Caitlin had found talking with Lucilla and Niniver, both of whom had been born and had grown up mere miles south of Benbeoch Manor, hugely reassuring and distinctly heartening.
And to remind Caitlin of Scotland, Marcus and Niniver had brought two Scottish wolfhound puppies as a wedding gift. Both hounds had instantly attached themselves to Caitlin and taken to following her everywhere—which after the incident with Ecton, Gregory found reassuring—but at night, when she retreated to Gregory’s room and shut the door on the dogs, the pair had quickly and utterly shamelessly found their way to the kitchens and made a place for themselves by Nessie’s hearth.
Now, with the wedding breakfast in full swing, the pups had been banished to the stable. Niniver had declared that the presence of far too many enticing dishes, all within hound reach, would be unfair temptation to the young dogs, so after cavorting about the lawns while the staff and all those on the estate had lined the forecourt and nearer reaches of the drive to welcome Gregory and Caitlin, now man and wife, to their future home, the pups had been dispatched to the stable in the arms of two grinning stablemen.
The wedding feast had followed, the dishes an unexpected blend of English and Scottish fare. Julia, Joshua, and Nessie had done their homework—and had consulted Therese and, through her, Lucilla and Niniver—and the result had been spectacular.
Once the platters were emptied and the desserts were served only to vanish, the speeches began. Caitlin had never laughed so hard in her life—nor been so irresistibly moved to tears by her uncle’s poignant address, which had touched on her parents’ hopes for her and her bravery, in his eyes, in finding her own way.
After the last speech—Gregory’s thanks on behalf of them both to all who had come and contributed to their wonderful day—the musicians started playing, with English and Scottish blending seamlessly in waltzes, polkas, jigs, and country reels.
Everyone—literally everyone, even Gregory’s grandmama—was captured by the evocative beat, and if feet weren’t flying in the dance, they were tapping on the floor.
Unable to stop smiling, Caitlin danced the wedding waltz with Gregory, then she was swept into a jig by Rory. From his arms, she was drawn into a country dance by Gregory’s older brother, Christopher, then Hamish reclaimed her for the Scottish side. And so it went on—one partner English, the next Scottish. Laughing, she gave herself up to the moment and the music and her enthusiastic partners.
Gregory watched his wife—his at last and forever to be so—go down a reel with Morgan.
Gregory, too, couldn’t stop smiling. The day—their special day—truly had been perfect.
“Well!” Martin appeared by his side and nodded to the throng of whirling dancers. “This has been quite a show.”
Gregory arched a brow. “Have you enjoyed yourself?”
Martin looked faintly surprised. “I have, as it happens.”
Gregory shifted to face him. “Before I forget, I owe you our thanks for learning what you did about Ecton. No one else had managed to unearth even a hint, and without the insight you provided, I might not have instantly leapt to the conclusion that Caitlin’s kidnapper was him, and of course, time was of the essence in rescuing her.”
Martin flashed him a grin. “Pleased to have been able to help.” He glanced at the dancers, locating Caitlin. “She’s a lovely lady. You’ve chosen well.”
“So I think.”
“Well!” A hand landed on Gregory’s shoulder, and Christopher halted beside him. “It’s done now—you’re a staid married man.”
“Indeed.” Devlin, Therese’s husband, came up on Christopher’s other side. He nodded to Martin and gestured to the dancers. “This has been remarkably uplifting. There’s something about such uninhibited exhibitions of energy that sets the blood flowing. Judging by comments made by our better halves, this wedding breakfast has set a high bar for the future.”
“Hmm.” Christopher looked over the heads. “Speaking of the future, I wonder who among the Cynsters will be next?”
Gregory glanced at Martin; his younger brother, too, was scanning the dancers, apparently certain the answer would be one of them.
Devlin, however, was looking at Martin, and after making a show of surveying the crowd, Christopher, too, brought his gaze back to rest on Martin.
Eventually feeling the weight of their combined gazes, Martin glanced their way, then laughed and shook his head. “No point looking at me. That, I can promise. I’m far too busy building my empire to spare time to look about me for a wife.”
Devlin grinned. “Just so you know, that’s not how it works.”
“No, indeed.” Christopher nodded. “Fate has a habit of working to her own agenda.”
Martin made a scoffing sound. “Whoever’s next, I can promise it won’t be me. At least at present, I’m firmly in charge of my own destiny, and I can assure you that while I have nothing against the institution of marriage, for the foreseeable future, there is no space in my life for a wife.” He shifted. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a word with Jason—I’m driving him back to London tonight.”
With a salute to the three of them, Martin walked off.
Gregory, Christopher, and Devlin watched him go.
“To my ears,” Christopher said, “that sounded awfully like a challenge.”
Devlin shook his head. “Tossing down gauntlets at Fate’s feet is never a wise idea.”
“No, indeed.” His gaze on Martin’s back, Gregory smiled. “But he’ll learn. That said, he’s right—whichever Cynster falls next, it won’t be him. He, Jason, Toby, and that crew have years to go yet before they reach the restless stage where men like us start to think of marriage.”
