Whatever had possessed him to say it?
Rowan pressed his forehead onto the stone bench in the castle garden, where he had spent the night. Part of him longed to pound his head harder and harder against it, until he beat himself into oblivion.
He’d wanted so badly to believe that all was innocent between Cecily and Con. More desperately still, he’d wanted to believe her idle bluff that she would continue to care for him no matter what his role in Jacquetta’s death.
When he’d been fool enough to test her, she had failed him.
What consequences would that have for today? Would Cecily still be willing to go ahead with their wedding? And if she didn’t—what then? Could he still attack Brantham on her behalf and exact his revenge upon Fulke DeBoissard?
His long smoldering spite against DeBoissard intensified a hundredfold. Not only had that perfidious vermin cost him Jacquetta and his own immortal soul, now he bid fair to cost Rowan his one chance at redemption.
No need of my help! Fulke’s voice taunted Rowan from some dark, poisoned source deep in his own mind. You are pushing Cecily away quite well all by yourself. Another penance, is it?
“Get my sword to your throat and I’ll show you penance, DeBoissard!” Rowan muttered under his breath.
Just then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Soft footsteps. Slow footsteps. Beloved footsteps. Of all the fears that had ever plagued Rowan DeCourtenay, none haunted him like the thought of those footsteps running away from him.
Cecily did not notice him when she first entered the garden. Instead, she closed her eyes, breathing in the stillness and dewy perfume of growing things awakening to a new day.
“What brings you here at such an early hour?” he asked.
Her eyes flew open and her whole body stiffened. “I did not expect to find you here. I’m sorry if I disturbed your…rest?”
Rowan rose and stretched. “I thought I could not sleep here as well as anywhere else. And you?”
One corner of her mouth lifted. Nowhere near a smile. Only half a grin. Still, it was something.
“I told Aenor and the other ladies I wanted to gather flowers for my bridal wreath.”
The implication of her words stunned him for a moment.
“You are…willing for it to go forward?” He could scarcely form the question for fear of the answer he might receive. “After last night?” He left the rest unsaid. After what I accused you of? After what I admitted?
Cecily nodded. “I will not believe what you told me last night, Rowan DeCourtenay.” She flung the words down—a gauntlet of challenge. “Nothing you or anyone else can say will convince me of it.”
Her eyes glowed with stubborn, unbowed beauty. Her chin had regained its proud tilt. “If you will still have me, I will wed you.”
If?
Though his cautious nature warned that it was only a measure of her desperation to save Brantham, hope blossomed in Rowan’s heart. Like a Rose of Sharon in the Sinai wilderness.
Unable to bear even the tiny distance between them, he opened his arms. He recalled Con’s advice. Hold her too close and you will drive her away. Rather than taking Cecily into the embrace he ached for, he held himself still and invited her. With his stance. With his gaze. With his heart.
The change was not lost upon her.
As she plunged eagerly into his welcoming arms, her face lit up with a smile that eclipsed the dawn. It glowed with the promise of a fresh start for them both.
Resolutely, Rowan wrestled the demons of his past into his soul’s deepest dungeon. As Cecily pressed her face over his thundering heart, he nuzzled his cheek against her hair and battled to retain his composure.
His father had never hesitated to believe the worst of him. For years, the world had held him to blame for a crime he had not committed, until he’d grown to doubt his own innocence, wallowing in guilt. Now Cecily had staked her future happiness on her faith in his better nature. The thought of it dizzied Rowan with rapture.
And terror.
Did he dare to scale the heights of bliss, knowing full well the peril of a disastrous fall?
The sweet, hopeful warbling of a lark called Rowan back from his doubts. Still holding Cecily close, he glanced around the garden. “This puts me in mind of the first time we met, in the glade near Wenwith Priory. Do you recall?”
She nodded and nestled closer still. “And will as long as I live.”
Lifting one hand, he ran it down her silken plait of hair in a sinuous caress. “I want that lass back.” The words escaped from his lips before he could detain them.
She drew back. “My lord?”
Rowan plunged ahead, despite himself. “I will take that Cecily Tyrell to wive. Not the sulky, mum creature who kept me company at table last night.”
Her fine arched brows drew together and her eyes widened. Something within Rowan kindled in answer. A man could relish doing battle with such a mettlesome opponent. The sparring. The spirited thrust and parry. The conquest. Better a week of lusty combat with his Cecily than a hundred years of plodding tranquility with any other woman.
