Reluctant Bride

by Sam Crescent

  “She’s not happy.” Morag turned from the oven, her face pink from the heat. “But her manners are impeccable despite that.”

  “She’s smart, sweet, and kind.”

  “I think you left out beautiful, resourceful, and vindictive.”

  He shrugged. “She was tempted and then denied. And as for the last, well, time will tell.”

  “You don’t know women, Luke, despite your familiarity with vast numbers of them.”

  He snorted. “Hardly vast. But I’m eleven years older than Sorcha, and I wasn’t a monk.”

  “You’ll need every bit of skill with her.”

  He snagged a piece of carrot from the counter. “How do you know that?”

  “Because she holds a part of you no woman has held before. And I don’t mean a part the eye can see,” she said when he raised a brow. “You’re vulnerable where she’s concerned. If you want a bit of advice, don’t let her know upfront because she might feed that part to you, extricated, grilled, and sliced.”

  “You have a violent streak I hadn’t noticed before, Morag.” If he made light of the truth, it wouldn’t sting so much. He should have done things differently, infiltrated Sorcha’s life as a friend when he’d first noticed her at sixteen. He could have progressed to suitor within a couple of years. She might not have even wanted to leave for university.

  “Just saying.” Morag short-circuited his trip down memory lane. The one where he set his gaze on a beautiful woman-child. Even given the circumstances, her mother’s funeral, one couldn’t mistake her confidence and poise. She had a depth to her, something that called to his own.

  “She’s mine.” Everything he felt resonated so strongly in his tone that his sister gave him a startled look.

  “Like I said, you are hers even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

  Abruptly, he tossed the carrot into the trash, saying, “I think I’ll take a rain check. My presence stokes Sorcha’s ire.”

  Morag gaped at him. “Are you running away?”

  “She needs time to settle down and reflect on the … situation. And she won’t be able to do that if she sees me at every turn.”

  “Did you read that in a book?”

  “It’s called strategy, Morag. Both sexes use it. I’ll be back in a couple of days. You can give me a shout.”

  “Like progress reports?”

  “Exactly.” His body was telling him to go back and show his future bride exactly how he felt about her, but his will was stronger. That might change the longer he was within Sorcha’s proximity, and he was doing this right. “Her things will be arriving soon. She can set out what she needs here, and I’ll send someone for the rest.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get whatever else she needs. I’m counting on the wedding dress of her dreams—and no doubt her father will insist on paying for that—but if there’s anything else…”

  “You’ve got it all figured out.”

  “You agreed to help.”

  “So, I did. Fine.”

  “She’s mine, Morag. And I have to keep her safe. You know I won’t hurt her.”

  “Maybe you already have.”

  He flashed to the bruises on Sorcha’s arms, but he knew what Morag meant. “Your marriage worked out.”

  Her blue eyes, so like his, went glassy. “It did.”

  His sister still grieved, though it had been years since Angus died, and he regretted reminding her. “She’s the one I’ve chosen, and I received permission.”

  “I sense that Sorcha won’t be the pushover I was.”

  “You weren’t,” he insisted. “You cared for Angus.”

  Wincing, she turned away, but not before he saw the conflicted emotions on her face. “I did, and I didn’t.”

  “What?” He felt as though the world had flipped on its side.

  Pulling plates from the cupboard, she said, “Nothing. Continue with your strategy. It’s what this Family is about. Why would anything change?”

  He studied her for a moment. “Tell me. Please.”

  Without looking at him, she replied, “Angus was chosen for me. I wanted to be a nurse.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Of course, you didn’t know. What I wanted didn’t signify. But let’s just say Angus and I had things to work out, and it wasn’t his fault I was miserable at times.”

  Again, he regretted raising the subject of his brother-in-law. He’d upset Morag, and there was nothing anyone could do about the past. His brother-in-law was dead. Violence tended to claim people in the Family as it had Sorcha’s mother. Though she’d given him something to think about, damn it.

