Make You Mine

by Macy Beckett

  “And do ye know of any cause that might impede this solemnization?”

  Devyn shook her head. “No, I do not.” She grinned at Allie and placed a kiss on her cheek before resuming her place beside Lady Guinevere.

  “Then let us begin,” declared the king. “Marc Gerard Dumont, wilt thou take Allison Catrine to be thy lawfully wedded wife? Wilt thou love and honor her in sickness and in health, keeping only to her for as long as ye both shall live?”

  Marc took her free hand and gazed at her with so much love, it brought a fresh set of tears to her eyes. In that breath, Allie knew he was right when he’d said this wedding was a hundred years overdue. It felt like every step she’d ever taken had led her to this moment.

  “I will.”

  The king nodded sagely and turned to her. “Allison Catrine, wilt thou have Marc to be thy lawfully wedded husband? Wilt thou serve and obey him in all—”

  “Excuse me?” Allie asked over Marc’s snickering. Serve and obey? They were taking this “Middle Ages” thing a little too far.

  “Ah,” King Arthur said. “I see thou art a modern wench, Allison Catrine. I shall adjust thy vows accordingly.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said with a bow of her head.

  “In times of feast and famine, wilt thou love, honor, and cleave to him for as long as ye both shall live?”

  Now that she could do. “I will.”

  Lady Guinevere handed the king the simple gold bands Marc and Allie had purchased from the adjoining shop just minutes ago. Arthur explained the symbolism of the rings and handed the smallest one to Marc, with instructions to place it on Allie’s finger.

  “With this ring,” Marc said, sliding on the band with a sure and steady hand, “I thee wed, and pledge to thee my troth.”

  Next it was Allie’s turn. “With this ring I thee wed. And with my body and soul, I honor thee, for all the days of my life.” The sight of the polished band standing in contrast against Marc’s tanned skin filled Allie with so much joy she feared she might burst. He squeezed her fingers and gave her a smile that reflected all the love in her heart. There, wearing her bikini and tacky borrowed veil, she’d never felt more like a princess.

  King Arthur took their joined hands between both of his and raised them high in the air. “What God and the great state of Nevada hath joined together, let no man put asunder. I now proclaim that Marc and Allison are husband and wife. May their union be long, fruitful, and filled with merriment!”

  The wedding party’s applause was followed by the recorded music of lutes and tambourines playing through speakers in the ceiling. As soon as the king released their hands, Marc took Allie’s face between his palms and kissed her, slow and sweet.

  “I love you, Mrs. Dumont,” he whispered against her lips.

  “I love you, too.” She held him close and tried to make room inside her for this newfound happiness. “I can’t believe we’re really married.”

  “Me neither.” Marc admired his ring and then hers. “I think we should lock ourselves inside our suite until it starts to feel real—even if it takes all month.”

  “Let’s get a picture first,” she said. “Then I’m yours.”

  They posed for the digital camera, and minutes later, Guinevere brought their souvenir photo tucked inside a cardboard sleeve titled YE OLDE WEDDING MEMORIES.

  Together, they laughed at their portrait—Allie’s wild curls barely contained by the sunglasses pushed atop her head, her nose sunburned, a line of deep cleavage spilling from her bikini top. Marc’s eye was swollen and blackened to a sickly shade of purple, his bow tie askew, and his shirt rumpled. But they were smiling like they’d won the lottery.

  And in a way, they had.

  “Not the most traditional wedding,” Marc said, “but I’ve never seen a happier groom.”

  “Or a more dashing one.” Gently, she touched the edge of his swollen eye. “There’s nothing sexier than a man willing to fight for his fair maiden. Does it hurt?”

  A soft grin lifted one corner of his lips as he took her hand and kissed it. “Sugar, a grand piano could fall on me right now and I wouldn’t notice a thing.”

  For Allie it was the opposite—she was so filled with joy that it almost hurt to breathe. Every cell in her body called out to Marc in need for closeness, to feel him inside and above and all around her. She rose onto her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Take your new wife upstairs. This honeymoon’s a hundred years overdue, remember?”

  She didn’t need to ask him twice. After a round of quick good-byes to the wedding party and a hug for Devyn, Marc scooped Allie into his arms and carried her over every threshold all the way to his suite on the seventeenth floor—which turned out to be right across the hall from hers.

  What were the odds of that?

  Allie pulled the key card from his jacket pocket and unlocked the door, smiling when she spotted a bottle of champagne chilling on ice and enough red roses to fill the room with a rich floral scent. Someone had even folded a set of towels on the bed into the shape of swans and arranged their necks to form a heart.

  “When did you plan all this?” she asked.

  “Yesterday, when I checked in.” Marc shrugged. “I had faith in this honeymoon.”

  With the greatest care, he placed Allie on the king-sized bed, then swept aside those adorable swans and kicked off his shoes. After shucking his tuxedo jacket to the floor and tugging off his bow tie, he knelt above Allie and took a moment to study her, shaking his head in reverence.

  “Have I told you how much I love you?” he asked.

  “I can stand to hear it again.”

