Rainger led Sorcha to the door and opened it. Summoned by gossip, the group outside had grown from two dozen to over a hundred. The buzz of their conversations faded as he faced them.
“Heavens.” Sorcha peered over his shoulder. “Why are they here?”
“Perhaps they’re excited about their first visitor from Beaumontagne.” But he didn’t believe it, and the crowd made him edgy. “I’ll talk to the priest and make the arrangements, but wait here until I’m done.” He shut the door in her anxious face and swept the crowd with his gaze, looking for potential attackers.
He saw no one. Everyone here had left their country because they’d been loyal to him or to Sorcha’s father and her family, and the hardships they’d endured in a foreign country bonded them together.
But why the excitement? Why the buzz of gossip? Why were they gathered before the church? He sensed an undercurrent, something more than their natural delight in a wedding.
He beckoned the priest in an authoritative gesture that brought the priest’s eyebrows up. The crowd parted to allow him to join Rainger, and everyone watched as if their lives depended on this conversation. “What’s happened?” Rainger asked.
“A rumor made its way through the village at lightning speed.” Father Terrance folded his hands before him and viewed Rainger with a hint of anticipation.
“A rumor? About a female visitor from Beaumontagne dressed as a boy and her bodyguard?” Rainger tried to smile as jovially as Arnou, but the tension wouldn’t let him. “It would be a miracle if there wasn’t a rumor.”
“You called the young lady Sorcha.”
A single word. Rainger had destroyed their anonymity with a single word. But he played dumb, spreading his hands in contrived bewilderment. “That’s her name.”
“Sorcha is a rare name, and the name of Beaumontagne’s crown princess.”
“Would a princess dress like a boy?” Prevarication, and easily seen through by a priest.
“She would if she was in danger, and you said, She’s being hunted by those who wish her dead.”
Information given judiciously to pressure her into marriage. How had it rebounded so badly? “Then, Father, it would be better if this rumor was squelched at once,” Rainger said softly.
“That might be possible, except that in Richarte, our innkeeper lived near the castle. He frequently saw young Prince Rainger ride by.” Father Terrance’s sharp gaze searched Rainger’s face. “Mr. Montaroe claims you look very much like the prince would look after years…in the dungeon.”
Rainger searched the crowd until he saw Mr. Montaroe’s round, hopeful face staring at him. It wasn’t possible for Montaroe to recognize his prince when Sorcha did not—yet he had. Perhaps the passing glance was more revealing than the careless years of childhood spent together.
The people strained toward him, silent, longing, wanting so badly to be told that their faith had been rewarded.
Earlier, Rainger had thought that guilt had no part in his actions.
But he was wrong.
In his youth, nothing had been more important than sinking his cock into the most accomplished pussy he could find. Because of his folly with Julienne, he’d betrayed his country.
The people here in New Prospera were still paying for his stupid deed.
Until the day he was king and made Richarte a paradise for his people, he would be guilty…and even then, nothing he could do would fix the traditions broken or return the lives lost.
But today, he could help heal the pain. He looked back at the priest. In his native language, he said, “Today you’ll perform a royal wedding.”
“Praise be to God!” Father Terrance began to fall to his knees in thanksgiving.
“No!” Rainger stopped him. “Listen to me. Sorcha doesn’t know who I am. She still thinks I’m dead, and I have my reasons for allowing her to believe that. Please do not betray my confidence.”
Clearly Father Terrance wished to ask questions, but Rainger stared him down until the priest bowed his head. “As you wish, sire.”
“Call me Arnou. Are there other travelers in the village?”
“None have arrived yet today. None are likely at this time of the year. Travel is difficult.”
“Indeed. Sorcha and I are the only travelers on the road to Edinburgh.” Carefully, Rainger spelled out the peril. “We are…and Count duBelle’s assassins.”
The joy on Father Terrance’s face faded to a horrible stillness.
“Keeping all this in mind”—taking the heavy pouch from his belt, Rainger pressed it into Father Terrance’s hand—“let’s celebrate our marriage, but let it be known only to the people of the village. Your discretion, everyone’s discretion, is required, for our safety is precarious and everyone’s return to Beaumontagne and Richarte depends on it.”
“We’ll post guards on the road and turn any traveler aside. I’ll make sure everyone in the town understands.” Father Terrance put his hands on Rainger’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Trust me, my son. Scotland is beautiful and many people have been kind, but we want to go home.” He made his way into the crowd and gathered the leaders in a circle around him.
As Rainger returned to the church, he heard Tulia gasp. Glancing back, he saw her put her hand on her chest and move her lips, but she couldn’t speak for emotion. Mr. Montaroe lifted her in a mighty hug. The oldest lady, a woman who could barely stand by herself, performed a festive jig.
Perhaps destiny had directed Rainger here. Perhaps this wedding in this place and at this time was meant to be.
And with the danger that stalked them…perhaps tonight was their only chance to make love.
Rainger had to seize that chance. He couldn’t wait any longer.
“All right. It’s done. Father Terrance will marry us this afternoon.” Arnou entered the church briskly.
Sorcha stared at him. Somehow, against her better judgment, he had managed to convince her to marry him. When had Arnou become so logical—and so stubborn?
Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for his expression softened. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Changing your mind?” Before she could answer, he pulled her into his arms. “Let me convince you again.”
His body warmed her, easing the tight knot of tension in her neck and shoulders. The kiss he gave her was as light and sweet as meringue, melting on her tongue and making her hum with pleasure.
Drawing back, he smiled into her bemused face. “There. Is that better?”
She nodded.
“Remember, we’re doing this for your safety. You can make your grandmother understand that, can’t you?”
Sorcha nodded again.
Taking her by the hand, Arnou directed her toward the church door. “Go out to the innkeeper’s wife and tell her the good news. We’ll be married this afternoon and we want her to prepare the wedding supper.”
“Yes. She seems very pleasant.” But at the mention of the wedding, the drugging effect of Arnou’s kiss dissipated. Sorcha supposed she understood the reasons why they needed to be married, but she could scarcely bear the performance of the ceremony and celebration. It seemed so…deceptive. Her feet dragged as she walked toward the door.
He opened and held it for her.
Stopping, she looked down at the floor and muttered, “Sometimes, Arnou, you’re as bossy as Grandmamma.”
“Chin up, Sorcha. I promise everything will turn out right.” But he sounded distracted, as if he’d forgotten her and moved on to the practicalities of the wedding.
She shut the church door behind her with a little slam. She looked out at the burgeoning crowd.
Every conversation stopped. Everyone looked at her.
The hush hurt her ears, and the bevy of inquiring eyes made her want to cringe.
She couldn’t do this. She had to go back inside and tell Arnou to call off the whole idea.
The square burst into cheers.
She stared at them in horror, but old training held her in place; a princess does not turn away from a tribute.
A row of children with hastily cleaned faces lined up, each holding a spray of dried flowers, and one by one they came forward and presented them to Sorcha. She smiled. She thanked each one. Yet when they had finished, she held an armful of faded scents and a dreadful suspicion. “This is lovely, but I don’t understand. Everyone seems so…pleased.” In fact, the whole ceremony reminded her of the kind of welcomes she received as a princess.
Had these people somehow recognized her?
But Tulia bustled forward. “We love weddings, and this is your day. Remember, you’ll only be a bride once.”
Well. Sorcha had no reason to disbelieve Tulia, for she’d never been a bride before. She’d never attended a village wedding. She supposed that people did enjoy the marital celebration.
And really, how could these people recognize her as their crown princess? She’d left Beaumontagne ten years ago. She’d changed.
“Come.” Tulia spread her arms wide in a gesture that indicated the path before her. “We’ll go to the inn and make you a bride. The men will prepare your bridegroom. Father Terrance will go with them to make sure they don’t get too drunk before the ceremony and fall down before it’s over”—she shot her husband a glare and tossed her head—“like some bridegrooms I could name.”
Mr. Montaroe blushed so red the tips of his ears burned. The crowd hooted.
Sorcha laughed and relaxed. This was easier than a wedding at the cathedral. So much less pageantry. So much more camaraderie. Clutching the flowers, she followed Tulia to the inn, while all around her the women of the village chatted and teased.
The oldest woman removed Sorcha’s cap. “Today, we’re going to make you a woman again.”
With a broad wink, a younger one said, “He’s going to make her a woman tonight.”
“Roxanne!” Tulia shook her finger at the young woman. “That is not respectful.”
“Anyway, it’s not like that—” Sorcha began.
But the chorus of reprimands directed at Roxanne drowned out Sorcha’s explanation, and then they reached the inn and every female in the village fought to enter and take part in the preparations.
Ruthlessly Tulia directed them to sit on the benches at the tables in the taproom, and such was her force of will that before long, curtains covered the windows, coffee was brewing in a large pot before the fire, water was heating, and everyone was seated and looking attentive.
Tulia stood Sorcha before the massive stone fireplace and Sorcha, ever the properly trained princess, worked frantically to remember everyone’s name. Phoenice was the pregnant one. Roxanne was the saucy one. Rhea was logical and always smiling. Salvinia had sad brown eyes. Pia was thin, tall, and pretty.
“The young lady has no wedding gown,” Tulia said.
“Call me Sorcha.”
The conversation died. Everyone looked uncertainly at her neighbor. Tulia said, “I do not know that that is proper.”
“Of course it is. What else would you call me?” Sorcha asked sensibly.
“Yes. What else would I call you?” But while Tulia agreed, she gestured to the table of older ladies as if needing a consensus.
One wrinkled grandmother, twisted with rheumatism, gestured the others close and they consulted each other in trembling old voices. The old lady slowly and with much assistance got to her feet. She proclaimed, “At this place in this time, we are her family. Sorcha she shall be.”
The old women nodded. The rest of the room nodded.
“Sorcha, I am Sancia.” The ancient one tapped her chest with her warped fingers. “I shall be your nonna, your grandmother.”
Again the heads nodded.
Touched, Sorcha said, “I’m honored to have you as my grandmother.”
The twisted finger pointed at Tulia. “She is Tulia. She will be your mother.”
“I’m honored to have you as my mother,” Sorcha said.