“I do not, nor never did sulk, Rowan DeCourtenay.” She poked a forefinger into his chest. “I was only striving to be the kind of wife you would have me be.” A rueful sigh heaved out of her. “And uphill work it is, I can tell you.”
“When did I ever say I wanted a stiff puppet for a bride?” Rowan’s temper warmed. “One who pulls glum mouths, keeps downcast eyes and makes lifeless answers by rote— ‘Yes, my lord.’ ‘No, my lord.’?”
“When?” Cecily rolled her eyes heavenward. “Time and again since we arrived at Ravensridge, and I can bring forth a legion of your own castle folk who can bear me honest witness. Every man jack in the bailey must have heard you the other morning. Bidding me keep to my proper sphere and occupy myself sewing wedding clothes.”
Rowan pulled himself erect, master of his domain. Then why did he feel as if he was treading on quicksand? “I do not deny it. Fair counsel it was, and tendered for your own good.” How had she managed to put him on the defensive, the vixen? “What has that to do with the other? Can you not tend to women’s work and still keep a merry air when we are together?”
“And shall I produce you hot ice and dry water, too?” Behind the jest Rowan detected a note of pain. An old wound, poorly set, never fully healed.
“You cannot lop off my legs and expect me to dance a jig, DeCourtenay! There may be women who can deny their nature in one arena, then turn and give it free rein in another. But I have not that subtlety.”
She sounded as though she was admitting a grave flaw. The very thought made Rowan bristle. Cecily’s forthright nature was one of her qualities he most prized.
“Say how you would have me.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “If you want a docile chatelaine, I will labor with all my might to be that for you. As I labored to be worthy of a place in the nunnery. As I should have labored to be a dutiful daughter.”
A page of Cecily’s heart suddenly opened before him—illuminated. He recalled his own struggle to win the regard of his father. Might he have been a different, better man, if he’d simply gone his own way, as Cecily had?
But what price had she paid for her independence?
It occurred to Rowan that he had once hankered for marriage to just such a docile would-be-nun. After a closer acquaintance with Sister Gertha of Wenwith, he wondered if such lifeless paragons truly existed. In any case, the prospect of such a union no longer held any appeal for him. Doubly so, if it would cost Cecily a moment’s unhappiness or self-doubt.
“If you want me as I am,” she continued, “I serve you fair notice. You must be prepared to accept all that goes with it. That includes poking my nose into the bailey and putting your swordsmen through their paces if I reckon they need it. Which will it be? I swear I’ll do all within my power to abide by your will.”
If his lance had shattered during a cavalry charge, or his destrier had fallen beneath him at full gallop, Rowan would not have been more completely at a loss. How could he grant Cecily the freedom she so obviously craved? With no curb but her own common sense. No tie to him but her regard and affection. And if those should ever wane?
She must have sensed his indecision, and perhaps the inner struggle he waged. For she held out her hand to him in a frank offer of trust. An invitation for him to trust her in kind.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rowan raised his hand to hers. Their fingers entwined.
“Very well.” His stomach waxed bilious at the risk he was taking. It was everything he could do to keep a tremor out of his voice. “I prefer the hoyden to the nun.”
Her gaze searched him. “Truly? The hoyden and all that goes with her?”
If he spoke again, Rowan feared he might recant. With a mute nod, he tried to tell her what she longed to hear.
“I won’t ever give you cause to regret it.” How ardent she looked. How earnest she sounded.
How Rowan wished he could believe her.
“You did not truly think I would play you false with your Welsh friend?” A flash of insight overset her skeptical grin. “Did Jacquetta break faith with you? Is that why you tried so hard to keep me from the men of Ravens-ridge?”
The question was too impossibly painful to contemplate on the morn of his second wedding. It threatened to loose the demons he’d so recently imprisoned.
Wrenching his hand from her grasp, he wheeled away from Cecily before her too perceptive eye ferreted out more than he could afford to divulge. “Leave it be, lass. You’ve won concessions from me. Now leave the rest be.”
He strode off without a backward glance before she could engage him again. A sense of foreboding gripped him. Would he live to rue this marriage as deeply as he rued his first?
He might trust her enough to allow her some freedom, but would Rowan ever trust her enough to confide in her? Cecily swept the doubts from her mind, like dirty rushes from the floor of a banquet hall. Such notions had no place in her thoughts today, she chided herself, determined to enjoy the festivities surrounding her bridal.
