"My horse may file remarks afterward."
Bramble huffed. Rowan held up the ring. It was simple: a gold band set with a small green stone the color of spring fields after rain.
Rowan held my gaze. "Nell Finch, you heard the truth when everyone else heard silence." He continued softly, "You believed a horse before pride, a servant before a cousin, and a wounded man before his performance of ruin." Rowan's voice warmed. "You have made me laugh at pain without denying it, and you have made my house sound alive again." He took a breath. "I love you. I would be honored, humbled, and frequently corrected if you would marry me."
My eyes burned. I stared at him. "Frequently corrected?"
Rowan gave a small shrug. "I am realistic."
I glanced toward the stall and Bramble. Rowan looked resigned. "He'll be insufferable."
Bramble made his decision: I consent.
"He consents," I whispered.
Rowan's smile trembled. "Do you?"
I knelt in the straw before him, because he was on one knee, and I refused to make him look up like a penitent schoolboy.
"Yes, Rowan. I consent. I love you, too, though I reserve the right to call you a liar when necessary."
Rowan accepted that. "Fair."
"And a bad decision with cheekbones."
Rowan smiled faintly. "Romantic."
I kissed him. His hand came to my cheek, warm and steady. Bramble lowered his head over our shoulders like a priest with no boundaries.
Bramble approved: Good. Now carrots.
I laughed against Rowan's mouth.
The wedding was held in spring because Lady Beatrice declared winter weddings made guests discuss chilblains, and romance deserved better. The church filled with tenants, servants, curious neighbors, and at least three people who had come hoping Bramble would object. He did not attend the ceremony because Rowan said no horse, however heroic, belonged in the aisle.
Bramble heard this from the stable. From half an estate away, Bramble's thought reached me: Coward.
I nearly laughed during my vows. Rowan heard the tiny sound and smiled.
"Bramble?" I whispered.
"Insulting me, naturally."
"Then all is well."
Afterward, we walked out beneath a shower of flower petals. Rowan used his cane; he did not hide it. I wore a gown the color of cream and green leaves, and Lady Beatrice wore feathers that made three children point upward. Peter cried openly and blamed hay dust. Duchess the mare had sent formal complaints about not being invited.
At the stable yard reception—because I had insisted on seeing Bramble before changing clothes—Rowan and I stood before the stallion in our wedding finery. Bramble inspected us both.
Bramble's thought carried great ceremony: The liar looks acceptable. The carrot girl looks excellent. Marriage approved.
I translated this more politely for the guests: "Bramble says His Grace looks acceptable, and I look excellent."