She stopped trying to dislodge his grip but she wouldn’t look at him. “Y-you cannot help,” she said, her voice trembling. “You have already been too kind to me. Please… please let me go back to the livery.”
There were people walking around them up and down the road, either heading to the field or away from it. There were too many ears hearing what was going on between them. Grasping Brighton by both arms, Patrick pulled her over to the side of the road, into an alley that led down between small homes clinging to the side of the hill. There wasn’t anyone around that he could see so he gently pushed her up against the wall, keeping his grip on her for fear she would try to run off. He was both greatly puzzled by her behavior and greatly concerned.
“Now,” he said quietly. “I am not going to release you until you tell me what is wrong. Not a few moments ago, you were cheering happily from the lists. I could hear you. Why do you think I won? Your support fortified me. And now you are near tears, wanting to go back to the livery. Tell me what has happened.”
Brighton was miserable. She hung her head, looking at her feet. How can I tell him what I am thinking? How can I confide in him? I will only sound foolish!
“P-please,” she whispered. “There… there is nothing wrong. I….”
He shook her, gently. “No lies,” he snapped softly. “Tell me now or we shall spend the rest of our lives here because I will not let you leave until you tell me. We will become quite hungry and our feet might actually grow into the ground like tree roots, but it does not matter. I am not leaving until you tell me why you are distressed. Do you not trust me enough to tell me?”
Her head came up, then, drawn to him by his attempted humor. “O-of course I trust you,” she insisted softly. “It has nothing to do with trust.”
“Aye, it does, because you will not tell me what has distressed you. I can only assume you do not trust me.”
Brighton shook her head. “I-I do, I swear it,” she said, but it occurred to her that he meant what he said; they weren’t leaving until she told him… something. But what to say? Her stomach was in knots and her breathing was coming in labored gasps. She was going to sound foolish but she had little choice. “I-I… I was thinking that you and Lord Horsden’s daughter made a handsome couple. When you do marry, your wife should be a woman of culture and wealth, for that is what you deserve. I…I suppose I was upset because of my circumstances. I never had the opportunity for culture and wealth but it wasn’t anything I thought of until I came to know something of the world outside of Coldingham. Does that make any sense? It probably sounds foolish. Sister Acha said that my real father is a king, but I do not feel that is true. I will live like a pauper my entire life and seeing you with that wealthy lord’s daughter, it made me realize how different you and I are. And I was simply being foolish in thinking such things; forgive me for running off.”
Patrick let her go. “Is that the truth?”
She nodded, embarrassed, and hung her head again. “Aye.”
Patrick sighed heavily and leaned back against the wall, his gaze fixed on Brighton’s lowered head even though she couldn’t see it. Had she looked up, she would have seen a glimmer of warmth in his eyes that was a glimpse of what he was feeling in his heart. Aye, she made sense to him. More than she realized. Since she was being brave and speaking what was in her heart, he thought that, perhaps, he should, too.
It was time.
“It is strange you should say that, for I was thinking nearly the same thing,” he said softly. “You see, I happen to believe you are the daughter of a king, for only a princess would be so beautiful and so bright as you are. Here I am, the son of a mere war lord, and I was thinking that I was quite beneath you. It is a fear I have had.”
Brighton’s head snapped up, her eyes wide on him. “Y-you? Beneath me?”
He nodded. Then, he folded his enormous arms across his chest, cocking his head as he spoke. “Imagine how men would look up to me with a wife who was a Norse princess,” he said. “Lord Horsden’s daughter doesn’t have a splinter of your beauty or sweetness. I would sooner throw myself on my sword than marry someone like her. But you… I cannot imagine anything finer in this life than being able to tell men that you are my wife. It would make me greatly envied.”
Brighton couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was looking at him with such shock that she almost had a horrified expression. “D-do you mean that?”
“Of course.”
“Are you mad?”
He laughed softly, nodding his head. “I am,” he said, sobering. His features suddenly took on an intensity that was difficult to describe. “Exceedingly mad for you. Marry me, Bridey. Marry me and make me the envy of every man.”
Her jaw fell open. “B-but… but you cannot mean that!”
“Of course I do.”
“B-but… your parents…what would your father and mother say?”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “My mother adores you,” he said. “My father… well, he will approve. I believe he likes you a great deal.”
Brighton just stood there, staring at him with her mouth open. “H-he does?”
“He does.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Brighton exhaled sharply, coming out like something of a choke. But the expression on her face now was nothing short of wondrous. A hand flew to her mouth as if to hold back the burst of emotion that was sure to come.
“O-oh… Patrick….”
The tone of her voice speared him, ripping into him and embedding itself deep into his heart. One moment he was standing across the alley from her and in the next, he was sweeping her into his arms, lifting her off of the ground as his mouth slanted over hers. Brighton wrapped her arms around his neck, blocking out the world around them as he suckled on her lips. But it wasn’t enough and Patrick licked her lips, her teeth, snaking his tongue into her mouth and tasting her deliciousness as she gasped and whimpered in his arms. The kiss in the garden had been nothing like this.
