little underdressed.’
‘You’ll do just as you are,’ Bronte insisted. Opening the box, she gasped. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You have?’
‘You’re definitely underdressed. You should be wearing running gear—no way am I giving this back.’ Removing a ruby the size of a plum surrounded with fabulous brilliant cut diamonds, she allowed Heath to place it on her wedding finger.
‘Do you like it?’ His eyes were dancing with laughter. ‘I realise it’s a little bold for someone who lifts hay bales for a living.’
‘I’ll get round it,’ Bronte promised dryly. ‘But, seriously, Heath, you didn’t need to buy me anything—a piece of cord would do the job just as well.’
‘Would you settle for a tent instead of Hebers Ghyll?’
Bronte laughed as Heath drew her into his arms. ‘Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?’
THE wedding was held in the newly renovated Great Hall at Hebers Ghyll a couple of days before Christmas. There was snow on the ground and a great spruce tree stood sentry outside the doors. Decorated with lights and stars and shimmering ribbons, it gave just a hint of the glorious scene inside. The log fire was blazing, and the hall was filled with workmates and friends, Bronte’s family and just about everyone from the village. They turned expectantly as she reached the door, but all Bronte could see was Heath, looking like some latter-day Mr Darcy—though much better looking, she thought as the breath caught in her throat. There was a touch of Heathcliff about him too—all that darkly glittering glamour. Heath’s hair was just as thick and black and as unruly as ever, though she knew he would have tried to tame it, just as he would have tried to shave so his face remained smooth for longer than five minutes. Both attempts had failed, she was pleased to see, though his tail suit was magnificent and skimmed his powerful frame with loving attention to detail. He must have gone to Quentin’s tailor, she guessed as Heath’s groomsmen took their place at Heath’s side. Not even Quentin had dared to argue when Heath had named Quentin his best man.
The vast, welcoming space was decorated with Christmas flowers—spray roses, aptly named warm heart, crimson hypericum and frosted twigs, vivid gerberas and frowzy amaranthus, and the room was lit by candlelight, which gave the burnished wood panelling an umber glow. The scent of pine and wood smoke in the great stone hearth was such a wonderfully evocative smell, and as Bronte walked in on her father’s arm and saw everyone who had helped to make this possible wishing them well she felt she were being carried along on a wave of goodwill.
She had found her dream wedding dress in the city—a simple fall of cream chiffon that floated as she walked, it was cut straight across her breasts and the delicate fabric was swathed and draped over a boned bodice. The gauzy skirt was drawn up on one side over a matt silk Dupion underskirt and had been formed into a delicate camellia on the hip.
Quentin, who had appointed himself wedding-advisor-in-chief, had all but swooned when Bronte had come out of the dressing room wearing this one. ‘Perfect,’ he’d said. ‘We need look no further.’ And then he had gusted with relief, because it had taken a solid week of looking for something that wouldn’t be too grand, as Bronte put it, but wouldn’t look as if she could cut it down to wear with flip-flops and toe rings either.
She had finally, after much argument, given way to Quentin over the veil. She hadn’t wanted to wear one, but Quentin had insisted, and so she was wearing a floating three-tiered confection composed of creamy cobwebby net, dusted with the tiniest sparkling diamanté that fell into a long, floating train behind her. Even Bronte had been amazed at how feminine it made her look.
‘Tiaras and tattoos?’ she had said, laughing when Quentin had agreed she could wear one toe ring.
‘Heath wouldn’t want you completely changed,’ Quentin observed, adding a discreet band of crystals to Bronte’s hair while he distracted her.
‘Quentin, you’re wicked,’ she had exclaimed.
‘I had the best teacher,’ Quentin had informed her and they both knew who he meant.
So now she was walking down the aisle towards the man she loved, dressed by royal appointment—as Quentin insisted she must think of it—in the stratospherically high heels Quentin had chosen for her. ‘Heath is so much taller than you,’ he had pointed out. ‘And I refuse to listen if you start to argue with me.’
The one thing Bronte couldn’t argue about was Heath’s size. Heath was built on a heroic scale in every department, she thought happily, keeping those thoughts under wraps as she did her best to glide gracefully in front of her bridesmaids, Maisie and Colleen, both of whom were dressed in powder-pink Grecian-style gowns. She was trembling all over by the time she turned to pass her wedding bouquet to Colleen. Lush cream orchids with an intimate flash of purple at their core, the bouquet had been created to Heath’s design, and when her father put her hand in Heath’s Bronte was sure everyone must have heard her swift intake of breath. At this range he was even more devastating with his stubble-shaded face, and dark, slumberous eyes. The sweeping ebony brows and thick black hair curling rebelliously over the collar of his winged shirt gave him the appearance of some ruthless buccaneer who had sailed into this quiet harbour and taken it by storm—which was pretty much what had happened, Bronte reflected.
‘Okay?’ Heath whispered, heat and concern mingling in his eyes as he looked at her.
‘I am now,’ Bronte confirmed, meeting that fiery gaze. Now, if she could just concentrate on the ceremony and put the pleasures of their wedding night out of her mind, she might stand a chance of remembering what she was supposed to say and do.
And then Heath’s lips brushed her ear. ‘Good,’ he murmured, ‘because I’ve got plans for you …’
ANNE OLIVER was born in Adelaide, South Australia, and with its beautiful hills, beaches and easy lifestyle, she’s never left. An avid reader of romance, Anne began creating her own paranormal and time travel adventures in 1998 before turning to contemporary romance. Then it happened—she was accepted by Mills & Boon in December 2005. Almost as exciting: her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year for 2007 and 2008. So after nearly thirty years of yard duties and staff meetings, she gave up teaching to do what she loves most—writing full time.
Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. She’s traveled to Papua/New Guinea, the west coast of America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, the UK and Holland. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege and a dream come true.
You can visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com.
To everyday heroes
IT WASN’T the rumble of approaching thunder that woke Lissa Sanderson
