by L. L. Muir
But in the middle of a heavenly embrace, her slow wits caught up to her and pointed out what she’d been too distracted to realize.
Nimmo knows who I am.
She straightened away from him, trying in vain to put distance between them while they were trapped on the same short bench. He pulled at her. She pushed his hands away.
“What is it?” he whispered. “What have I done?”
He sounded sincerely worried, as if he feared he might have done something more damning than learn her identity and climb through her window in the dead of night. But then she remembered Bronwyn’s words—lovesick fool—and she softened.
“Why did you come?” she asked. “How did you discover it was me?”
“I cannot tell you how, but I had no choice. I had to see you again, love. I waited by the tree…”
“I saw you.”
“I know it. And still you wouldn’t come to me. So I had to come to you.”
She shook her head. There was just too much that was not right about them sitting together in the middle of the night. Again. He seemed to know her thoughts, for he stilled her denial with his hands and kissed her again. She did not resist at first, but her worries overtook her senses.
“No. Not like this. You must go. There is too much at stake. I beg you, go. Do not tell me your name. It will only make losing you more difficult.”
“You need not lose me, my love. My Astrid.”
The shock of her name from his lips terrified her, so she put a hand over his mouth.
“No. I cannot be yours. I am—”
“Betrothed,” he growled into her hand.
She pulled it back on the chance he might bite it. “Yes. Betrothed. I have no choice in the matter.”
He laughed quietly. “Of all the maidens in England, my lady, you have a choice.”
She held his hand against her cheek so he would know it when she shook her head. “Not when it comes to Hellingsby. Tamhas Monroe is the best choice for them, so he is the best choice for me. I am sorry. More sorry than you know.”
The tears began again and slid along his thumb.
“Has he kissed you?” he growled again. “Have you been practicing without me?”
She gave a sad little nod, riddled with guilt—not because she’d kissed the Scotsman, but because she’d enjoyed it.
“And did you enjoy it, my Astrid?”
She thought perhaps no answer might be kinder than the truth. After a moment, he pulled his hand away. It felt as if he’d taken her heart along with it.
“I’d chosen him before he kissed me,” she said, hoping it might make a difference.
He sighed. “He has won your heart, has he?”
“I do not fear him.” And even as she said it, she realized how important it was to her, to trust a man with everything she had.
“Well, you should be prepared for him to disappoint you one day. And when he does, you must forgive him. Remember he is but a foolish man.”
What he’d meant, she was certain, was that he would not fight her decision. Before she could think of a reply, a storm of tears raged down her cheeks once more.
“You will not be back,” she said. “You’re letting me go.”
“Yes. Back to the Scotsman, damn him.” He led her back to the bench and urged her to sit. Then he bent and brushed his lips to hers one more time. “I hope one day the people of Hellingsby realize what you’ve given up for them. I’m quite a prize, I’m told.”
Since her throat was full of tears, she could only nod.
Finally, he took a step back, leaving her alone in the darkness. But she could not let him go without saying farewell. She jumped to her feet, reached for him, lunged into his arms. She buried her face against his neck as he lifted her from the floor. His arms squeezed her tight as if they’d finally found their fit.
“Do not leave me,” she whispered. “We have hours.”
He nodded, then swayed back and forth as if they were dancing. A few minutes later, he lowered her to her feet, but she did not loosen her grip. His chest was like a bellows within her arms.
“Astrid, my love,” he choked. “I beg you to help me.”
She whimpered, knowing he was going to ask her to help him say good-bye. “Anything.”
He sniffed, then straightened away from her slowly. Her fingers held on, then fell. “I seem to have lost my slipper. Could you look? Where were we sitting?”
Astrid took a step back, then another.
“I cannot seem to find it,” she whispered, but he might have been gone already.
Chapter Fourteen
Tam put a pillow to his face and howled like a lovesick wolf.
He’d locked Barnaby out of the chamber to keep the lad from witnessing yet another weakness in the knight for whom he squired. Then, to keep his infirmity from all of Hellingsby, he had no choice but to remain in his chamber until his face felt like his own once again. It was long past midday when he was finally able to show himself.
She’d made a woman of him, damn her. But what helped him keep a sober demeanor was the fact that his betrothed had been in the arms of another man. That he’d been that other man did not signify. More than a few times that afternoon he’d thought he’d glimpsed guilt in her puffy eyes, and damn him if it hadn’t made him feel a wee bit better.
They’d chatted about the weather and commiserated on subjects he forgot as soon as they’d discussed them. He was compelled to be near her, yet tortured in her presence. In short, he was in Hell. The only thing that made his Hell bearable was having her there squirming next to him.
When he noticed her sneaking glances at his men, he admitted that her Hell might actually be less bearable than his, for at least he knew whom he’d been kissing last eve. Then he realized, she was sneaking glances at his men, and the hellish competition was on again.
What could he do? Confess? Just to keep her from looking too closely at other men? What then? Send her letters of love and devotion from the farthest edge of the world? Because that was precisely where she would send him, if she ever learned he could have put her out of her misery before she’d ever shed a tear for her precious Nimmo.