  So he murmured it in a litany as he lowered himself onto her body and wrapped her in his warmth. Gradually, his gentle kisses grew possessive, and Allie’s fingers worked the buttons on his shirt in desperation to get closer. Their mouths never parted as they clumsily peeled off tops and pants, socks and flip-flops. They’d made love before, but this was different—each caress and nibble lingered as if they had all the time in the world.

  Because they did.

  Finally skin to skin, they moved beneath the covers, where Marc slipped inside her, hot and hard and completely bare. They gasped at the brand-new sensation of smooth flesh gliding against wet heat. Just when Allie thought making love with Marc couldn’t feel any better, he surprised her with something as simple as bare contact.

  Her pleasure heightened by unencumbered friction, she fought to last longer than a few moments, but it was no use. He was too good. She came for him quickly, then again with him while he clasped their left hands together, their gold bands clinking against each other as their gazes held and made them one soul.

  Allie had never cried during sex, but this was so much more than the joining of two bodies. Marc had taken everything from her while giving all of himself, and the experience overwhelmed her. Their connection was so primal and beautiful that she couldn’t contain her emotions—they leaked from the corners of her eyes and dripped onto the pillow. Marc held her face between his palms and brushed away each droplet, replacing it with a kiss.

  When the tears stopped, Marc rolled to the side and pulled her firmly against the safety of his chest, wrapping an arm around her while using his free hand to stroke her curls. She traced circles against his skin, smiling when her touch raised chills to the surface of his flesh.

  “Love you,” he said for what seemed like the hundredth time, not that Allie was complaining.

  “Love you more.”

  His chest shook with quiet laughter. “Give me a minute to recover and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  She used her fingertips to graze his nipple, then moved lower to brush his lower belly. “Challenge accepted.” Through the sheet, she could see him hardening again, and it brought a grin to her lips.

  She filled her lungs with the masculine scent of her husband and li
fted her left hand to admire the rings that proved they were married. She had a feeling she’d have to keep gazing at them to reassure herself this wasn’t a dream.

  He must have felt the same, because Marc glanced at his own ring. Then he said something that caught her off guard. “I wonder if the curse is broken for my whole family, or just for me.”

  Allie pushed up on one elbow and peered down at him to gauge his expression. He wasn’t kidding. “You’re serious?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Marc,” she said with a smile in her voice, “you’re not hexed. You never were.” She’d explained that to him at the cemetery. “It’s psychology that kept the men in your family from getting married, not voodoo.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Believe what you want, but I know what really happened.”

  Just as she geared up to argue with him, she noticed something amiss. Marc’s fleur-de-lis tattoo stood in dark contrast to the skin on his muscled arm, but the wine-colored splash above his heart was gone—the mark all the men in his family had carried since birth.

  She leaned in to get a closer look and scrubbed a hand over his chest. “Your birthmark,” she said, still scanning his torso. “Did you have it lasered off or something?”

  “What?” He glanced down and examined the smooth patch of skin where the blotch used to be. “No, I haven’t messed with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Honey, I think I’d remember if someone sandblasted off my birthmark.”

  “Then where’d it go? It was there a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Exactly.” He smiled smugly. “Before we broke the curse.”

  “Oh, come on.” But even as she needled him, she couldn’t help wondering if the two were somehow related. It was a bit coincidental. She bit her lip and stared at his chest, wondering if his brothers still bore the mark above their hearts. “It’s probably a temporary fluke.”

  Chuckling, Marc rolled her onto her back and pressed her into the mattress with his solid weight. “Married less than an hour, and we’re already having our first argument.” When she began to object, he silenced her with a kiss and used a knee to part her thighs. “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Hex or no hex, we get to do this for the rest of our lives.”

  “Mmm.” He had a point—and this felt awfully good. Allie tugged on his shoulders while wrapping a leg around his hips. “Who spends their honeymoon talking, anyway?”

  “Sad, misguided fools, that’s who.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “So why are we still talking?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.” He buried his face at the crook of her neck and nibbled her speechless. One final thought drifted through Allie’s mind before she sank into oblivion. . . .

  Voodoo or not, we’ll make our own magic.

  Epilogue

  “Hey, Cap’n?” Alex and Nicky set down the keg they were hauling, narrowly avoiding the tips of their bare toes, the idiots. Everyone knew you didn’t wear flip-flops for heavy lifting. Simultaneously, they asked, “Where do you want this?”

  Marc nodded toward the side deck rail. “Over there, next to the rocking chairs. Make sure you keep it in the shade this time. Warm beer’s a crime against nature.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Boss.

  He used to like the sound of that, but the responsibilities of managing the Belle had kept him from fully enjoying his first few weeks as a newlywed. The twins had given him nothing but hell since he’d returned from Vegas. They’d lost another jazz singer, thanks to Nicky, and this morning Alex had been too busy trailing after Ella-Claire to run payroll on time. Now the checks would be a day late, which meant fielding interference for a pissed-off staff. Additionally, there were repairs to schedule and kinks to work out before the next trip. He just wanted to spend some time with his wife.

  Wife.

  Marc smiled. He definitely liked the sound of that.

  He needed a managing partner to share the workload, and he half wondered if Beau was the man for the job. They butted heads once in a while, but Beau knew how to run a tight ship. Marc covertly watched his big brother as he supervised the workers setting up for Allie’s surprise wedding reception.

