The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (62 page)

Gingerly he lowered her gown over her shoulders, exposing her breasts. He paused to look at her, smiling with satisfaction. “
Beautiful
,” he murmured, gazing upon her as he removed his own silk pants, revealing the startling beauty of his own physique.

Then he took both hands and gently pushed her breasts together, reveling in the fullness. Even as he suckled her, he gently massaged her lower body with his manliness, caressing and arousing her.

“
Alejandro
,” she whispered breathlessly.

She moved her body with him, longing for him, not understanding these new sensations.

As every exposed and unexposed surface tingled, each new touch sending a rush of pleasure through her body, there could be no doubt left in her mind that he was skilled in lovemaking.

But this was not what thrilled her. She knew with each touch that it was not a mechanical exercise for him:
he saw her
. He was with her.
He loved her
. And, most surprising of all, he
trusted
her.

She could feel his heart beating faster and his body hardening as he bent over her, both of them sinking into the feather mattress. There would be time for leisurely lovemaking for the rest of her life. For now, she wanted him, and with no further delays. She stroked him, and he moaned.

“No, Nicolette, not yet,” he barely managed.

“
Now
,” she commanded in a whisper. She stroked him again, gingerly running her finger along the tip of his shaft. He groaned, and she put both hands on his face and brought him to her, kissing him deeply.

As they kissed, he entered her slowly. She winced, and he began to withdraw. She put her hands on his hips and pushed him toward her with force, gasping.

“Nicolette,” he whispered, “are you ready?”

“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed.

He increased his pace to match her need and his own. A wave of pleasure washed over her, he shook, and, in that moment, she felt the supreme satisfaction of knowing that she was Alejandro’s wife. She was sure that she had never before known such pure bliss.

Chapter Forty-Seven

He who wanders this street

Full of hardship, becomes clean

Through fire, water, air, and earth

If he the terror of Death can overcome

He vaults from the earth heavenward

Illuminated

—Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart,
The Magic Flute

He was on a galleon sailing ship on a moonlit night, alone on the starboard deck. Two enormous masts extended from the center of the ship, both flowing in syncopation with the waves, threatening to fly free. Ropes, pulleys, and ladders attached various parts of the masts to the deck below, fighting their apparent desire to free themselves and swirl up to the heavens. It was their constant fight that propelled the ship forward, that perfect balance between subjugation and struggle.

It took both hands to hold himself onto the railing. His eyes rested on the elaborate shield emblem of the Spanish Armada on the sails of the frontal mast. The Spanish flag was a constant red and yellow flash across the skies, the Pillars of Hercules somehow seeming to stand still. Ornate crosses were boldly embroidered on the sails of the center mast in gold, three crosses, one above the other, moving in a waving motion.

With the rising waves, he felt salt water splash on his face just before an instant calm fell over the entire ship. He saw that he had a mop in his hands and that he had been swabbing the deck.

He smiled to himself. He was the lowest rank on the ship, and that knowledge pleased him rather than saddened him. He resumed his duties. Suddenly it was calm, so quiet one could have heard the twinkle of the stars, and there was a full moon. He was happy to work alone into the night.

Without warning, the sky opened up. The Virgin Mary floated down toward him, holding out her arms to him, her white robes flowing about her. The light surrounding her filled the entire deck. When she reached him she took his hand and led him to a door on the ship. The light engulfed him, and he felt peace and love wash over him as if he had been submerged in water.

She opened the door and began to walk down the steps below the deck, her robe trailing behind her like a bridal train. He started to follow, and she shook her head, motioning to him to stand guard at the door.

But somehow he knew what she was doing. Carrying a torchlight, she went below, a radiant love emanating from her even from this distance. She found the eight-year-old, the fifteen-year-old, and all of the wounded ages of his life. She laid healing hands on each, embracing them, holding them, consoling them, listening to them as long as they wished to talk, rocking them when they no longer wished to speak. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She understood. She cared. She called upon God the Father, asking for His healing.

He could not see everything that was being done, and yet he knew that he did not need to. Much of the healing was beneath the surface and without his present involvement. Nothing was lost, but, little by little, all was reawakened and transformed. Some feelings and memories she asked him to see. Others floated to the surface and escaped to sea without visibility.

She returned to the deck and closed the door, sealing it with light, the entrance to his deepest pain guarded and protected by God’s own light, a door that now only God could open.

In an instant the light turned to music. What had been complete quiet before, except for the soothing sound of the waves of the sea, became heavenly music drifting from below and above.

Without knowing how he had gotten there, he was now the captain of the ship, steering the wheel. He found that the mop was gone, and he wore a captain’s hat. The light, now interchangeable with the music, went ahead of him, leading him.

Awaking from his dream, he looked about him, the darkness in stark contrast to his dream. He felt strangely calm. It had seemed vividly real.