After all, she did have cause to celebrate. Marriage to a man she could respect and love, who bid fair to love and respect her in return. That he would wrest Brantham from Fulke DeBoissard and help her hold it against any further aggression now felt like an added boon instead of the sole purpose for their union.
She had seen the effort it cost him to agree that she might be herself, not some poor copy of Aenor…or Jacquetta. But in the end he had decided in her favor. He cared for the woman she was and he was wedding her for herself alone. The notion made Cecily hum a little tune as she wriggled into the kirtle of primrose silk. It whispered over her skin with a delicious tickle that put her in mind of Rowan’s lips.
While one of the Gloucester cousins laced the vivid blue gown over her yellow tunic, Cecily contemplated the bedding that would follow her bridal. Until now, Rowan had been the initiator of intimacy between them. She had held back, fearing she was not free to care for the man she thought of as John FitzCourtenay. Since their arrival at Ravensridge, the strife between them had quenched any amorous encounters.
No longer would she have to fight her inclinations. Instead she could abandon herself to the delight his touch and kisses engendered. Give free rein to her own craving to touch and kiss him. Discover what pleasure her touch might bring him. With what tender rites would he initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood?
A shiver of anticipation rippled through Cecily.
“Not cold, are you, lass?” asked her attendant, pulling the side lacing tight and tying it with plump, nimble fingers. “The stuff of your gown is fine looking, but not very warm, I’ll wager. Give me a soft brushed wool lined with fine linen any day over these outlandish silks.”
“Oh, I’m not cold.” In truth, she felt a tide of warmth rising in her cheeks.
“Ahh!” The older woman beamed and nodded sagely. “A trifle anxious, then, are you? That’s to be expected, isn’t it? A pity you don’t have your mother on hand to advise you, poor chick. It won’t be so bad—you’ll see. Take plenty of wine at the feast. It’ll help you bear the pain of your first time. Oh, and when he beds you, be easy, don’t hold yourself stiff and tight. That’ll only make it worse.”
Fetching the garland of blue and yellow autumn flowers gathered from the garden, Rowan’s cousin set it in Cecily’s unbound hair. She nodded approvingly at the result.
“Rowan is a good enough fellow for all that nasty talk about him.” She patted Cecily’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. “He knows better than to plunge in like some untried boy. Don’t you give your wedding night another moment’s worry.”
Her words had the opposite effect to what the kindly creature intended.
Cecily’s stomach sank to her toes.
Their mating, at least this first one, would be painful?
So much for her shallow boast of worldliness! She’d often seen her brothers naked and she knew enough of animal breeding to guess which parts fitted where. What she hadn’t realized was that the coupling of a man and a woman could bring pleasure…and pain.
Oh, don’t be spleeny, Cecilia Tyrell! she chided herself. If other women could survive their wedding night ordeal, so could she. It could not be nearly so bad as the thrashing Ranulf Beauchamp had given her on the…
The notion gave Cecily pause. A woman’s nether parts did seem to be especially sensitive.
She’d opened her mouth to ask Rowan’s matronly cousin the most urgent of several immodest questions when Aenor bustled in.
“You do make a comely bride, Cecily, I’ll say that for you. No one would guess to look at you what an unwomanly creature you are.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to mention that Baron DeCourtenay found her womanly enough, by all accounts. Instead she hesitated.
Did he, indeed?
After their recent conversation in the garden, it certainly appeared so. But experience had taught her that where Rowan DeCourtenay was concerned, things were not always what they appeared to be.
“Tush now, Aenor!” protested Rowan’s cousin. “The lass is strong and hale and an heiress favored by our Lady Maud. What more does she need to recommend her? After so many years wifeless, Rowan will be well enough pleased with her, I daresay.”
“Not if she doesn’t soon put in an appearance at the chapel door, he won’t.” Aenor cocked her head, giving the wreath of flowers on Cecily’s head sharp scrutiny.
With a decisive motion, she tilted it back just a hair. “Now it won’t hang so low over your brow. Come along, come along.”
“One moment.” Cecily rushed to the cedarwood trunk and drew out the illuminated Psalter that had been among Rowan’s wedding gifts to her. Perhaps it would bolster her flagging courage and allay her muted but persistent doubts.
Somewhat to her surprise, it did.
