Free The Right Bride? by Sara Craven

at her, her forehead puckered in concern. ‘My dear child, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
    ‘Yes,’ Allie said, and paused to kiss her cheek. ‘It’s fine, really,’ she whispered. ‘We’re just going to have lunch—one meal together. And that’s all.’
    Then I’ll tell him I’m married, she thought as she ran upstairs. And it will finally be finished.
    Madness, Allie thought, returning bleakly to the here and now as tears burned in the back of her eyes and choked her throat. Sweet, compelling, uncontrollable madness. That was what it had been—how it had been.
    One man— the man —was all it had taken to breach the firewall around her. Just the touch of his hand had altered all her perceptions of herself, destroying once and for all the myth of her invulnerable reserve.
    How could she have known that she’d simply been waiting—waiting for him? Remy…
    His name was a scream in her heart.
    She drew her knees up to her chin, bent her head, andallowed herself to cry. The house was asleep, so thankfully there was no one to hear her agonised keening or the sobs that threatened to rip her apart.
    For two years she’d had to suppress her emotions and rebuild her defences. Never allowing herself to reveal even for a moment the inner pain that was threatening to destroy her.
    Now, at last, the dam had burst, and she yielded to the torrent of grief and guilt it had released, rocking backwards and forwards, her arms wrapped round her knees. Until, eventually, she could cry no more.
    Then, when the shaking had stopped, she got slowly to her feet, brushing fronds of dried grass from her clothing, and went into the house.
    She washed her face thoroughly, removing all traces of the recent storm, then carefully applied drops to her eyes, before returning to her room. Tom had not stirred, and she stretched herself on the bed, waiting with quiet patience for him to wake up, and for the rest of her life to begin.
    She must have dozed, because she suddenly became aware, with a start, that he was standing, vigorously rattling the bars of his cot. As she swung herself off the bed and went to him, he gave his swift, entrancing grin, and held out his arms.
    She picked him up, rubbing noses with him. ‘And hi there to you too. Want to play outside?’
    Tante was there ahead of them this time, sitting placidly under a green and white striped parasol, her hands busy with her favourite embroidery, a jug of home-made lemonade on the wooden table at her elbow.
    She looked up, smiling. ‘Did you rest well, chérie ?’
    ‘It was good not to be moving,’ Allie evaded. She put Tom down on the blanket that had already been spread on the grass in anticipation, rolling his coloured ball across the grass for him to chase before sitting down and accepting the glass of lemonade that Tante poured for her.
    And now it was high time to face a few issues. And with honesty, this time around, if that was possible.
    ‘I came across a little drama in Ignac today,’ she remarked, trying to sound casual. ‘A fierce old lady having some family battle in the middle of the road, and refusing to give way.’
    Tante chose another length of silk from the box beside her. ‘That would be Madame Teglas,’ she said composedly. ‘Pauvre femme, she hates her unfortunate daughter-in-law, and is convinced that her son wishes to put her in a home. Therefore she makes these scenes in public.’ She shook her head. ‘One day, she will be run over.’
    ‘She nearly was—by me.’ Allie was proud of the faint amusement in her voice. ‘Luckily, Remy de Brizat came along and calmed her down.’
    She waited tensely for Tante’s response, but the older woman merely nodded, unfazed. ‘He is her doctor, and one of the few people who can deal with her tantrums.’
    ‘I see.’ Allie hesitated. ‘That—sounds as if he’s back for good?’ she ventured.
    Madelon Colville threaded her needle with care. ‘His father hopes so, certainly. The other