This was heaven. The realization of dreams neither one of them ever realized they’d had.
“Patrick… my sweet Patrick,” Brighton breathed as he tore his mouth away from hers and devoured her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. “Never did I believe… Sweet Mary, how I hoped for this moment!”
That sweet, breathy gasp filled his veins with fire and he set her on her feet, backing her up against the wall and cupping her face between his two enormous hands. He kissed her soft mouth again, lingering over her tender lips, feeling such elation in his soul that he was giddy with it. He’d never felt like this in his entire life.
“I do not know if I hoped for it,” he whispered against her. “To be truthful, you terrified me. But your allure… it was impossible to resist. I cannot tell you when I realized I loved you, only that I did. I do. I am leaving for London next week and you are coming with me. It would destroy me to leave you behind.”
Brighton was weeping quiet and happy tears. “Atty,” she murmured as he kissed her wet cheeks. “My sweet, Atty. I love you, too. I have never known love before but I cannot imagine this joy is anything else. It embraces me and fills me until I cannot feel or think of anything but you. And I will love you until I die, I swear it.”
Atty. The nickname given to him as a child never sounded so wonderful, so endearing coming from her lips. He continued to hold her face in his hands, his lips on her forehead reverently.
“And I, you,” he whispered. “You and no other.”
Brighton sighed faintly, with great satisfaction. Her eyes closed as his lips moved over her face and down her temple. His hands left her face at that moment and he wrapped her up in his big arms, holding her tightly. He squeezed her until she grunted, but he didn’t stop squeezing and she didn’t seem to care. She was finally his and he would never, ever let her go.
Ever!
“I shall marry you before I depart for London,” he said quietly. “In fact, I shall marry you this very day so there
will be no delays or complications. I will not wait to call you my wife.”
Brighton thought it all sounded too good to be true. But somewhere in her haze of delirium, images of Jordan and William came to mind. She pulled her face out of his chest to look up at him.
“But what of your mother and father?” she asked. “Will they not be angry if we marry without them?”
He shrugged. “It is not as if I need their permission,” he said. “And you… you became mine when I promised Sister Acha that I would protect you, always. No priory is going to dictate to me whether or not I can or cannot marry you. Once we are married, they cannot do anything about it.”
Brighton was showing signs of hesitation. “Are you certain?”
He nodded. “Are you of age?”
“I am.”
“Do you wish to marry me?”
She softened. “More than anything.”
“Then you have given your consent. That is all I need.”
He sounded so confident, a man with the world at his feet who would give control of his life to no man save his father or the king. Because he was confident, Brighton was confident. She would have let him take her to hell and back if he wished it. She was more than willing to abide by his wishes.
“Then where shall we be married?” she asked. “Is there a church in town?”
Patrick kissed her one last time, sweetly, before taking her by the hand and leading her from the alley and onto the busy road again. There were more games going on now and, from what he could see, the wrestling had started. He knew Kerk was somewhere in the middle of it but he couldn’t take the time to seek the man out. He had a mission to accomplish this day and would waste no more time in accomplishing it. Marriage, that very thing he had shied from all of these years, had come astonishingly easy when it pertained to Brighton.
Perhaps he was being impetuous or perhaps he was simply a man who knew what he wanted, finally, and would wait no more. He really didn’t know which best described him. But in any case, he and Brighton headed back toward the town center to purchase the thread his mother wanted before collecting his steed and heading to the edge of town where St. Mary’s Church was situated.
The old church was grand with a tall spire and moss-covered stone walls, the interior smelling of dirt and fatted tapers. With a few coins to the priests, generous enough so that there weren’t any questions, Patrick and Brighton were married at the entrance to the church with two priests, four acolytes, and a few of the townsfolk as witnesses. It was a bit surreal for him and for Brighton, too. She had a rather dazed look about her, but nothing in the world had ever felt so right.
When the priest said the wedding mass and wrapped their joined hands with holy silk borrowed from the second priest, Patrick knew that marrying Brighton was the most certain thing he’d ever done in his life. That beautiful postulate, that divine and sweet guest of the de Wolfe family, was now his wife and when the priest gave the final blessing, it wasn’t Brighton who shed a tear. It was Patrick.
It was done.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Angel Inn
Wooler
“Are we not returning to Castle Questing tonight?”
Patrick shook his head as he escorted Brighton into the biggest and best room that the Angel Inn had to offer. He had his saddlebags in one hand, bags that contained various possessions including his coin purse, and he tossed them onto the end of the bed.
“Nay,” he said. “We are going to stay here tonight.”
Brighton wasn’t particularly seeing his logic. “But why?” she asked. “Castle Questing is not so far away. The sun has not even set.”
Patrick shut the door to the chamber, throwing the bolt. The walls were thin and noise from the common room below could be heard, loud laughter and an occasional woman’s scream. It was all quite chaotic and the door didn’t do much to shut out the commotion as Patrick crossed the floor towards Brighton, who was confused by the fact that they weren’t returning home for the night.
