Chapter 9 - The Eve of the Silver Wolf
The night before the wedding, a quiet peace settled over Elm Ridge Farm.
The storm of London society, the reporters, the legal documents, and the royal invitations had been left behind at the gates of the valley.
In the small farmhouse kitchen, the oil lamps burned low and warm. Thomas Marlowe sat in his rocker by the hearth, polishing a pair of silver cufflinks that had belonged to Vivienne’s grandfather. Tobias lay on the braided rug before the fire, sound asleep with his cheek resting against the flank of an old sheepdog.
Vivienne sat at the scrubbed pine table, wearing a simple white linen nightshirt. Before her lay her dress—not a magnificent creation of London lace, but a gown of cream silk woven by the local village weavers, embroidered around the collar and cuffs with delicate silver thread in the pattern of willow leaves and river fern.
A soft knock sounded on the back door.
Vivienne stood up, pulling a wool shawl around her shoulders, and opened the latch.
Alaric stood on the porch under the starry summer sky. He wore no coat, no cravat—only a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In his hands, he carried a small, oblong box made of dark, polished oak.
"You shouldn't be here," Vivienne whispered, a gentle smile touching her lips as she stepped out onto the cool wooden porch. "The rector said it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the church bell rings."
"The rector doesn't know how many miles I’ve ridden down this road in the dark," Alaric replied softly, his gray eyes shining in the moonlight.
He stepped close to her, setting the oak box down on the porch railing.
"I brought you something," he said. "It isn't a crown. It isn't the Ashcombe diamonds."
He opened the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a silver signet ring. But it was not carved with the aggressive, snarling wolf of the ancient Duke’s coat of arms. It showed a wolf standing peacefully beside a willow tree above a winding river.
"I had the jeweler in London melt down my father’s old crest," Alaric said, taking the small silver ring from the box. "He carved a new one. The Silver Wolf of Blackwood. It represents the day the river gave us back our lives, and the woman who taught me how to live mine."
Vivienne looked at the ring, her breath catching in her throat as a single, clear tear slipped down her cheek.
"Alaric..."
"I wrote thirty-seven letters, Vivienne," he whispered, taking her hand and sliding the silver ring onto her finger, where it fit perfectly against her skin. "And every one of them was a question. Tomorrow, when you walk down that aisle, you don't answer the Duke of Ashcombe. You answer the man who sat in your barn and learned how to be human."
May you like
Vivienne raised her hands, framing his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, feeling the warm, strong pulse beneath his skin.
"I answered you six months ago, Alaric," she whispered, leaning up to press her lips against his in a long, sweet, unconditional kiss that smelled of summer night and wild roses. "When I didn't let you jump into the weir alone."
