The Dragon's Arranged Mate(3)

The entire hall had been full, just as it was now for our wedding. I sat  on the throne at the head of the room, with my mother at my side as the  Dowager Queen. She patted my hand in anticipation when the roar of the  crowds who were waiting outside alerted us to the arrival of Scotland's  royal family. There was much fanfare and to-do, as the Scottish are  known for (not that we Irish Celts are much different). Then, the crowds  parted. First came Anabelle's father, King Angus. We had met many times  in the past and greeted each other warmly. Then came his wife, Queen  Cordelia, whose beauty had me hopeful as to the countenance of my own  bride. I greeted her, and she and my mother embraced warmly; the two had  been friends in their youth, and were delighted that their children  would be joined in this union    .

Then, from the doorway at the far end of the hall, a figure approached.  She was lit from behind by bright sunlight, making it difficult for me  to get a good look at her. But then, as she approached slowly and became  clearer, my heart nearly stopped.         

     



 

The sunlight streaming through the windows on either side of the room  lit her hair until it turned to fire. Her fair skin shone like  moonlight, and as she drew closer I saw her deep emerald eyes blazing  with life and vitality. I was struck by the arrow of love, as my father  had described when he told me of his first meeting with my mother.

We had spent the last moon in the customary revelry and ceremony that  typically accompanied a marriage of two houses as powerful as ours.  There were endless feasts, games held in our honor, pageants, bonfires,  all manners and forms of entertainment and excitement.

As much as I enjoyed this, what I really wanted to do was find any  excuse to have a few moments alone with my betrothed. During our  heavily-chaperoned visits, she impressed me with her wit and charm. Her  flame-red hair reminded me so much of my father's, as did her easy,  ringing laugh. But while his laugh boomed and roared, hers was more like  the tinkling of silver bells. I was captivated, and looked for any  chance to hear that laugh again.

She also had a sharp mind; I could tell that, for a young woman in her  position, she had spent more time at her father's knee than she had  being instructed on how to embroider and play the lute and do the sorts  of things young ladies training to be queen are supposed to learn. Her  embroidery skills were still very fine; she had embroidered her bridal  gown, she informed me with inflamed cheeks and downcast eyes. But within  almost the same breath, she could discuss politics and the most  advantageous alliances to be formed between Ireland, Scotland and the  rest of the known world.

She was utterly enchanting. I could tell my mother was enchanted by her  as well; at one point, during some festivity or other, Rhiannon pulled  me aside and congratulated me on my intended bride. She then observed  that my future bride could very well be an enchantress, or at the very  least touched by the fae. I knew she wasn't serious … well, not entirely  serious. There was definitely something spellbinding about Anabelle, but  I had the sincere feeling that it was born of her innate inner beauty  and grace. Rare it is, indeed, for such a human to exist.

The human side of me responded to her beauty and charm … while the dragon  ached to possess her. I couldn't help noticing the curve of her hips and  backside, and the gentle swell of her full breasts; her gowns, which  covered up the appropriate amount of skin at all times, left little to  the imagination otherwise as they clung to her lush shape.

I roared inside, and there were many nights prior to the wedding when I  had to take to the sky and beat my wings against the darkness around me.  The urgency I felt, that need to take her and make her my own, was  ceaselessly thumping in my chest and burning throughout my brain. I  roared out, venting my frustration. I needed her. And I would have  her … but not yet. The days couldn't pass quickly enough for me.

I wished I had my father with me, then. I remembered the talks he gave  me, especially when I first began changing and growing up. He'd  explained to me the very delicate dance between men and women, made even  more delicate by the fact that I was a dragon. He explained that I  would have to learn to balance the love I felt in my heart with the  urgency of my loins, and that my urgency might be too much to handle. I  had to learn to control it in order to protect my mate.

I knew there were many things I had yet to learn, but I was so enamored  with Anabelle that I was willing to do anything to have her as my own. I  knew she'd be my own whether she wanted to be or not; it had been  decreed at birth, after all. But unlike some woman I could control and  dominate, I wanted her to be happy. I wanted her to be here with me  because she wanted to be.

I just hoped she didn't excite my temper too often; that was one thing I  often had trouble controlling. But she seemed like a sweet and pleasant  girl; not the fiery type, as my mother had been on meeting my father. I  hoped she would remain so  –  for both our sakes.



Finally, after weeks of waiting and wanting and yearning, the ceremony  was about to begin. As was the custom, I waited by the side of the Druid  priest who was to bless and secure our union    . My mother waited  anxiously at the front of the crowd of well-wishers; I gave her a sure  smile to bolster her confidence. In reality, her warnings and visions  had shaken me more than I wanted to admit even to myself. But I put on a  self-confident air for her benefit.

On the other side of the crowd stood Anabelle's mother, soon to by my  mother as well. She had proven herself just as sweet and charming as her  sister, and she and Rhiannon had spent the last month reliving their  girlhood through the planning and excitement surrounding the wedding. I  worried that Anabelle would be overly saddened at her mother's leaving,  then also wondered how my own mother would react. Then again, I reminded  myself, we were now family. There would be occasions on which we could  visit and spend time together.         

     



 

Behind her stood all of the members of King Angus's clan, wearing their  traditional tartan finery. I admired them for their clan pride; while I  was proud of my Celtic roots, and the bloodline of the dragon that  flowed through me, these men and women exhibited a level of pride and  tradition I had never before experienced. My heart warmed at the idea of  my heirs carrying both my blood and the blood of these people.

My heart thudded in my chest, awaiting the approach of my soon-to-be  bride. I kept myself from once again adjusting my clothing or running a  hand through my thick, blond hair that was so frequently falling in  front of my eyes. I had inherited my hair from my mother, and it was  just as unruly as it had ever been. I forced myself to stop fidgeting. A  King doesn't fidget, I told myself. A King commands. A dragon roars.

Then, a sound of music filled the hall. In keeping with her Scottish  roots, a group of musicians dressed in the plaid of Anabelle's clan  entered first, then spread into a circle around the priest and myself.  Then came her ladies-in-waiting, with garlands of flowers in their hair  and bouquets in their arms. They joined the circle, standing in front of  the musicians. Then, finally, came the sounds of the instruments  signaling the entrance of the King and his daughter.

My heart nearly stopped, she was so beautiful. The silk gown she wore  must have taken a year or more to make. Meters and meters of silk the  color of pure white were involved, for the full skirt that trailed far  behind Anabelle as she made her way down the aisle formed by the parting  of our two tribes. The top of her gown just skimmed her shoulders, and  the silk was caught in billowing, full sleeves. From here I could see  the fine work she'd done, embroidering the tight bodice with silver  thread. Her long, dark red hair was loose and flowing in curls down her  back. A wreath of heather crowned her head, to be replaced by the crown  that would be hers after the coronation ceremony the following day.

Her father, dressed in his clan finery, walked her up to where I stood  in the center of the circle. He placed my hand in hers and patted me  firmly on the back. Then we were left there, hand-in-hand, my bride and  I.

The priest recited a traditional wedding blessing, then presented us  with the cloth to perform the handfast. Our hands were still clasped  from when Angus had given her to me; her hand was cool and smooth in my  own, which in comparison felt hot and rough. The priest bound the strip  of cloth around our hands, binding us together in symbol and in spirit.

We then recited a pledge in Gaelic, offering each other our minds and  hearts. This was a bit more sentimental than royal marriages usually  ran, especially in Celtic circles, but it was important for me not only  to give Anabelle what she desired, but also to show respect to the  traditions of her clan. Sometimes even a wedding can make a political  statement, after all.