, a thrill danced through me, low in my stomach. A moment later, Bridget and Lucinda arrived to take me upstairs. Bridget couldn’t contain her glee at the idea of a wedding night, which only escalated my jitters. They drew me a bath scented with fragrant herbs, washed and combed my hair, and helped me into a silk nightgown that I noticed could be easily untied. Candles danced light up the walls, my throat sticky with anticipation. Bridget offered me a knowing grin as they left me alone, and Lucinda wouldn’t look at me for the first time in weeks. I tried not to let her obvious envy affect me as I climbed into bed and pulled the fur covers to my chin. Despite the fire hissing and cracking in the hearth, I couldn’t get warm.
Several minutes later, the distant song of a flute rapidly gained in volume until it was right outside the door. I sat up to a gentle knock and men’s voices. Nick strolled into the dim room in his nightshirt, followed by Bishop Winchester, Thomas Grey, and three of Nick’s gentlemen of the bedchamber.
OMG, has war broken out or the plague arrived on our doorstep?
Winchester launched into a benediction in Latin, blessing Nick, me, and the bed. A gentleman carried in two dining chairs and angled them toward the mattress, and Bishop Winchester and Thomas Grey sat down in them. Servants carried in a buffet table before dressing it with wine and bread.
Nick sat on the mattress beside me, smelling delicious in his silk nightshirt. A thick fur blanket still separated us.
“Nick,” I said quietly, my cheeks hotter than the flames in the hearth. “What is going on?” The flutist trilled a little louder.
“My queen, this is our wedding night,” he said with the same breathy emphasis. “You know not what is required to sanctify our marriage before God?”
“I know what’s required, but with an audience? Is this some kind of creepy Tudor joke?” I hissed.
Nick’s mouth opened and shut like he was lost for words. I spotted Thomas’s jowly face beyond Nick’s shoulder and yanked the covers a little higher.
“The men are here to bear witness that the marriage is consummated,” Nick explained to me.
“Yeah, I’m catching on to that.” The shiver returned to my skin.
Nick’s gaze considered me for a moment before he twisted to face the cluster of men. “You may leave us and remain beyond the door.”
Mercifully, the lot of them bowed and scurried out the hallway, shutting the door behind them.
“Did I screw everything up?” I said to Nick, my fingers splayed over my face.
He pulled my hand away to kiss the tip of my nose. “It is plainly not the custom in your time. The men may hear the consummation of the marriage, which will suffice.”
A sigh of relief burst from my lips, and Nick smirked like I was cute. Our fingers were twisting together again, touching and swirling with focused strokes. There was so much excitement churning inside me that I almost felt faint. I brought his irresistible fingers to my mouth and began kissing them one by one. He watched me closely while combing his other hand through my hair, strong and steady. I rushed forward to kiss his parted lips, unable to hold back any longer. He sighed into my mouth as we fell together, the blanket still bunched between us. The weight of him on top of me made my back arch with the desire to be even closer, and I wrapped my legs around his hips, deepening our kisses.
As I tugged the silk nightshirt up over Nick’s muscular shoulders, he whispered something in my ear. “With the men near to verify consummation of the marriage rites, Emmie, I cannot promise to be silent.”
Something rumbled low in my abdomen as I guided him into a gentle roll off the blanket and kicked it to the floor.
The few times I’d woken up beside Nick in Tudor England, he’d almost always disappeared before dawn. The next morning, however, there was no squawk of the cockerels, and the light filtering through the leaded window had no golden tinge. It was late, and the king still lay beside me, his bare skin tangled in linen sheets. He stirred at my movements, and I froze so he could sleep longer, but his eyes had already flickered open.