Ceara had never been one to dream of her nuptials or her future husband. Given that her betrothed had first been William, a feeble young man of no allure at all, and later Edward, a sly man with no regard for her, this was no surprise. Ceara had dreamed instead of a life of her own choosing, one in which she was unfettered by betrothals and obligations. That destiny might be available to her after she was widowed, perhaps. After being sworn to Edward, she had even imagined how she might ensure that she was widowed sooner rather than later. Her mother had spoken often of her love for her husband and Ceara’s father, as well as of her hope that Ceara should also know a great love. For years, Ceara had assumed that to be impossible.
And yet she stood, her hands clasped in Rafael’s strong grip
