by JoAnn Ross
She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “I hate to argue with the knight in shining armor who just saved my life a second time in as many days, but you’re wrong, Michael.” Her smile was wobbly, but warmed with the love that was echoed in her tear-brightened eyes. “It’s just beginning.”
Epilogue
IT WAS A HOT steamy day in the bayou. But none of the guests assembled for the wedding were complaining. The myriad members of his mother’s family—the strong Cajun branch of Michael’s family tree—had outdone themselves preparing a feast of spicy shrimp gumbo, jambalaya, crayfish, blackened catfish and grilled fillet of alligator with a tabasco sauce guaranteed to clear the sinuses.
Marsh gas glowed a phosphorous green as the sun settled into the water; sparks flew upward from the Broussard clan’s barbecues; fireflies flickered among the Spanish moss-draped branches of ancient Cypress trees, seeming almost to dance in time to the jaunty zydeco Michael’s cousins were playing to entertain guests prior to the evening ceremony.
“Well, I guess there’s no backing out now,” Roarke murmured to his older brother as they stood beneath the arbor of delicately fragrant wisteria and confederate jasmine.
Michael shot him a quick, warning look. “You’re not thinking of taking off again?” Of all the brothers, Roarke seemed to have inherited the strongest strain of their father’s wanderlust.
“Of course not,” Roarke answered. “I told you, I’ve hung up my rambling shoes for good.”
On cue, the toe-tapping strains of “The Lake Author Stomp” suddenly ceased. There was a strum of violin strings. And Roarke’s face split into a wide grin as Daria Shea began walking up the aisle between the rows of folding chairs.
Her dark hair had been pinned up in some fancy style Michael suspected probably had a name and made her whiskey-hued eyes appear wider than usual. Her work as a prosecutor required her to dress in neat little tailored suits, which made the white lacy froth of a wedding dress—the kind a fairy-tale princess might have worn—even more surprising. Watching his brother’s eyes darken with desire, Michael suspected that Roarke was not all that surprised by Daria’s hidden romantic streak.
There was another strum of chords and Michael felt Shayne, standing on the other side of him, stand up straighter.
“Don’t lock your knees,” he advised beneath his breath. “Or you’ll pass out.”
“I think I just may anyway,” Shayne admitted. “In fact, I’m afraid I’m having a heart attack.”
“Join the club,” Roarke said.
“Bliss is going to murder me if I die and leave her a widow before our wedding night”
“Geez,” Michael muttered. “What’s the matter with you two? After all you’ve both been through, this should be a piece of cake. It’s only a wedding. What’s the big deal?”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong...I love the idea of being married,” Shayne said. “It’s all this pomp and ceremony that’s so damn hard.... Damn, Bliss looks great though, doesn’t she?”
“Gorgeous,” Michael agreed.
It was true. Bliss Fortune’s bright red curls were fired by the gold of the setting sun and her eyes were the same hue as the lacy Spanish moss an artistic florist had incorporated into her tiger lily bouquet. Diamonds that Michael knew had once belonged to her mother flashed at her earlobes. Her dress was a mere slip of ivory satin, cut high on the thigh. If Shayne hadn’t already told him Bliss was carrying his child, Michael never would have known his landlady and about to be sister-in-law was pregnant.
He watched as she paused to hand her bouquet to her grandmother Zelda, who was sitting in the front row, beaming her pleasure beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat covered with blazing poppies.
Sitting next to Zelda were Mary and Patrick O’Malley. They were holding hands like young lovers and there’d been more than one time today Michael had witnessed their eyes meet in a way that hinted their reunion had been a success. Although he still couldn’t understand how a man could take off for years, ostensibly deserting a woman he claimed to love, Michael was too happy to harbor a grudge toward his father. Especially since it seemed as if he really was home for good.
And there was no doubting the fact that Michael’s mother hadn’t stopped smiling since her errant husband’s return. In fact, she was so happy Michael hadn’t seen any point in bringing up those long-ago letters. Everything had worked out in the end, which was, he reminded himself, the important thing.
As Bliss took Shayne’s hand, Michael’s gaze drifted from his parents to Lorelei’s. The Longstreets’ behavior had undergone a change since that fateful day at the plantation house. When he and Lorelei had returned to town, Maureen, embracing him as if he’d been her own long-lost son, had tearfully proclaimed him a hero. And the good doctor, although not as effusive, had professed his own gratitude for Michael having rescued “his little girl.”
Michael was relieved that the Longstreets had accepted him, after all these years. But the truth was, he could have lived with their antipathy, so long as Lorelei continued to love him. That was all that mattered.
There was a third strum of strings. And suddenly, Michael understood all too well what Roarke and Shayne were experiencing. His heart pounded painfully as Lorelei suddenly appeared, dressed in a deceptively simple calf-length white dress—cut on the bias, she’d told him, not that he’d understood the fashion term—that slid over her curves like a silk waterfall and brought to mind an ultraglamorous movie star from the forties.
She’d left her pale hair loose, as she knew he liked it, and forgoing a veil, had opted instead for a single white magnolia blossom pinned just above her ear.
“Close your mouth, big brother,” Shayne murmured, his voice thick with humor. “You’re going to catch fireflies.”
Michael slammed his jaws shut. But he continued to stare at the ethereal vision that seemed to be floating toward him.
Her eyes, shimmering with heartfelt emotion, didn’t move from his as she approached. Although her expression remained appropriately solemn, her lips were faintly curved in a private, secretive smile.
Although he’d never considered himself an even remotely romantic man, Michael knew he’d remember this day for the rest of his life. He was vaguely aware of his mother’s quiet weeping, of the priest’s calm voice, of his brothers repeating ancient vows.
As he heard Lorelei’s clear voice ringing out like a silver bell, saying words spoken countless times by countless couples over the centuries, Michael felt as if he were hearing them for the very first time.
He took her smooth hand in his and slipped the wide gold band on her finger, pledging to love, honor and cherish her, for all time. Never had he taken a promise so seriously.
Lorelei viewed the unwavering resolve in his midnight eyes as he repeated the solemn vows and knew that to Michael, they were much more than mere ceremonial words. He’d always been the most responsible, dependable man she’d ever known. And now, wondrously, he was hers.
Her mind drifted momentarily as she wondered idly whether she should add a final scene to her script that Eric had assured her was the first of many he planned to produce and direct with her. At first she’d feared a wedding scene might be unnecessarily mushy.
But now, as she basked in the warmth of her husband’s gaze and listened to the priest proclaim them man and wife, she decided that a romance was, by definition, mushy. So why should she deny her fictional heroine the ecstasy she was feeling?
“You may kiss your brides,” the priest announced.
“It’s about time,” Roarke muttered.
“Finally,” Shayne said at the same time. Both brothers had been forced to wait until Michael and Lorelei had repeated their vows.
As Michael touched his lips to Lorelei’s, warmth flowed through her, a warmth as timeless and unending as the ancient land surrounding them. Laughing with pleasure, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
“Hey,” Roarke interrupted after the kiss had gone on and o
n, “how about giving the rest of us a chance to kiss Hollywood’s newest screenwriter?”
There was a bit of maneuvering as all three O’Malley brides were thoroughly kissed by all the brothers to the delight of gathered guests.
Then, as a heron took to the sky nearby with a flurry of blue wings, the band broke into a juiced-up Cajun rendition of the familiar wedding recessional.
With joy singing in her veins, Lorelei put her hand in Michael’s. And together they walked back down the aisle into the blaze of a setting southern sun, toward their future.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-7114-2
MICHAEL: THE DEFENDER
Copyright © 1997 by JoAnn Ross.
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