  Beau pointed to the banner hanging from the midlevel deck. “Straighten that sign,” he hollered. “The end is wrinkled, so it looks like Congratulations, Marc and Al. I don’t want to give folks the wrong idea about my little brother’s sexual orientation.”

  From the other side of the deck, Marc laughed appreciatively. Good to know someone was looking out for him.

  After Beau checked the buffet warmers, he joined Marc and clapped him on the back. “How long until crunch time?”

  Marc checked his watch, noting he had thirty minutes before Devyn lured Allie to the boat under the pretense of taking inventory in the galley. “Not long enough.”

  “What can I do?”

  Marc nodded at the buffet table. “What you do best—get the burgers on the line.” He delivered a good-natured smack to his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Beau said. “Hell, for the first time in a hundred years, one of us finally tied the knot. If that’s not a damned fine reason to tap a few kegs and fire up the grill, I don’t know what is.”

  Marc couldn’t agree more. His new bride had insisted she didn’t need a party, but he wanted her to have a proper reception. He’d even hired a photographer and ordered a wedding cake that Devyn and the Sweet Spot crew had baked on the sly. Now he had to help the deejay set up and see to the decorations, which still weren’t finished.

  He needed Ella-Claire, his Chief Party Planner. Where was that girl?

  It didn’t take long to spot her—all he had to do was find Alex, who’d already abandoned his keg duties. Like two halves of a peanut butter and honey sandwich, Marc could always find the duo stuck together. Arms linked, the pair leaned against the side wall, smiling while scrolling through pictures on Ella’s phone. Their bodies pressed a little too close; their gazes held a little too long to fool him into believing it was platonic.

  Best friends, his ass.

  Marc took a calming breath while stalking toward the two, determined not to blow a fuse and ruin his mood for Allie’s big day. “Hey,” he called, making them jump. He crooked a finger at Alex. “Come help the deejay while Ella tends to the decorations.”

  Alex must have sensed he was in trouble, because he kept a safe distance while they made their way to the dance floor. Before they got there, Marc spun on his little brother and brought him to a clumsy halt.

  “I don’t know what’s up with you and Ella-Claire,” Mark said. “But if you want to keep your walnuts, you’d better back off.”

  Alex’s blond brows shot up while his eyes widened in denial. “It’s noth—”

  “Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” Marc interrupted. “Just steer clear of my sister.” He shot Alex a pointed look. “We clear?”

  Alex’s fair cheeks began to redden. “Crystal.” He crouched down, turning his attention to the tangle of cords and wires at their feet, before flagrantly changing the subject. “Did you talk Pawpaw into coming?”

  Right on cue, the old man shuffled up the bow ramp, holding a tattered paper bag, which he deposited onto the gift table with a clatter. Probably his usual wedding present: a bottle of homebrewed shine, “guaranteed to make any marriage bearable,” as he’d often said.

  Pawpaw wore a scowl, but at least he’d dragged his crotchety ass down here to support his new granddaughter-in-law. A few minutes later, Worm loped aboard right ahead of Daddy and his flavor of the month, a thirtysomething brunette whose belly was round with the sixth Dumont brother.

  The gang was all here—one big, dysfunctional family.

  When Devyn brought Allie to the dock, Marc met her on the bow ramp and carried her ab
oard. She laughed and gave him a questioning glance that turned to shock when everyone shouted, “Congratulations!”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “What any decent husband would do,” he told her. “Made sure we get our first dance.” He led her to the center deck and held her close while the deejay played Bonnie Tyler’s cover of “I Put a Spell on You.” When the music ended, Marc whispered, “There. Now we have a song.”

  Allie’s adoring smile sent a wave of pleasure washing over him, worth every second of effort he’d invested. “You’re too good to me.”

  “Don’t speak so soon,” he teased. “It’s time to meet the rest of my family.”

  After introducing his wife to every Dumont in Louisiana, Marc stole her away to the side deck rocking chairs and pulled her into his lap, where she curled up and rested her pretty head on his shoulder. Marc figured life didn’t get any better than this.

  Their location didn’t remain private for long, probably because they’d settled too near the kegs. Beau lumbered forward, red Solo cup in hand. “Congrats, brother,” he said. “Never thought I’d say this, but marriage suits you.”

  “Thanks.” Marc nodded at the keg in a silent request. “Never thought I’d agree with you, but you’re right. Allie’s made me a lucky man.”

  She kissed his neck. “You’re welcome.”

  “Let me get you a beer,” Beau said. “Want one, Allie?”

  “I’ll just share his.”

  Beau cocked an eyebrow. He must have recalled that Marc never shared his drinks. “She gets a pass,” Marc said.

  With a shrug, Beau leaned down to reach the keg and began filling a cup. The foam quickly rose to the surface, then spilled over the top, pooling onto the deck.

  “Dude,” Marc called. “That cup’s not getting any fuller.”

  Beau glanced at his hand to find it covered in suds. He swore under his breath and passed the drink to Marc while wiping his fingers on his T-shirt, then went back to staring at something in the distance.