Into her mind, unbidden, flashed a vivid memory of her journey to Ravensridge with Rowan. Soon they would be returning to Brantham through that same country. Though it would be in the midst of a war party, might they not rekindle the trust and easy affection that had flourished between them before?
A sweet, secret smile warmed Cecily’s features as she followed Rowan’s kinswomen through Ravensridge to the chapel tower. In a common purpose and shared adventure, she would rediscover the man she’d known and come to love.
The brief space outside the chapel was crowded with celebrants. Cecily took the arm of another Gloucester relation—husband of the cousin who had helped her robe for the ceremony.
By command of the Empress, he would stand in for her late father. The thought gave Cecily an instant of renewed unease, as she doubted her father would have given his consent to this union.
Suddenly the crowd parted to reveal the Countess of Gloucester’s own confessor, who would conduct the wedding Mass. Beside this wizened cleric towered the bridegroom, looking regal and more than a little dangerous in robes of gray and black—a man of shadows.
His gaze swept Cecily, lingering on her unbound hair crowned with flowers. A smile lit his face, of such warmth that it temporarily banished his shadows and her misgivings. It kindled a heat in his eyes that set Cecily’s stomach aflutter. A thin edge of unease whetted her excitement.
She scarcely heard the priest ask the assembled company if they knew of any impediment to the union. She did notice an expectant quality to the instant of silence that followed his words. As though the guests anticipated someone might raise an objection. When the priest charged she and Rowan to declare any reason why they might not be joined, Cecily suddenly realized she was holding her breath.
“Rowan DeCourtenay,” continued the priest, scarcely pausing. “Of your own free will, do you take this woman?”
“Yes.” A single word, but it rang with such conviction that Cecily felt her knees weaken.
“Cecilia Tyrell, of your own free will, do you receive this man?”
“Yes.” She spoke in a voice loud and clear, almost defiant.
“Who gives this woman?” asked the priest.
“I do,” replied the Gloucester cousin. After Cecily passed Aenor the Psalter to hold, he placed her hand in Rowan’s. “By the will of our sovereign, Maud, Lady of the English.”
The fierce heat of Rowan’s hand made Cecily uncomfortably aware of the waxen chill of her own.
At a nod from the priest, Rowan made his vow. “I, Rowan DeCourtenay, give my body to you, Cecilia Tyrell, in loyal matrimony.”
Her gaze flinched from the intensity of his. “And I receive it.”
Mustering her breath, she willed her voice not to tremble. “I, Cecilia Tyrell, give my body to you, Rowan DeCourtenay, in loyal matrimony.”
“And I receive it.”
From off his own little finger, Rowan drew a slender gold band, setting it upon the spread pages of the priest’s missal. After it had been duly blessed, he took it again and placed it on Cecily’s thumb.
“In the name of the Father.” His voice was softer now, less sure. Transferring the ring to her index finger, Rowan added, “And the Son.” Bringing it at last to rest on her middle finger, he concluded, “And the Holy Ghost. Amen. With this ring, I thee wed. With my body I thee worship. With this dowry I thee endow.”
As Rowan clasped Cecily’s right hand in his, the priest intoned, “Those whom God has joined, let no man put asunder.”
A ripple of hushed talk ran through the company as the chapel doors were thrown open for the wedding Mass. Cecily and Rowan followed the priest.
The strong odor of incense reminded her of the chapel at Wenwith. Mother Ermintrude had been right, after all. Cecily had found a man with whom she wanted to share the rest of her life. And to think she had found him first at the priory.
As they walked toward the altar, Cecily felt Rowan stiffen beside her. What was it about the church that made him so uneasy? Would he ever truly put the memories of his first marriage behind him—or would Jacquetta DeNevers rise up again and again like a ghost to haunt their future?
He is mine now, Jacquetta! Cecily swore silently. Let him be.
Squeezing Rowan’s hand, she cast him a sidelong grin. He flashed one back at her, his dark eyes glowing with…gratitude? Love? Whatever he might be feeling, Cecily sensed the tightly wound tension in his body ease.
Together they knelt at the altar, and a veil of fine, loose-woven linen was draped over them. Rowan inclined his head toward her. “I like this part,” he whispered.
His lips nuzzled her cheek and ear, taking gossamer liberties that were no less provocative for their delicate touch. Cecily’s blood stirred and her pulse quickened.