  Sensing she regretted confiding and not knowing what else to say, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Coward.”

  Stifling a chuckle, he made his way to his vehicle, relieved that Morag had teased him at the end. Regardless of her comments about her marriage, she’d done her duty and regrouped. His battle stance slowly relaxed as he drove to his home, and his body faded with exhaustion, although he hated leaving the object of his affection—obsession—behind.

  Chapter Three

  “Thank you for dinner.” Sorcha folded her napkin and set it beside her plate. She was still wondering why Luke had left without a farewell—not that she cared. “I’ll clean up.”

  “You’re my guest.” Morag shook her head.

  “I’ll be here for the next month, Morag. I can’t imagine doing nothing.”

  “Then, I appreciate it.”

  After helping, she stood uncomfortably in the middle of the kitchen.

  “Your things will be here soon,” Morag offered. “Luke asks that you sort out what you need for the next while and send the remainder to his home.”

  She didn’t want anything of hers in that man’s home, but she swallowed the words. “Okay.”

  “Is your room suitable?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  Morag smiled. “It appears we’ve exhausted small talk over dinner. Do you want to watch television?”

  “I think I’ll hang out in my room.” She needed time to herself. Trying to find a way out of her situation was pointless, but at least she could wallow in peace.

  “A month to plan your wedding isn’t very long, Sorcha, so best we get started first thing tomorrow.”

  She took a deep breath. Better she say it now. “Morag, I don’t want to be rude to you. I don’t. But I’m marrying your brother under duress. I feel like chattel. I am chattel. Maybe you didn’t have that experience, but I can’t help but feel it.”

  The older woman lowered her gaze to the floor, and her fingers twisted against one another. “He’s a good guy. Maybe if you gave him a chance?”

  “It isn’t my intention to make you defensive,” Sorcha insisted. “He’s your brother, and you’ve been put in the middle. I’m sorry. But I’m not going willingly. He told me you would plan it, so please do.”

  “But—”

  She wanted to scream but maintained control. “Please. I’m not a starry-eyed girl hoping for a storybook wedding, okay? I have no way out, but I won’t be complicit in selling myself into what I consider slavery.”

  “Oh, honey. It’s not like that.”

  “It’s exactly like that. I had a future I chose. It was within my grasp, and your brother tore it away. With my father’s blessing and Sean Flanagan’s decree. I don’t see myself as a willing wife or … mother, but there’s no choice there either.”

  Morag blinked, and one hand lifted as if to touch her, and Sorcha flinched away. The woman retreated and said, “I’ll call you when your belongings arrive.”

  “Thanks.” She hurried to her assigned room and closed the door.

  Flopping on the bed, she called Anya, then terminated the call before her new friend answered. She didn’t feel up to lying to her, and what story could she manufacture? Her phone buzzed beneath her palm, and she jumped.

  Hesitating, she tapped the screen. “Hi, Anya.”

  “Hey, yo
urself. Where’ve you been?”

  “I … I’m at home.”

  “Home? How come?”

  She hadn’t known Anya for very long, but it was like they went back a long way. She hadn’t even thought about calling her friends around here. But she didn’t want to lie. “I’m getting married.”

  “What?”

  Wincing, she held the phone away from her ear. “It’s complicated.”

  “You just moved here. Just started school. I don’t understand.”

  “I told you my Family’s … different.”

  “Hun, you don’t have the monopoly on that.”

  “Yeah, well, I might.”

  “Okay. Well, are you asking me to be your bridesmaid?”

  She laughed. If only things could be so normal. “No. I mean, I’d love that, but I don’t want to get married, so I’m not having any part of getting there.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Sorcha.”

  “It’s an expectation. I don’t have to like it. I’m just going to show up and get it over with.”

  “You make it sound like one of those arranged marriages. Hey, you haven’t been kidnapped or something?”

  “Not kidnapped.” This was a mistake. She should have kept everything to herself.

