Right. He went back inside through the back door.

Roy sat on a bench on the groom’s side, beside Ziggy.

He found his place beside Emmanuel, crossed his hands.

“She is worth the wait,” Emmanuel said.

York glanced at him, and the man winked.

And then York’s bride came down the aisle. The afternoon sun fell through the windows, gilding the stone floor, and she walked through puddles of gold, her dress shimmering in the light.

Her gaze, however, had pinned him and he couldn’t move.

He will fulfill the desires of those who fear him.

Oh, God, help me trust you.

He reached out his hand, and RJ took it as she reached the altar. Then Emmanuel stepped up and prayed.

York couldn’t remember exactly what he said, but somehow, during the breadth of it, his heart had settled, his body relaxed. And when he lifted his head…

He was back in the game.

Yes, I do, and forever and Amen and he put a wedding band on RJ’s finger that he’d purchased out of the vintage section, that had come from some royal collection. Hand engraved, white gold, with tiny diamonds along the band. It butted up perfectly with her engagement ring.

“Kiss your bride,” Emmanuel said quietly.

York could have lost himself in her kiss, but he kept it chaste, if not lingering.

Then Emmanuel pronounced them man and wife.

He didn’t remember much after that—thanking Emmanuel, promising to meet Roy and Ziggy tomorrow—until he’d climbed the stone steps through the private passageway to the royal hall, and then to the turret.

“Are you serious?” RJ said as she walked inside.

The place was opulent—stone floors cast with lush pile rugs, a velvet blue sofa faced a massive king-sized bed with a draped crown headboard. A spray of white roses sat in a vase on a tall milk-white dresser.

RJ walked to the window. “I can see all the garden from here—and even the lawn beyond to the cliffs. And maybe the shores of Germany. Or that could be Denmark.”

Thank you, Prince Gus. York knew he—or maybe his wife, Princess Daffy—was behind the fresh flowers, the bottle of champagne, the tray of tapas—crostini, chocolates, soft cheeses, shrimp in a bowl of ice.

The bed had been piled with fresh white pillows and a fluffy comforter.

York walked over to RJ and stood behind her at the window, putting his hand on her waist. “Mrs. Newgate. You’re the only view I care about.”

She turned in his arms, put hers over his shoulders. “You all right?”

He nodded. “Now I am.” He bent and kissed her and put in much more of what he’d wanted to convey at the wedding chapel.

He didn’t have to hold back, didn’t have to bank his touch with the ever present—wait.

Even still, he stepped back, gave her room.