The Bride And The Mercenary. Harper Allen

hand wrapped around the shovel handle next to hers, his skin almost the same color as the oak, the white sliver of shirtcuff protruding from the somber gray of his suit sleeve a snowy contrast to the brown earth and the dull red fire of the roses. “It’s time to say goodbye, Lee. That’s really what this symbolizes.”

      “Oh, I don’t think so.” She gave him a startled look, shaking her head. “I’m not ready to do that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

      Her gaze clouded in confusion, and she let go of the shovel. Her gloved fingers touched her forehead. “Is this really happening, Paul? Do you think there’s any way this might be some kind of a bad dream?”

      The man watching her sighed heavily, a flicker of pain passing over his features. Instead of answering her, he leaned forward, plucked one of the blood-red roses from the arrangement on the polished mahogany lid in front of them, and handed it to her. Ainslie took it from him, her eyes wide.

      “Can you smell it?” he asked softly.

      She brought the flower up and took in a deep breath, her lashes drifting onto her cheekbones as she did so. Yes, she could smell it, Ainslie thought. The scent was intoxicating—wine and perfume and a lover’s kiss all swirled together in one heartbreakingly lovely scent. The cold petals felt like velvet against her lips.

      And then she knew. Her eyes flew open and met his.

      “But…but I loved him, Paul!” she whispered, her voice cracking in urgency. “You don’t understand—he can’t be gone! I can’t have lost him!”

      “You didn’t lose him.” The big man took the rose gently from her and handed it to the woman standing slightly behind them. He placed Ainslie’s hand back on the shovel. “You didn’t lose him, Lee. He’ll always be in your heart.”

      Unresistingly she let him slide the tip of the spade into the crumbling earth. When the two of them had lifted the shovel, he let his hand fall away. With a suddenly frightened glance at him she saw his encouraging nod, and slowly turned her attention back to the task in front of her.

      The silver blade held little more than a palmful of dirt, but that was enough to dull its shining surface. It was pretty, and delicately crafted, but in the end it was only a shovel, Ainslie realized. And Paul could say what he wanted about symbolism, but his words were just a comforting lie.

      There was nothing symbolic about what she was doing. She was filling in the grave of the man she loved.

      She straightened, her shoulders thrown back and her feet planted slightly apart for balance. She felt Paul’s hand on her arm and shrugged it off almost angrily. Bringing the shovel up, she held it over the lowered coffin and tipped it sideways.

      The clod of earth fell onto the polished lid with a terrible thudding sound. On the other side of her she heard the priest sigh and then begin intoning words she’d heard in movies and read in books, but that she’d never really listened to before.

      “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—”

      “He’s not in there, you know,” Ainslie said loudly. “I think I’ll go home and wait for him. Celeste, can I have my rose back, please?”

      She grabbed the flower from Paul’s startled wife, and began to push her way through the black-clad crowd. She took three determined steps.

      Then she fainted and Paul, darting forward, caught her.

      Chapter One

      “I look like a blob of pistachio fudge in this stupid dress, Aunt Lee. And when am I ever going to wear green satin shoes again in my life?”

      “Next St. Patrick’s Day?” Ainslie gave her fourteen-year-old adopted daughter an unsympathetic glance and looked out the limo window. “Jeez, it’s a real October breeze out there. I hope this darn crown thing stays on.”

      “It’s not a crown, it’s a headpiece,” muttered Tara, flopping back dramatically against the seat. Then she relented, peering at Ainslie through silky, for-this-occasion-only, mascaraed lashes. “Don’t worry, Aunt Lee, it’ll stay on. You look beautiful—the perfect bride.”

      “Please.” Ainslie’s voice was gruff. “I don’t feel any more comfortable in this getup than you do. Why I couldn’t have worn a simple suit and tied the knot at city hall, I don’t know.”

      “Because Pearson’s rich and stuffy and comes from one of Boston’s oldest families, maybe?” Tara looked immediately stricken. “Sorry. But he is an awful lot older than you, and he does seem to care about doing the right thing all the time. Doesn’t that bug you just a little?”

      Ainslie framed her answer carefully. “Sometimes, pumpkin. Just like sometimes I guess it bugs him that I still run the gym downtown and manage a couple of the boxers. But he loves me and he wants me to be happy, so he makes compromises. And I want him to be happy, so I compromised on this wedding.”

      “Compromised?” The teenager snorted. “What did he want originally, if this was the compromise?”

      Tara had a point, Ainslie thought. In a few minutes they would be pulling up in front of St. Margaret’s Cathedral. There would be a red carpet leading up the stone steps to the massive church doors, and police had apparently been hired to hold back the crowds of spectators that were expected.

      It was one notch down from a royal wedding, except for the bride, she told herself glumly.

      “I know you like Pearson well enough,” she said reasonably. “If anyone’s supposed to get cold feet at this point it’s me, not my bridesmaid, for heaven’s sake.”

      “I know.” Tara fiddled with the ribbons on her wrist. “But I’m worried you’re getting married to him mainly for my sake. You aren’t, are you, Auntie Lee?” She looked up at Ainslie, her smooth young features troubled. “Because if you are we could stop it right now. We could tell the driver to turn around and you could phone Uncle Sully at the church and—”

      “Sweetie, calm down!” With a little laugh, Ainslie leaned over and clasped both of Tara’s hands in hers. She met the suddenly brimming eyes with a mixture of love and concern on her features. “Of course I’m not getting married just for your sake. Where in the world did you get that idea?”

      “From Uncle Sully.” Tara’s flooded gaze widened in alarm and she hastened to elaborate. “Well, not exactly. I overheard him talking to Bailey about it. He said Pearson might be an old stick in the mud, but that your main concern was making sure I had a stable home and a father.”

      “Your uncle Sully has no idea what he’s talking about,” Ainslie said tartly. “Listen to me, pumpkin, and listen good. I’m marrying Pearson because I want to marry Pearson. In fact, you were the reason I didn’t accept his proposal when he first popped the question.”

      Tara looked dubiously at her, and she gave the girl’s hands a little shake. “Scout’s honor. I wanted to be sure you felt comfortable with this, too.”

      “I guess I do, really. It’s just that he tries so hard to be nice all the time—buying us presents, telling you there’s no need for you to keep working at the gym.” Tara stuck her bottom lip out stubbornly and suddenly she looked very young, despite the mascara. “What does he have against boxing anyway? He never comes to the ring.”

      “He’s old-fashioned enough to think that boxing’s a man’s sport—and even then he wouldn’t be caught dead at the fights.” Ainslie sighed. “I’m not going to make myself over into some society matron, if that’s what you’re worried about. We O’Connell females are a rough, tough breed, and Pearson knows that.” She slanted a quizzical gaze at Tara, and the outthrust lip curved into a reluctant smile.

      “I’m sorry, Aunt Ainslie. I didn’t mean to spoil your wedding day. I just wanted to be sure you were happy.”

      “I’m happy,” Ainslie replied promptly. “I’d be happier if I hadn’t let