Rowan’s tongue snaked out, gently ravishing the sensitive flesh of her ear—a tempting foretaste of even more delicious intimacies that awaited her.
If she did not stem the rising tide of desire, what scandal might erupt when the veil was lifted?
She treated him to a solid nudge in the ribs. “Leave off, DeCourtenay!” she whispered. “There’ll be time enough tonight, and this is a holy place.”
Her words stopped him more swiftly and completely than she’d intended.
What had she done now? Cecily barely suppressed a sigh as the veil came off and she parted her lips to receive the host. If their marriage lasted for fifty years, would she ever master the craft of handling this complex, contrary, compelling man?
Glancing around at the festivities in the great hall, Rowan expelled a sigh of relief. At least the wedding ceremony was over and done. In the sight of God and common law, Cecily Tyrell belonged to him. Surely, now, the unwelcome memories of his previous wedding would disperse, like the shroud of morning mist burned off by the sun’s radiance.
The trestle tables had been moved back to create an empty square in the center of the hall. There, a trio of jongleurs entertained the company. One piped on the schawm—a buzzing, reedy melody. Another played deftly upon the hurdy-gurdy, turning the handle at one end, while pressing down keys with the other to create a rich musical blend that sounded like several instruments playing at once. The third danced a little, sang a little, and nimbly juggled several balls in the air. Now and then he would approach one of the tables to perform a conjuring trick.
Beside Rowan, his bride laughed, clapped hands and gasped in amazement.
He leaned toward her. “You enjoy the entertainment?” It was a foolish question to pose. A blind man could have guessed.
Not only did it dance in the torchlight reflected by her eyes. It also rippled in the infectious music of her laughter. It radiated from the touch of her hand when she impulsively gripped his arm. It rose from the rich brown waves of her hair like some rare, blithe perfume.
He had her back. His Cecily. The one whose smile could kindle a hearth fire and whose kiss could give a man wings.
“Enjoy it?” She flashed an impudent, teasing grin that hoisted him to giddier heights than the wine in his cup. “You must be in jest, Rowan. You know right well I am entranced by it all. I can scarcely recall revelry like this at Brantham. It seems like forever we have had to be vigilant and warlike. There was peace at the priory, but none of this gaiety.”
“Never fear. We will bring feasting and merriment back to Brantham.” He would mount an expedition to wrest the moon from the sky if she bade him.
Her eyes glowed even brighter, if that were possible. “Aye, I trust we will. I can hardly wait. How soon will our forces be ready to march?”
Before he could reply, Con ap Ifan clapped hands on both their shoulders. “Are the pair of you off in a world of your own? Hear, now, the musicians have struck up a carol. Come lead the first dance.”
Rowan nodded toward the space in the middle of the hall, where guests were marshaling in a circle. “Shall we?”
Jumping from her chair, Cecily caught his sleeve and all but hauled him from his seat. “Don’t be daft, husband! Of course we must skip a round at our own wedding feast.”
They joined hands in the circle, Cecily to his right and Aenor to his left. So buoyant was Rowan’s spirit just then that he did not grudge Con his place at Cecily’s right. The third musician took up a hand drum and the trio broke into a lively tune.
Round and round the circle of revelers whirled. Now stopping to prance into the center. Now drawing back again to begin circling in the opposite direction. Rowan’s blood hummed in his veins and his heart rose to dizzying heights he had all but forgotten in his years of exile. All would be well, now. At last he would bury the past and embrace the future.
As the tempo of the carol raced to a feverish climax, the dancers let out a whoop of glee. Caught up in the moment, Rowan clasped Cecily to him and kissed her before all the gathering with lusty vigor. Her mouth tasted of spiced and honeyed wine—rich, sweet and wild. A man could sate his heart and soul on such kisses and never want for other nourishment.
Only when he felt a good-natured clout on the back did Rowan recover his senses enough to hear the Welshman’s laughter.
“Don’t spend yourself entirely before the bedding, DeCourtenay! We shall see you safely tucked up soon enough. In the meantime, I can see you’ll both need to eat well to sustain you.”
Reluctantly, Rowan relinquished his bride’s lips. To his delight, they clung for a final instant, entreating him to linger. He left them with a final salute that promised many more to come before daybreak.
