“Then let us assume you have miscalculated, and I am your bride. There is one sure way to defeat the prophecy.” He stuttered to a halt, hope so hot within him that it burned. “How?” “The prophecy called for a ‘bride unloved.’ ” He nodded, morose. “Then love me.” “I do love you.” “No.” She moved his hand to cup her breast, and her hand slid down to press against his groin. “Love me. And let fate do its damnedest to get around that.”
