They would arrive in Guernsey today.

Excitement thrummed through Charlotte, but she focused on the accounts that Callum had brought with him from Hades’ Lair. Numbers were comforting, but these numbers were also fascinating. Callum’s former guardian had been most devious.

Footsteps padded outside her cabin, and a knock sounded.

She opened the door, and Callum stood before her. “We’re nearing Saint Peter Port. Would you like to see?”

“Oh, indeed.” She closed the door and followed him through the narrow corridor, nearly stumbling as the waves continued to rock the ship.

Callum turned around and steadied her, and his arms felt secure and unwavering.

The door was at the top of a long wooden staircase, and Charlotte knew it would probably be more pleasant to wait for the boat to dock. Still, she pushed the door open without any hesitation.

Cold air brushed against her, and for a moment, she trembled. The wind seemed determined to lift up her hem, and she was thankful for the heavy fabric of the traveling gown Fiona had packed and its relative narrowness.

“Don’t blow away, lass,” he murmured, his voice husky, and he took her hand.

Normally the man didn’t use Scottish words, even though traces of his burr were present every time he spoke.

A shiver of excitement rushed through Charlotte.

The man’s handsomeness was the sort that extended through him. He was good and wanted the best for everyone. She needed to remind herself of the latter point. It was almost possible to imagine that they were a couple eloping because they were madly in love, and not simply because it was convenient to both of them. The reasons for their marriage could hardly be termed romantic, no matter Callum’s pleasant demeanor.

Salty spray spilled onto the deck and dappled her dress and face, and she inhaled the scent. Her locks whipped across her face, the pins having long since lost their usefulness after the days-long battle with the elements.

“That’s Guernsey.” Callum pointed in the distance.

At first, Charlotte didn’t see anything. The waves sufficed in beauty. Foamy crests rose toward the sky, as if competing with one another in a never-ending tournament.

They needn’t. The water alone was beautiful. The pale blue managed to contain shades of green. Were the color discovered in a jewel, it would triumph over any other.

There before them, growing increasingly taller, was an island. White cliffs rose in the distance, but unlike the waves, these did not simply collapse into the ocean. If the waves desired to rival anything, no target could be more magnificent than this land. The ship veered toward it, and pastel-colored homes perched about a harbor. The sailors’ activities shifted and grew more vigorous.

The green island spread out before them. The channel was gray, but it didn’t diminish the wonder of the steep cliffs that sloped around the sea, forming delightful bays and coves.

Callum squeezed her hand. “We’re almost there.”

Salty water continued to spray her face, but she didn’t step away.

Tiny fishing boats dipped over the sea, and people sat in them. The world was filled with more than the ocean and the sky, even though both of those seemed incredible.

“We’ll be married soon,” Callum said.

Those words might be meant to be reassuring, but her heartbeat quickened all the same.

She wanted to stay on this ship forever, admiring the azure color of the ocean and conscience of Callum beside her. The sky was a crisp blue, devoid of any of the clouds that seemed to delight in flittering about England’s skies, striking unease in anyone beneath them who might ponder to themselves, whether that shade of gray, that precise form of fluffiness, was likely to lead to rain, and if so, at what time they might expect it on even the nicest, sunniest days in Norfolk.

Finally, the ship halted.

Geese strutted over the shore, directing their beaks to the ground and vigilantly pecking whichever edible delight they happened upon. Sailboats glided through the water with the elegance of swans, spurred by the steadiness of the wind’s pace. Fishing nets hung from some boats, appearing like lace.

Callum gave her a pleased smile, the sort unaccompanied by worried lines about his eyes.

“Follow me,” Callum said after she packed the ledgers and the rest of her items, and they disembarked from the ship. Charlotte was conscious of the captain and Lord Braunschweig and his sister following them.

“I thought you’d never been here before,” Charlotte said.

“I haven’t,” Callum said, “but there’s a church there.”

“Oh.”

“Stop!” A voice barreled after them. “You can’t get married.”

They were the same words Callum’s brother had uttered, and for a wild moment she considered the possibility his brother might have followed them.

But this man’s accent was decidedly not Scottish.

Georgiana tensed and she turned round slowly.

It was the captain.

The man wrinkled his brow, and his nostrils flared.

“You can’t get married,” the captain repeated, and Callum squeezed Charlotte’s hand.

“You can’t prevent us from marrying,” Callum.

“I wouldn’t dream of preventing your match,” the captain said solemnly. “It’s so lovely to see such a nice couple.”

Charlotte blinked. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that bushy-bearded sea captains used words like lovely.

“A pretty girl like that won’t want to go straight to the chapel, no matter how besotted you are. You need a celebration.”

“Oh, yes,” Lord Braunschweig’s sister said, clapping her hands together. “A wedding is the happiest day of your life. It should be perfect. It must be perfect.”

“And perfect starts with?”

“Flowers,” Lord Braunschweig’s sister said. “I’ll get some guests and speak with the preacher.”

Charlotte was swept into their enthusiasm. They didn’t dismiss her as a bluestocking, and their merriment filled her with joy.

*

THE WEDDING WAS PERFECT.

It wasn’t Mayfair, and no Grecian columns adorned the single-story church that squatted in the center of the town, as if weighted down by its steeple. The stained-glass windows were of the small variety, and their existence dimmed the small amount of light that streamed through the panes.

And yet, the stone floor reminded her of her father’s chapel. The place was all medieval charm. Charlotte’s heart swelled. If only this weren’t the end. If only she weren’t dying. If only...

“Ready?” Callum whispered.

“Yes,” Charlotte said.

Callum gestured, and music started playing. Wild flowers adorned the chapel.

Charlotte blinked. “It’s beautiful.”

The music played, and soon the vicar spoke.