Odin help him, he was jealous of himself!
Astrid could perish tomorrow and be happy for it.
Now that she had experienced true heartache, the like of which songs were written, the fate of her people, the happiness of her parents—even the wishes of her sister—faded in importance. For possibly the first time in her memory, her own sorrows overshadowed the rest.
Before today, she might have believed Sir Tamhas was blessed with an assertiveness that kept him in middling to high spirits no matter what the situation. And if she told him she’d changed her mind, he might thank her for her consideration, pack up his people and his things, and be gone before the sun could set.
But today, the Scot had been agitated, and she wondered if he might have lost some wager among his men, or been knocked from a horse in the lists. But whatever the reason, he proved not to be the constantly cheerful sort she’d thought he was. And in truth, she was glad. If she was going to be distracted and taciturn, the last thing she wished to see was his too-cheerful face looking on.
She wondered, for the twentieth time that day, if Nimmo might be afflicted with a headache half so painful as her own, and she looked about the bailey for any man who might be rubbing at his temples. She believed he’d been a bit heartbroken himself when he’d left her, but she wasn’t certain grown men were capable of a good cry.
Although she was certain it was wisest not to know the man’s real identity, she could not help but feel slighted by the inequality of their situations. But what was more, she could envision herself going slowly mad as she wondered what man was watching her with more than a little knowledge of her person—or at the very least, her lips.
The hairs rose on the back of her neck, and she wondered if it was her imagination, or if Nimmo was watching her at that very moment. She spun on her heel and found
one of Sir Tamhas’s men leaning against a gate, smiling at her. He was one of the five she’d originally suspected, and her heart leapt of its own accord. She steeled herself and marched over to him expecting him to bolt, but he held his ground and grinned as she moved close.
“Lady Astrid,” he said in greeting, then offered a smart bow. “My name is Jessop. I sense you have something to ask me.”
Each word had been something Nimmo might well say to her if she were to accost him.
“Jessop. Thank you. I do have a question.” She moved closer still.
He grinned.
“Are you him?” she asked. “Nimmo?”
He laughed. “Nay, my lady. My given name is Warton.”
She forced a smile. “Oh, well. My mistake. I thought someone called out the name. I thought it might have been you they were looking for.”
He shook his head as if disappointed her question hadn’t been more exciting.
“Good day to you,” she said, and turned away in mortification.
“I suppose someone could have been recounting a story,” he suggested, and she turned to thank him. “Sir Tamhas has an old dog, you see, and his name is Nimmo. Always getting into mischief. We all ken tales of Nimmo.”
“Of course,” she said. “I am certain that must be it.”
Jessop had been no help at all. If all Sir Tamhas’s men were familiar with the name, any of them could have used it. But at least she could eliminate Jessop from her previous list. After listening to him speak, his voice could not have belonged to her visitor. Then she wondered how long it would be before she had a good listen to each soldier’s voice, and if she would have forgotten the sound of it by the time she heard him speak again.
She stopped in the shade of an outbuilding, pressed a hand to the cool wood, and closed her eyes. She tried to recall the man’s laughter, or his voice in the hollow, when it had risen above a whisper.
“My lady Astrid!”
She froze in place, certain her imagination had not taken control of her. It was Nimmo’s voice! She dared not turn, afraid once more that after seeing his face, she would regret the knowing. In truth, she’d worried he was one of the sons of a fearsome neighbor who wanted Hellingsby at any cost. She’d already sent two sons home with their tails between their legs, and she was always expecting another, although none of those sons would show his face at Hellingsby in the light of day.
But she could not simply stand there and ignore her name being called. What’s more, this might be her final chance to avoid lunacy, for in only half a day she’d come close to losing her wits too many times to count.
She would turn. But no matter who he turned out to be, she mustn’t let on that she knew. She must act normally at all costs.
Footsteps fell behind her. She waited for her name just once more, enjoying the last her heart would beat without knowing his.
“Lady Astrid,” he said again. And she realized that this time, he’d rolled the r! When he’d first called out to her just seconds ago, it had been without the disguise of a Scottish brogue!
She turned. “Sir Tamhas,” she breathed. And breathed. And smiled. And waited. And concentrated on his mouth, on what he might say, for he would certainly expect an intelligent answer.
“I’ve just been touring the village with your father. I had no idea you were so involved in the day-to-day business.”
She nodded and hoped it was the response he expected, because she was incapable of more.
Her father approached and frowned at her. “Are you well, Daughter?”
Again, she nodded, and kept nodding, up until the moment she fainted.
Chapter Fifteen
Astrid spent that evening plotting the murder of Sir Tamhas Monroe.
The excitement of her upcoming wedding was excuse enough for the faint. And the faint was excuse enough not to join the rest for meals. She posted her sister as guard and told her to allow no soul to enter while she lay on her bed with a pillow over her eyes for two reasons. First, her shame drove her to hide behind something. And second, she worried her rage might be visible, and she did not wish to frighten her sister—or explain herself.