“I realize it is still light outside and we could easily travel back to Questing, but I will be honest when I say that I do not want to,” he said. He smiled thinly. “We must make sure this marriage cannot be dissolved.”
She still had no idea what he was talking about. “It cannot be dissolved at all,” she said. “We were just married.”
He could see she was clueless. Sitting on the bed, he pulled her onto his lap, relishing the feel of her in his arms. God, she felt good. He propped his chin on her shoulder.
“Has no one ever told you of the ways between men and women?” he asked. “The ways between a husband and a wife?”
She eyed him as if only just coming to realize what he meant. Her cheeks turned pink. “Not much, I am afraid,” she said, trying not to look too embarrassed. “We have goats and pigs at Coldingham and I have seen them couple. Sister Acha told me once about the way that a man plants his seed in a woman, but she said it was wicked and painful.”
He lifted his dark eyebrows. “As a nun, I suppose she would see it that way. But I assure you it is not wicked, at least between a husband and wife.”
“But is it painful?”
Now he was becoming a bit pink in the cheeks. “Not for me,” he said, watching her eyes widen. He laughed softly and kissed her cheek. “Not to worry, Bridey. I will be very gentle with you. But we must consummate this marriage so it cannot be annulled or dissolved, by anyone.”
A flicker of fear crossed her features. “Do you believe someone will try? Your father, mayhap?”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I do not honestly believe he would. But it is better to be safe.”
Brighton trusted him. He knew so much more than she did about the world in general so she didn’t question him further. She simply wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him.
“As you say,” she murmured. “What would you have me do?”
That was a question with many answers as far as he was concerned. Aye, lass, let me count the ways! He almost laughed but managed to hold off any semblance of a smile because he knew she’d have no idea about the double entendre. So, he gave her a light squeeze and set her on her feet.
“I want you to remain here,” he said. “I have something I must do, so you will remain here and rest. Take a bath if you wish. I will return shortly.”
She looked surprised. “A bath in the middle of the day?”
He winked at her. “It is not the middle of the day,” he said. “Dusk will soon be upon us. But if you do not wish to bathe, send for wine, sit in the window, and watch the street below. You have been fascinated with watching the people since our arrival.”
She nodded, turning to look at the big window, shuttered. There was a bench seat directly below it.
“I have simply never seen so many people in one place,” she said. “But I will wait for you, of course. Where are you going?”
He bent over, kissing her on the nose. “Do not ask any questions,” he said. “If I wanted you to know, I would have already told you. But know I shall return as soon as I can.”
He had effectively shut her down so she smiled timidly. “Please do.”
“I promise.”
With that, Patrick quit the chamber, hearing her bolt the door as soon as he shut it. A smile played on his lips as he headed down into the common room of the inn, a big room that was sunk down into the earth. Old straw covered the floor and the tables and benches appeared as if they had been repaired and repaired again. A few of them were even whitewashed. As far as inns went, it was one of the better-tended ones he’d seen, and he hailed the nearest serving wench and instructed her to take wine and cheese up to his wife.
His wife.
Even saying that made his heart leap, for when he stopped to think about it, he’d never been so happy about anything in his life. But that happiness was tempered by the reality of what he’d done. To be truthful, he didn’t want to think about what his parents would say to the spur-of-the-moment
marriage and he didn’t want to think of the consequences. He knew his father would be worried about Coldingham, since the lady had been their charge. But the fact remained that he had married Brighton and no one could separate them, not even the church. He didn’t give a hang about Coldingham. The only thing he cared about was marrying the only woman who had ever meant anything to him.
The Nighthawk had finally found his mate.
As he headed out onto the busy street, he had something in mind – gifts for his wife on the event of their wedding. So he was looking for any merchant who sold goods for women. He thought about looking for the huntsman Aunt Jemma had told him of, but he was more concerned with purchasing something other than leather.
Perhaps something pretty or even something that smelled good. He’d rushed Brighton into marriage and now he was about to dump a load of gifts upon her. He found that he wanted to, very much. She had spent her entire life with absolutely nothing by way of possessions and that was going to change. He was going to make sure of it. As the wife of Patrick de Wolfe, she would be well-dressed, well-respected, and adored.
Definitely adored.
“De Wolfe!”
Patrick heard the shout behind him, turning to see Kerk as the man rushed up. Kerk was filthy from having been rolling about in the field all afternoon, smudges of dirt on his face. But Patrick didn’t stop to talk to the man; he just kept walking as Kerk pulled up beside him.
“Where did you go today?” Kerk asked. “I could have used your help in the wrestling matches.”
Patrick smiled thinly. “Why?” he asked. “I would have only humiliated you. Has history taught you nothing, my friend?”
Kerk laughed softly. “Mayhap you are right,” he said. Then, he seemed to look around, as if he had lost something. “Where is your lady?”
Patrick has his eyes focused ahead because he thought he saw a merchant with women’s items posted outside of it. “Back at the inn,” he told him. “And she is my wife.”
Kerk looked at him curiously. “But you told me she wasn’t.”
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