The Prince Kidnaps a Bride

by Christina Dodd

  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 hor
ror, 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.

  Chapter 18

  As they climbed the stairs to the inn’s second story, the men, flushed with drink and celebration, shoved Rainger to the front of the group. He winced at the jabs and the sharp elbows, but everyone in the village wanted to say they’d helped him do his duty.

  In elaborate pantomime, the men shushed each other, then rapped sharply on the door of the bedchamber.

  “Who is it?” a woman inside trilled.

  “The bridegroom,” Mr. Montaroe boomed.

  The door opened. The women were giggling, bright with the pleasure of a celebration and overcome with the honor fate and their prince had allotted them.

  “The bride is ready,” Tulia pronounced.

  With a roar that sounded like a hundred bears, the men shoved Rainger inside the room.

  Tall beeswax candles flickered on stands beside the carved wooden bed mounded with blankets. White starched curtains hung by the windows. The fire painted the room with a combination of red light and black shadows.

  Sorcha stood by the mattress, clad in that lacy sheer white gown the prostitutes had given her—the gown that had haunted his memory. And he saw the thing he’d imagined, wished for, dreamed of—the shimmer of her unbound hair liberally laced with tiny white blossoms.

  His body responded with instant and absolute excitement.

  Damn. If a single glimpse of her brought his cock up and his balls tight, how was he going to make it through his seduction? He had a plan—could he carry it out?

  But he had to. She was a virgin. She was a princess. She believed their marriage ceremony to be invalid. She knew she needed to marry a prince—and everything he’d done and said had assured her that he was not that prince. Rather, he was the court jester.

  “We should undress the groom,” the men shouted. “So the bride can see that she has made a marvelous union and we can make sure he’s up to performing his marital duties.”

  “Up to performing his marital duties.” Mr. Montaroe, drunk as a lord, fell sideways laughing and tumbled to the floor. “That’s rich! Up to performing!”

  Everyone laughed with ribald excitement, but still with respect and genuine joy. All of them, men and women, saw in this union the end to their exile. All of them wanted for this marriage to bear fruit and secure their future.

  Rainger appreciated that, but he was determined they would leave him alone with his bride to conduct his seduction as he wished.

  Turning to face the crowd, he blocked the view of Sorcha. He wanted to tell them that when he had retrieved their country, and his, from the evil grasp of Count duBelle, they’d be welcomed with all honors to his capital. But he walked a tightrope—he dared not say too much or Sorcha would realize she’d been duped. And that moment needed to be postponed until the moment he deemed proper. “Thank you, good people, for your kindness and generosity. Sorcha and I will never forget it, or you.”

  They cheered, overcome with emotion and ale.

  “Go and rejoice, and leave us to celebrate in our own way.” He grinned a knowing, brash grin, one that made the women giggle and the men grin back. Then he shut the door with a soft, definite click, locked it with a strong movement that made the sound of the latch echo in the corridor, and waited until he’d heard the sound of many feet descending the stairs and the laughter and conversation fade.

  Turning back to the room, he found Sorcha had turned her back on him. Her arms were raised, the curves of her body gleaming softly through the sheer material of her nightgown.

  She had gathered the glorious fall of her hair and started to make a braid, her fingers moving frantically. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice held a chagrined breathlessness that successfully drove out what little sense remained in his head. “I tried to tell the women this wasn’t necessary, but they found the nightgown and after that there was no stopping them. They assume we really are married, which of course they would, so they wanted to make you feel desire. But believe me, I didn’t want to make you feel desire. Since you told me it’s painful for you when you’re unsatisfied, I’ve done everything to make sure I’m not the cause of any pain for you. Have you noticed?”

  He grunted, because she was crushing the blossoms as she worked, and a sweet, wild scent filled his head.

  Was the scent the flowers... or Sorcha?

  “If you’ll give me a minute,” she said, “maybe turn around to save yourself distress, I’ll dress and we can prepare for bed.”

  Passion and need blasted through him. He found himself beside her. He glimpsed her wide blue eyes sparkling with a sheen of embarrassed tears. Catching h
er wrists, he removed her hands from her hair. “Don’t imagine I don’t want to look at you. No matter how much pain I suffer for you, I’ll always want to look at you. You were made for me, and right now all I want to do is sink my fingers into your hair.” He did, and reveled at the silky sensation as he freed each strand from its incipient prison. “I want to sink my tongue into your mouth.” He did, tasting the mint she’d chewed to cleanse her breath and, beneath that, the flavor of bewildered passion... and of Sorcha. “I want to sink my body into yours—” Catching her buttocks in his hands, he brought her close and rolled his hips, putting a pressure against his erection that heightened his passion and did nothing to ease his desire.

  A startled gasp escaped her, and he remembered—she had never seen a naked man, must less seen him aroused as a bull.

  Too much honesty! Too blunt! This wasn’t the way he’d meant to play it!

  His fingers trembled and they felt like a stranger’s as he forced them, one by one, to release her.

  The blood that normally circulated to his brain was elsewhere, so falling to his knees wasn’t difficult. Nor was the bowed head, for when looking down he could see her feet, one atop the other as she tried to warm them, and her ankles, slender and graceful. Taking the hem of her nightgown, he lifted it to his lips—he caught a quick glimpse of shapely calves—and said, “Your Highness, I shouldn’t have said those things. I should never have touched you. I’m a humble man before you. But your beauty sings to me and I’ve never wanted a woman... ” The words he’d rehearsed poured from him with far too much sincerity. He couldn’t seem to help it. He forgot her feet, her ankles, her calves. He forgot that he could artlessly run his eyes up and see through her nightgown to the body beneath.

  Instead he lifted his gaze to hers and in all candor, said, “I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you, with all my heart and all my soul, and I meant every word of our wedding vows.”

  Her eyes became a dark blue, the kind of blue that reminded him of a stormy sea and the violent currents that could drown a man. She took a long breath. She straightened her shoulders. Slowly she extended her hand; he had never seen her look more like a princess. “You have no reason to be humble. You’re kind—and so brave. You never hesitated when I told you I was in danger. I know that you made your vows with all sincerity. I felt your emotion, for I feel this way also.” Then she covered his eyes with her hand.