And then he heard his wife breathing beside him, her head resting on his chest. His
wife
. His beautiful queen.

Maybe it was true. Maybe the healing was occurring without his awareness.

And maybe God met him wherever he was. An imperfect man who had been stuck and was now free to live.

Chapter Forty-Eight

But she seems happy here in this

Charming place,

Where she forgets everything for me.

With her beside me, I feel myself reborn,

Revived by the breath of love,

Forgetting the past in present delights.

—Giuseppe Verdi,
La traviata

It is the greatest wedding gift I could have received
. Luxuriating in the Palace of La Granja, with extensive grounds and stunning views, Nicolette found comfort and pleasure in the exclusive attentions of her husband. She had often before known Alejandro to be preoccupied with other matters at the same time he was speaking to her, so to feel that he was completely present with her was indeed all that she might have wished for.

The newly married royal couple enjoyed an intimate four-week honeymoon at La Granja in San Ildefonso, a town in central Spain, high in the Castilian Mountains. Roaming the fifteen hundred acres of gardens daily, they took boat rides and picnics, rode horses, danced, enjoyed much music, and had romantic starlit dinners. In a further attempt to replace the memory of her wedding day, Alejandro arranged a private ceremony among La Granja’s hanging vines and blooming flowers.

I will forever remember La Granja as the location of my wedding and the celebration of our love
.

All of La Granja’s twenty-six fountains of varying altitudes cascaded, gurgled, and splashed on the day of the ceremony. Damascus roses hanging overhead, Nicolette and Alejandro reenacted their wedding in front of lake El Mar at the highest point of the park.

“The Damascus rose was brought to España many centuries ago and cultivated in the region of Castile, where it is known as the Rose of Castile. It has enormous significance to Spaniards,” Alejandro had explained when they walked in the garden some days earlier. He had pointed with his eyes to the enormous roses glistening with dew, only inches from their faces. He brushed the rose’s petals along her cheek before placing it in her hand. “Our Lady of Guadalupe, as we call the Virgin Mary, appeared to a poor Aztec Indian named Juan Diego in 1531 in Mexico.”

“Ah, the holy mother chose a poor native to receive her message rather than the king?”

“This surprises you, my love?” Alejandro had laughed. “The king is the servant of the people, nothing more. And yet, sometimes…” He kissed her cheek lightly.

“Sometimes?” She smiled up at him.

“Sometimes God sends an angel to the king.”

As she returned to the present, smelling the roses surrounding her, she did indeed feel spring had been created out of the midst of winter. She felt her soul learning to cope with the wound that had been inflicted, surrounded by scent and joy and
love
.

She wore a simple gown of white lace and carried pink roses. They repeated their vows with only their friends and loved ones present, still comprising a fairly sizeable party between Nicolette’s family and Alejandro’s numerous loyal friends made over the course of his life and his school years.

It was becoming quite clear that anyone who had had dealings with Alejandro exhibited a fierce loyalty toward him. She soon learned that the king had never used his elevated status to benefit himself, far preferring to receive the same treatment as everyone else, but he had often come to the aid of a friend.

The ceremony closed with Alejandro giving Nicolette thirteen gold coins in a small purse, representing Christ and his apostles while also signifying a pledge by the groom to support his bride. As Nicolette smiled into the eyes of her husband, she knew that she would live every day and love every day, however long her life might be.

“Where are you taking me, Alejandro?” she whispered as he led her by the hand.

“It is time to celebrate, dearest, with food, music, dancing.” He squeezed her hand as he led her to several tables of food situated in front of a lovely, sparkling fountain.

“The scents are divine!” she exclaimed. Before her was an exquisite dinner of grilled fish and Castilian lamb, Spanish tapas, chorizo sausage with pumpkin and squash, avocado tostados, olives, and her favorite bread, the most delicious she had ever eaten.

“Alejandro, is this the
wedding cake
?” she asked, astonished. Situated on its own table was the most colorful and extravagant cake she had ever seen.

“It is quite simple,
mi cielito
,” he replied, shrugging. “It is merely a sponge cake with fruits and almonds.”

“Even a piñata!” Suddenly alarm shook her. “Who is that strange man trying to hit the piñata? He isn’t even blindfolded, and he can’t manage it! Is he
drunk
?”

“Oh, no.” Alejandro chuckled. “He is not drunk. That is le comte de Saint-Cyr.”

“He looks ridiculous swinging at that dressed like a peacock! Why is he doing that?”

“He likes candy,” Alejandro replied with a shrug. “Never fear. Valentinois will make short work of it for him. Unless that young señorita headed toward them manages to distract le duc.”

“Oh,
my
. I find it difficult to believe that the duke of Valentinois would rather swing at a piñata than attend to the gorgeous señorita who is lifting her ruffled skirt just enough to reveal a lovely ankle as she walks.”