“I am the one honored.” Tulia wiped her eyes on her apron. “You will bring us good luck.”
Grandmother Sancia hobbled over, took Sorcha’s cheeks between her palms, and smiled a toothless smile. “We will make this day special to you.”
They were so nice and the wedding was not real, and once again Sorcha tried to explain. “I hate to have you go to so much trouble when it’s not really going to be a marriage. You see, Arnou is worried about my safety—”
“I know.” Grandmother Sancia brought Sorcha’s forehead down to rest on hers. “He is a good man.”
What was Sorcha to do? No one was listening to her.
Grandmother Sancia and Tulia circled Sorcha, then Grandmother Sancia tugged at Sorcha’s cloak. “Take it off.”
Sorcha shed the cloak.
Tulia tossed it toward the wall. “Ora, come and stand by Sorcha.”
Ora lumbered over. She was approximately Sorcha’s age, about Sorcha’s height, but she weighed another seven stone.
Sorcha smiled.
Ora dimpled.
Everyone nodded.
“Yes, your wedding costume will fit,” Tulia said.
Sorcha eyed Ora’s wide waist. She plucked at her own sleeve. “I’m wearing a lot of shirts.”
“Yes, we can tell.” Grandmother Sancia hugged Ora. “She has gained a little since the twins were born.”
Ora dimpled again and hustled away, out the door after her wedding costume.
Oh, well. It wouldn’t matter if the costume didn’t fit; the marriage wasn’t real anyway.
“Bring down the tub,” Tulia called.
At that point, it seemed to Sorcha she lost control of her actions—although later she realized she’d lost control the moment she met Arnou.
The women of the village stripped her, washed her, shampooed her hair, dried her, and dressed her in Ora’s wedding costume—a long red skirt, a loose black blouse, a vest embroidered with colorful flowers, and a ring of dried flowers for her head. The waist was a little loose, the bosom a little tight, but it fit better than Sorcha expected.
Grandmother Sancia handed her a bouquet of fresh flowers; they were small, winter-stunted, and obviously scavenged from pots around the village, but the ribbon that bound them was silk and the women who looked at her beamed with gratification.
“You look beautiful.” Tulia wiped proud tears from her eyes. “Beautiful! Like a princess.”
Sorcha looked at her in horror, then decided she meant nothing by her comment.
At sunset, they surrounded her and herded her out of the inn, through the square, and toward the church.
Events rushed at her and reality developed fuzzy edges. Men lined the path, but her sight seemed blurry and they wavered like seaweed in a summer storm. She heard laughter and joking she didn’t understand.
She did hear one comment: Tulia exclaimed about “the bride’s serenity.”
That made Sorcha smile. This wasn’t serenity. This was disbelief.
As the women entered the chapel, she clasped her bouquet so solidly she found the hidden rose thorn and bled a little bright red drop of blood. She focused on it, frowning at the pain and worried it would splatter on Ora’s costume. Grandmother Sancia placed her at the back of the church facing the altar. Sorcha concentrated her gaze on the flickering branches of candles.
Someone took her arm.
She turned to look; it was Arnou.
He looked…triumphant. The kerchief he wrapped over his eye was clean. He was clean, his hair damp, his chin shaved, and he was dressed in someone’s best wedding suit. His shoulders strained at the seams. He led her down the aisle as if the fears that challenged her never occurred to him. And knowing Arnou and his simple mind, they probably hadn’t.
He kissed her cheek. “Stop frowning. Everything is just as it should be. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” she murmured. She needed to remember that. She trusted Arnou more than any man she’d ever met.
He led her toward Father Terrance.
The service started with a mass, and for the first time in years, she participated in the ritual at her own church. Father Terrance spoke English, but even so she immersed herself in the familiar worship.
Then Father Terrance performed the wedding ceremony, and as she recited her vows, the intensity of her feelings for Arnou dazed her; when had he become the man she could swear to love and honor, and mean every word?
And he—when had he learned to speak in such a deep, marvelous voice, to gaze on her as if he needed her above all else, and kiss her lips with such reverent intent? In front of the whole church, he claimed her with his mouth. He tasted clean and warm and intimate, and she lost herself in a world consisting of nothing but Arnou and Sorcha and the memory of yesterday in the fairy circle and tomorrow…
“Hurrah!”
The blast of joy from the people of New Prospera made her jump in surprise. She had forgotten they were there.
Arnou turned her to face the congregation, on their feet and shouting their delight.
Sorcha couldn’t help herself—she broke into a smile.
And together they went into the town square.
The villagers seated Sorcha and Arnou at an elevated table. They served them ale and wine, lamb and herbed potatoes. A fiddler and a drummer played while the newlyweds danced. Then everyone joined them.
It was a celebration like none Sorcha had ever attended, without the pomp of the castle or the solemnity of the convent. She thoroughly enjoyed herself—until the moment the women lifted her chair from the table and bore her away to the bridal chamber.
Then she looked back at Arnou.
Hands on his hips, he stood watching her, and he looked not at all like the appealing, puppylike, exasperating Arnou she adored.
He looked like a stranger and a predator.
And he was her husband.