by Mary Balogh
Susanna looked at Peter. He was smiling back at her.
“Come here,” he said softly.
“Why?” She smiled too.
“Because I say so,” he said, “and you are my wife.”
His eyes danced with merriment.
“Indeed?” she said, and stayed where she was.
He sighed out loud and moved across the seat toward her.
“There goes my dream of a docile wife and a happily-ever-after,” he said, setting his arms about her and drawing her very firmly against him so that her hands were splayed against his chest. “I suppose you are going to make me fight dragons for the rest of my life?”
“Every day,” she assured him.
His eyes laughed into hers, and hers laughed back.
“May I kiss you, then, Lady Whitleaf?” he asked.
“I thought,” she said, “you would never ask.”
But her laughter was cut off when his mouth covered hers.
And joy became more joyful.
How could an absolute be improved upon?
It was definitely not a problem to be pondered today.
Susanna wrapped one arm about her new husband’s neck and kissed him with all the ardor in her soul.
They could still hear the church bells pealing in the village behind them.
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