“Bring on the meat, then!” He jostled his friend in a cheerful mockery of combat. Then, lifting Cecily in his arms, he spun her around. “It will do nothing to appease my sharpest hunger,” he growled into her ear, drunk with the notion that he would soon have her. As he’d longed for almost from the moment he’d first clapped eyes upon her. “That appetite must wait upon our privacy.”
“I hope your lordship will find the dish worth his wait.” Her chuckle, husky with matching desire, almost undid him. Roused to a pitch of exquisite torment, he could barely contain his swelling ardor.
Escorting his bride back to the table, he noticed the guests falling upon heaping platters of food. He took advantage of their momentary distraction to seize Cecily from behind. Running his hands over the slender curves of her body, through the light, silken gown and tunic, he buried his face in the chestnut cascade of her hair.
“Aye, lass. As toothsome a confection as ever I’ll taste. I doubt it not.”
“Rowan DeCourtenay!” She spun around, gazing up at him through dense lashes in a bewitching counterfeit of modesty. “You have no shame. Now, let us look to our supper before we stray too far and cannot contain ourselves.”
If a random cinder from the hearth had lit on him, Rowan feared he would burst into open flame, like a tallow-soaked brand. Waves of heat pulsed through him.
“Very well, wife.” He helped her into her chair, then reclaimed his place beside her. “You shall prevail…for now.” As he gazed at her, Rowan could almost feel the smoldering fervor blazing from his eyes. “Eat fast.”
A trill of eager laughter broke from her lips. “Help me to my meat, then.”
Plucking up his eating knife, Rowan attacked the nearest platter. It held a plump, roasted game bird, basted with a shiny currant glaze and tricked out with a tail of its own handsome plumage. Carving off a portion of juicy dark meat, he offered it to Cecily with his fingers.
Darting him a mischievous glance, she dipped her head and bit off a mouthful, consuming it with obvious relish. Rowan lifted the remaining fowl to his own lips and took a bite.
It was as though he’d been living on a diet of sand for the past decade and suddenly tasted real food again. His tongue greedily savored every morsel. He all but groaned with pleasure. Before he could pop the rest into his mouth, Cecily swooped down and nibbled it from out of his fingers. Her tongue lingered over them, licking off the last savory trace of juice.
“More wine?” He offered her his own cup.
With a nod and a smile of thanks she took it, quaffing a deep draft. He caught her exchanging a wink with one of his aunties.
“What was that about?” He chuckled even before Cecily answered, certain her reply would entertain him.
“Never you mind, husband. Only women’s secret dealings. Ply me with enough roast fowl and rich Gloucester wine and I might divulge it.”
Leaning toward her, he homed in on the graceful column of her neck, grazing it with his beard. “I have much more entertaining means to compel you, Lady DeCourtenay.”
The feast swirled about them. Noisy. Giddy. Lusty.
Yet at the heart of it lay a quiet, private space, like the calm at the eye of a storm. Only big enough to hold the two of them.
Oblivious to anything but his bride, Rowan assailed her lips, drinking long and deeply of her heady nectar. As he had anticipated and fondly hoped, she returned his attentions with unskilled zest that was a thousand times more provocative than the practiced attentions of any trained courtesan.
At last he drew back, panting for air. “Keep on like that, lass, and I’ll never be able to pry myself from your bed to lead the raid on Brantham.”
She leaned close to whisper in his ear. “So long as we are together and wed, what matter if we do without a proper bed for a few nights. I am no blushing damsel who would balk at lying with you wherever we might find ourselves on the road to Berkshire. There is a certain stand of trees I recall fondly, and a byre ripe for the purpose.”
Both images called to him like siren songs. He warmed to Cecily even more fervently, if it were possible, for her spirit and her earthy wit.
“Do not tempt me, vixen. You must know I cannot take you with me.”
The way she stiffened, the way her eyes flashed and her brows knit, told him she knew no such thing.
“But you promised! This morning in the garden. You bade me be myself.”
“Aye. What has that to do with this? You are free to act as you please, but you will remain here while I lay siege to Brantham. On this I am resolved, and nothing will dissuade me.” This must be a half-mad fancy brought on by too much wine. Once she woke in the morning, his wife in fact as well as in name, Cecily would have forgotten all about it.
“Don’t let’s quarrel at our wedding feast and spoil the merriment,” he urged.
He leaned toward Cecily, hoping to distract her capricious temper with another kiss.
Deliberately, she turned her face away from him. Just as his first bride had done at his first wedding banquet.