Nothing could have been further from the circumstances of their meeting in Cordillera. Everything pristine, perfect.

Rosie, gorgeous in primrose and white organza, was almost beside herself with excitement. Michael, his hand clutched firmly in hers, was bemused in a tiny kilt and ruffles.

The plan had been to go back, visit their pool, light their fire but they’d put their honeymoon on hold until they’d settled Michael’s future.

‘Ready?’ Ivo asked.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘Not quite. I just wanted to say…’ She had a load of words, but in the end it came down to two. ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t have to say what for. They both knew. ‘Now I’m ready.’

Rosie and Michael led the way, scattering rose petals before them as, to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon, Manda walked down the flower-decked aisle towards the man she loved.

She saw nothing, was aware of nothing but Nick waiting for her, his smile telling her that he thought he was the most fortunate man in the world.

Him, and the warm, spicy scent of the huge trumpet lilies entwined along the altar rail. Cordilleran lilies.

‘You had them flown in especially?’ she murmured as he took her hand.

‘We couldn’t go to Cordillera, so I brought it to us and tonight I’ll light a fire that will keep us both warm for as long as we both shall live.’

Liz Fielding

Liz Fielding was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain-with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between. She finally came to a full stop in a tiny Welsh village cradled by misty hills, and these days she mostly leaves her pen to do the traveling. When she’s not sorting out the lives and loves of her characters, she potters in the garden, reads her favorite authors and spends a lot of time wondering “What if…?” For news of upcoming books-and to sign up for her occasional newsletter-visit Liz’s Web site at www.lizfielding.com.