The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (16 page)

He hadn’t cared for the beauty and serenity then; his visit had been a duty.

Now it was like coming home.

He didn’t really understand his own emotions. In the darkness of Count duBelle’s dungeon, he’d come to doubt God’s grace. He’d prayed so hard in prison—first for vengeance, then for escape, and finally for death. Only when he’d forsworn God had he escaped.

If God had a presence on this earth, Rainger had yet to see proof of it.

He glanced at Sorcha. She had dropped to her knees. Her gaze was fixed to the altar, her lips moved in a prayer, and between her fingers she held the silver cross still connected to a chain around her neck.

The cross Sorcha wore was identical to the ones that her sisters kept around their necks.

That cross was the only object that united Sorcha with Clarice and Amy. He’d heard the longing in her voice when she spoke of her sisters, and if he were a different man, he’d feel guilty about the letters he carried in his saddlebags. The letters written in loving script from Clarice and Amy to their dear sister Sorcha.

Guilt had no place in his plan.

Yet he found a prayer rising from his gut. It wasn’t a proper sort of prayer, but it was sincere.
I need Sorcha, Lord. Let me keep her. Don’t let her die.

Because if the assassins killed Sorcha, Rainger’s schemes would come to naught.

And if she wasn’t there to nag him and tease him and ask him questions better left unspoken, the sunshine would fade, the tides would cease their motion, and he would walk forever in shadow.

But—such sentiment was silly, a temporary weakness caused by too little food and too much apprehension.

Gracefully she came to her feet and smiled at him. “Isn’t it wonderful here?”

“Yes. A good place to get married.”

“What are you babbling about?” She didn’t understand yet. She didn’t comprehend his intent—and if all went well, she wouldn’t understand why he’d urged this course until it was too late to retreat.

“We must get married in this church because I won’t leave you in a room by yourself.” Rainger managed to sound prosaic.

“I can’t marry you. It’s not necessary.”

“If they won’t let us stay in the same room, it is.” Carefully he began his argument. “Besides, it won’t count. We’re not the same religion.”

“No, we’re not.” She smiled at him fondly. “But dear, foolish Arnou, what does that matter?”

“In the Catholic church”—Rainger picked his words carefully to avoid claiming to be a Catholic—“a marriage isn’t legal unless both parties are confirmed. Is it not the same for your church?”

“No. Long ago, both Beaumontagne and Richarte were Catholic. But we’re small countries isolated by mountains. The winters are arduous and by the end of the fifteenth century, we had our own cardinal and our own way of doing things. Yet often marriages occurred with Catholics—holdovers from the old religion or visitors to our borders. So in special circumstances such as ours, Father Terrance has dispensation to immediately perform the ceremony for the couple, without a care to their religion, without banns or the other, more proper rituals.”

“What special circumstances?” As if Rainger didn’t know.

“It appears to the village we’ve already been sharing the favors of a wedding bed, and now you’re insisting we stay in the same room. It seems to them that we have already consummated our relationship.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s not true.”

Wait a few more hours.

“This kind of marriage is officially recognized by the church,” she said. “The common people call it ‘sliding the banister.’”

He almost laughed. He hadn’t heard that for a long time.

“It would be better if we go to a different village and a different inn.” But her longing gaze around her belied her humdrum tone. It was clear she wanted to stay with her people.

With a little concentrated effort on his part, he would convince her. “There’s not a village or an inn close.”

“Then we should find a farmhouse or stay in a field. It’s not like we haven’t done that before.”

“More assassins are waiting, and they’re waiting where they know we must go—on the road to Edinburgh. That is what Madam Pinchon told you, isn’t it?”

Miserably, she nodded.

“If the money I got off that first assassin is any indication, Count duBelle is paying well.”

Sorcha stiffened. “How do
you
know about Count duBelle?”

“Mr. Montaroe mentioned him.” Rainger had to be careful. Sorcha was trusting, far too trusting, but she wasn’t stupid. He needed to convince her, not make her wary of him. “I will not leave you alone in a room. You know I would never presume more than you let me. I understand my place in your life.” Long ago, he would have flinched to tell such lies while standing in a church. Now all that mattered was winning the princess and taking back his country.

“Marriage between us is prohibited for me.”

“You said the priest could marry us.”

“He could marry us if I weren’t a princess... .”

Rainger widened his eyes as if confused. “You said your church could marry across faiths.”

“The common people can marry across faiths, but we’re like the Church of England. Our rulers are the heads of the church and I, as a member of the royal family, have to marry a member of the Church of the Mountain.”

“Because you’re the head of the church.” He shrugged. “We won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s not that simple. If we marry, we can’t spend the night together in a single bed. Do you understand?”

He understood far more than she knew. “Because your prince is alive.”

She put her finger over his lips. “That’s a rumor.”

“But maybe it’s true.”

“Maybe.” She sounded unconvinced.

“Wouldn’t you be happier if you had to marry him than anyone else?”

“Rainger would probably be the lesser of many evils.”

Rainger winced. He’d asked for that.

“But I’m not going to live my life on the chance that report is true. No, Rainger isn’t the problem. The problem is—if I go into
my
church and repeat wedding vows which bind me to you, then I dare not consummate that marriage.”

He widened his eyes in feigned confusion.

She sighed and tried to explain. “Because there are witnesses who are my people, I’d have to tell Grandmamma and the cardinal and the bishop, and they’ll want to perform an annulment to cleanse this ceremony away, and they’ll ask me to swear nothing happened between us. I can’t swear that if we spend a night together, really together.”

“Were you really going to give yourself to me?” For the first time, it occurred to him how little she cared for the trappings of royalty, and he experienced a dangerously warm sense of worth. Sorcha liked him for who he was—a poor, ignorant, simple man.

“Of course I was going to give myself to you.”

“But you’re a princess.”

“Our coming together would harm no one, and it would make me euphoric.” She smoothed her finger along his stubbled chin. “I flatter myself it would make you euphoric, too.”

“Yes.” Stubbornly he returned to his everlasting refrain. “But we aren’t going elsewhere, and I won’t leave you alone.”

“Oh.” She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as if seeking heavenly guidance. “You’re impossible!”

“If I deliver you to Beaumontagne alive, I could get a big reward. They won’t pay me anything for your dead body.”

“Somebody would,” she snapped, then bit her lip.

“Killing you wouldn’t be much of a challenge, would it?” For the first time, he allowed a crack to form in his doltish façade, and permitted her a glimpse of how dangerous he could be.

She stepped back. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”

“In these circumstances, Your Highness”—he used her title on purpose to remind her of her importance—“you must take advantage of any stratagem which brings you back to your country alive. Staying alive is what matters.”

Sorcha walked away from him. Turned her back on him. Slid her fingers along the polished wood of the pew. In a voice so soft Rainger had to strain to hear it, she said, “Mother Brigette told me almost the same thing.” Slowly she nodded. “All right. I’ll marry you.”

“I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

“With you, Arnou, I never doubted that.” She smiled at him.

Brave, sweet girl. She accepted this small defeat well.

When she discovered the truth, she would undoubtedly acknowledge her rout as graciously.

R
ainger 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.”