  “Oh, crap. Arranged, then? Seriously?”

  Sighing, she traced a pattern on the coverlet. “I know it’s hard to believe.”

  “You’re not East Indian.”

  “There are lots of cultures that arrange marriages, Anya.”

  “True. I guess. I’m not up on that. Are you gonna be okay with it?”

  Would she? What was it Luke said about choices? “I have to be.”

  “Or you could leave. I’d help you. Hide you someplace.” Anya’s voice became more confident as if two nineteen-year-olds planning an escape was within the norm. Sorcha had often felt ancient beside her friend, but sometimes she could act just like her—a treat.

  Unable to explain further about how it was impossible to leave, let alone involve an outsider, she said, “I know you would, and I love you for it. But I’ve accepted it.”

  “Wow. You’re giving up a lot to please your family. I hope the guy’s worth it.”

  She fought a visceral reaction to that last comment. Luke was worth it in most women’s eyes, and her body reminded her of that fact. She ground her teeth.

  “You there, Sorcha?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking—”

  “About your husband-to-be? He’s hot?” Anya promptly focused away from orchestrating an escape to her favorite topic—hot guys.

  “He’s ruining my life.”

  “Well, there’s that, but if he’s sex personified? Tell me he is.” There was that girly goofiness Sorcha was going to miss—she just wished Anya hadn’t picked this time for it.

  “He’s an asshole.” Her tone was bitter, but a hint of her take on Luke as a man leaked through.

  “But a hot one.” Anya knew her well enough to hear the inference. They’d discussed the kind of guys that appealed, and Luke had been Sorcha’s poster boy—albeit unnamed. “C’mon, spill.”

  She decided not to lend any further credibility to Luke Donnelly. “I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  “So, don’t tell me. Can I come to the wedding, at least?”

  “I don’t know, Anya. My Family doesn’t like outsiders.”

  “Geez. Well, then call me. Send pics. Don’t lose contact.”

  “I will. I won’t.”

  Hanging up, she flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, willing the tears back, not wanting to waste them. A few escaped despite her efforts. She sniffed and rubbed at the wetness, suddenly tired to the bone.

  He’d mentioned children. She rubbed her abdomen over her jeans and contemplated the idea. She liked children, wished she had siblings and had done some babysitting during her teen years. But she was in no way ready to be a mother.

  A tremor made her whole body quake when she considered the mechanics of making them with Luke Donnelly. He was older than her, maybe by ten years, but he didn’t seem old, like some, despite her barbed remark. He was hot, damn him. But it wasn’t going to make this okay.

  She heard the doorbell, and her heart jumped into her throat. Tiptoeing to the door, she heard the voices of at least two men and Morag’s quieter tones. A knock some time later had her turning the knob, and she viewed her cases stacked in the hall.

  “Your apartment was furnished?” Morag asked.

  “Yes. Except for a slip chair of my mother’s.” Her shoulders sagged at the thought of losing that on top of everything else, even as her heart slowed after ascertaining Luke hadn’t returned.

  “It’s on the truck, Miss.” A familiar man nodded to her. “We’ll take it to Mr. Donnelly’s.”

  Biting her lip because she didn’t want to impose further on Morag, she nodded back. Another man carried in a stack of boxes, and with a sigh, she waved him into her room.

  “Would you like some help unpacking?” Morag offered.

  “No, thanks. It’s mostly clothes, some items of sentimental value, and the stuff I bought to…” She’d started to make the furnished apartment her own. No doubt Donnelly’s place was a showplace, and her pathetic purchases wouldn’t fit.

  “No rush. Sort out what you need. They’ll come back tomorrow.” Morag motioned the men to take the cases in.

  Considering it a purge of sorts, she quickly organized a wardrobe for her stay at Morag’s and hung the items up or placed them inside the dresser. The remainder she bundled up and set aside. It was unlikely she’d have a use for sweatshirts and tees with the University logo emblazoned on the front, and even less likely she’d be allowed to wear some of the outfits she and Anya had chosen together. Married women were expected to present themselves as modest and respectable.