The first thing she wished to know, but had no one to ask, was, how long had he known she was the woman from the kissing tree?
She searched her memory and decided he could not have known the first day they’d met, the day of his first lie. He’d been in town for days—long enough to have met some woman and been invited to the kissing tree!
Sins number one and two.
The two nights following their encounter, he’d gone back to the tree looking for her, so he could not have known then. Although…he might have suspected once he noticed her on the battlements. The following morning, when he’d charmed them all, he still could not have known. She remembered every look, every comment, and could find nothing to—
Dear heavens! She’d asked him if the name Nimmo was of Scottish origin, giving herself away! She remembered his arm shaking and assumed he was anxious to get to the lists. And while she’d struggled to hide her disappointment over none of his men being called Nimmo, she paid no attention as the Scotsman turned to go.
The next time she’d seen him, he’d said nothing. Sin number three.
They’d shared a meal, then he’d carried her off to the hay barn to kiss her. Sin number four.
Now that she knew, it was easy to remember the taste of him, and she scoffed at herself for not recognizing that both men had tasted the same. Smelled the same. Felt the same beneath her hands. That sin was hers.
But last night…his most damning sin of all.
Perhaps, if she urged her mother to petition the queen, Astrid might be permitted to pass her dowry on to Bronwyn in earnest, so the future lady of Hellingsby would not be so foolish as she. And the more she toyed with the idea, the more sound it became. The only problem remaining was the sinful man who now strutted around her family home and expected to marry her in a fortnight.
Perhaps in a fortnight, he might find she had locked herself behind the gates of the abbey. After all, the abbey for which her sister was destined had an ancient wall that was falling to ruin. And what more appropriate home for Astrid, a woman whose heart had turned to stone and crumbled to her feet?
Of course she would refrain from choosing hastily, but whatever course of action she landed on, she was determined the punishment for Sir Tamhas Monroe would fit the crime.
Chapter Sixteen
The next fourteen days were a torture for Tam.
Whether it was her mourning for her damned Nimmo or a typical nervousness that afflicted some brides, he could not say, but Astrid Helling had become as quiet as her mother. The difference was that her mother was quick to smile, even if she did not speak much.
In truth, he should have welcomed a shy and biddable wife. But he knew Astrid to be neither. And a half dozen times each day he had to resist the notion of allowing her a wee visit from her would-be lover, Nimmo. If there was no other way to bring his Astrid back to herself, it was a damned tempting idea. Considering the distance she managed to keep between them, it might only be in the guise of Nimmo that he could get close to her again.
Bronwyn, the wee bitch, enjoyed watching him fail. But oft times he caught the woman observing her sister with true concern. Apparently Astrid had not shared her heartbreak with her twin.
And so thirteen days came and went much the same. There was always some wedding detail that kept Astrid from spending time with him, but at least she attended meals. The most troubling incident was when Lady Helling requested the women go along with her to decorate the wedding bower. What disturbed him was the murderous look Bronwyn gave him as she followed her mother from the room, as if she suspected he’d already done the deed but simply could not prove it.
The day of the wedding arrived with much fanfare. To the chagrin of his attendants, he wore his coat and kilt. But it was the last decision he was allowed to make. From that moment forward, he was pushed and pulled,
told when to stand and when to walk. At any moment someone would demand he piss—he only hoped they would offer a bucket or some such.
He was standing, as instructed, at the base of the stairway when Astrid appeared at the top in all her finery.
Finally, he thought. Finally they would be wed. Eventually, they would be left to themselves, and he could gift her with the truth. And the only gift he wanted from her was to have his Astrid returned to him. He dared not anticipate her rejoicing. He wasna daft. Of course he knew she’d be angry for a time, but he hoped, if she could not forgive him, she might at least forgive her Nimmo.
As they were wheeled around the village in a wagon draped in ribbons, he caught a glimpse of the Astrid he’d fallen in love with. The antics of her people brought her honest joy, and she thanked them with her laughter. When her eyes met his, she did not look away as quickly as she had for the past fortnight, and it gave him hope.
In due course, they were led back to the keep and into the family’s chapel. His heart thumped as if it might burst free of his chest as they walked toward the altar. With everyone in place, the priest took a deep breath—
“Just a moment, Father,” Astrid said. Then she turned to Tam. “May I have a word with you, my lord?” Her face hinted at nothing as she ignored her family’s concern and walked out the side door.
Tam had no choice but to follow. By the time he had closed the door behind them and turned to face her, there were tears streaming down her face. He reached for her hands, but she shook her head and took a step back. “Wait,” she said.
They had complete privacy in a little walled garden, and the scent of flowers swirled around them with every movement. Astrid was as beautiful as always, but her gown was of fine blue cloth that shimmered in lines when it moved. Her hair hung in dark ringlets, and he had to ignore her mouth altogether if he was going to get through the day’s festivities.
But since she’d asked him for a word, he thought she might get round to saying her piece sooner if he said nothing at all.