  The boxes proved to be more difficult to sort. Many of the items reminded her of the forays into the thrift shops and downtown markets with Anya and a couple of other students. It was like having a taste of a treat and seeing it tossed into the trash.

  In the end, she kept only the quilt her mother made and her personal pictures. She didn’t bother to unpack the textbooks she’d searched out second hand, refolding the box to seal them inside with hardly a look. All in all, it was a pretty paltry beginning. Again. And one surely without the banked excitement she’d felt in striking out on her own.

  Luke’s handsome face with his dark hair and startlingly blue eyes filled her head, and she blinked it away, right along with the awareness of his tall, muscled body. Black Irish. The term described him perfectly. The frisson of anticipation in her belly was most unwelcome, and she wrote it off to rage. She refused to think about being his wife and all that entailed.

  She went in search of Morag. The other woman was on the couch, scanning through channels via the remote. “Finished already?”

  “I am. I thought I’d take the things I packed back up to the second-hand store in the morning. If I could borrow your car.” She was pretty sure there was no way she’d be allowed transportation, but whatever.

  “You mean, give them to charity?”

  Maybe Morag didn’t donate stuff, but Sorcha now had a greater understanding of what thrift stores meant for people. She shrugged.

  The older woman said, “Luke’s men can drop them off on the way to his house with the rest of your things.”

  “There isn’t anything.”

  “Sorcha. Please. Come sit down.”

  She perched on a chair across from Morag. “I’m not being difficult, you know. I’m being practical. My things have no place in this world.”

  “You’re so upset.”

  “Luke doesn’t care. He’s getting what he wants, and no one has given a thought to what I’d like.”

  Rubbing the area between her eyes, Morag heaved a sigh. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “I’ll stand in front of the priest and take vows that will bind me to your brother for the rest of my l
ife. I’ll be expected to live a sedate life, have sex with him, bear children, and turn a blind eye to anything he does outside of our home. That includes any other women.” Not that her father had eyes for anyone other than her mom, but she heard gossip about other men.

  “I can’t dispute any of that with the exception of the other women because Luke is loyal above all else. And I’m not sure what you find so distasteful about the life you described, especially when he means to treat you well and keep you safe.”

  “It’s not my choice.” Would she have chosen Luke? He had been so far out of sphere she hadn’t considered it.

  Morag sighed again. “I wish you could see how perfect you are for Luke.”

  She was curiously reluctant to inquire what the woman meant. Like the answer might not be something she could handle. Instead, she gave her an honest truth. “After my mother … died, I couldn’t wait to leave. Being in this Family killed her spirit long before. All she wanted was a life outside for me.”

  Face softening, Morag offered, “I think I understand. But some things are bigger than us. And Luke wouldn’t have offered for you if he didn’t want you.”

  Luke Donnelly wanted to fuck her, despite insisting on waiting for marriage. She didn’t have any real sexual experience, but she knew that instinctively. It would have been flattering, and exciting, but the circumstances sucked. She changed the subject, remembering she spoke to a widow, “I’m sorry for your own loss.”

  The other woman’s eyes shuttered. “Thank you. It was some time ago.”

  She took a stab in the dark. “Did you have any choice in marrying?”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “I know it isn’t. I just wondered if you had any options.”

  “I did. I chose to make a life with my husband.”

  Sorcha recognized the evasion and wondered if Morag felt she’d made the right choice. She said, “Your brother told me I could choose to be happy or not. Like it’s that simple.”

  “We can make the best of things. Many of us do exactly that. And you should call him Luke.”

  She wasn’t calling him anything. Best she pop out a few babies and focus on being a good mother, except the idea of her children growing up within the confines of the Family made her mad. She wondered if she could deny Luke the right to consummate their marriage. “Do you ever think about your boys growing up to serve the Family?”