by Traci E Hall
Galiana, her brow smoothly plucked, said with exasperation, “Well or no, Sir Petyr told him of your betrothal.”
Celestia whispered, “He can’t have been pleased.” Remembering the way Lord Riddleton had renounced their betrothal over breakfast in the hall, she cringed at what Sir Nicholas might have said.
The moment of silence stretched into two and finally Gali spoke, “He was not happy. And when he found out that Sir Petyr was the baron’s man and not hired by Abbot Crispin, well …”
“Just say it!” Her stomach was a giant knot of tension. “He hates me for keeping him from Spain.”
“He punched Sir Petyr in the nose,” Galiana said with admiration.
“No!”
“It didn’t even bleed, but Nicholas promised him it would be worse once he regained his strength.”
Groaning, Celestia asked, “So how did Sir Petyr coerce Nicholas to agree to the wedding?”
“Your life.”
She put her hand to her throat. “What?”
“Sir Petyr reminded Sir Nicholas that you had saved his life, and that he owed you a personal boon.”
“I never thought of that, why, then I can simply say that I do not wish to wed. ‘Tis perfect!” Celestia started to rise.
Pulling her sister back down, Galiana shook her head. “Sir Petyr said that the boon to be granted was wedding you, to save you from being stoned as a witch.”
Celestia felt the blood drain from her face and the cold expanded to every inch of her body. “What?”
“The baron says if you two are not wed by sundown on this date, he will have you accused by the bishop, and put to death.”
Celestia raced out of her bedchamber, as if chased by the hounds of hell, to the one place that always gave her solace. Her herb garden. How dare the baron threaten her with witchcraft? She had never treated the man in her life. So far as she was aware, nobody in their family had.
And, of course, Sir Nicholas, told that he owed her his life, would comply. Despite the first impression he’d given, she surmised that he was a decent, if haunted, man.
She’d easily evaded her mother in the chaos of the family upheaval and slipped out through the rear kitchen into her private garden, hoping to find the strength she knew she would need to continue this farce.
Celestia wiped bitter, angry tears from her eyes and made her way to the wooden bench her father had made. Her gifts were blessed by God, and had nothing to do with the devil. She was able to destroy a black tumor with the focused energy in her fingertips. She could turn a breech babe, saving both mother and child in the process, with little to no pain. Never accepting coin, she helped whomever, serf or peasant or lord, because it was her duty to heal.
Damn the baron.
She plucked a wild rose blossom from the bush and crushed its fragrant petals between her fingers. What was she to do? She tossed the broken bloom to the ground and choked back a sob.
Gali had told her that Sir Petyr had produced a special marriage license, and when her parents had argued that food and drink would need to be prepared, Sir Petyr had said they’d hunt, then they’d produced casks of burgundy as a gift from the baron. Lord Robert had stabbed at his breakfast meat, intent on killing something, by God.
And as for Sir Nicholas?
Galiana said that he’d been pale. Stunned by circumstances, yet steady. It seemed they were both trapped in a snare, not of their own making, she thought with a twist of her mouth. But why? If she knew the answer, mayhap she could find a way around it. Married. She’d never thought that marriage would be hers to embrace. She rather thought she’d be similar to her Aunt Nan in Wales and live a single life. An old crone in a waddle hut filled with drying herbs and cats.
She was startled from her reverie by a loud thrashing behind her in the bushes. She reached for her eating dagger and jumped to her feet. A lost deer? A wild boar? Panic loomed.
Her garden was rectangular in shape and walled in by fragrant bushes and manicured hedges. The entrance to the kitchen was too far away to run to for safety, and running would only attract the deadly beast’s attention. She planted her feet as she had been taught and held her knife out in preparation.
A dark shape came crashing through the rosebushes and tripped over the bench.
Celestia relaxed at once. Wild boars didn’t curse fluently in what sounded like Arabic. “Sir Nicholas.” Her tone was dry as she stared down at him. His face was covered in scratches from the rosebushes, and his sleeve was torn. She watched his cheeks color as he stood and brushed away the dirt and leaves from his tunic.
“Lady Celestia.” He bowed his head, glancing at her drawn dagger. “I was walking, lost in thought, and … you can lower your weapon, my lady. The next thing I knew, I was attacked by thorns.”
Celestia kept her expression neutral, a difficult task, as he was wearing a rose above his left brow—completely at odds with his masculine features. Ebony hair dipped down over his broad forehead. The nose that pronounced him a Peregrine was strong and noble, and his dark gray eyes, clear of pain and fever, pierced her through. He made her belly swirl with excitement, and the feelings unexpectedly rose like bubbles in water.
She reached over and plucked the rose from his hair. It had to go. Her lips twitched, and she gestured toward the bench that he had knocked over. He immediately set it to rights and they sat, side by side.
“We should go in,” she said. “I will clean your cuts.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Nay, they are nothing.” He glanced around the garden, anything but look at her. “It seems that once again I have made an ass of myself, my lady.”
“I would forgive you trampling my garden, Sir Nicholas.” She looked at the rose in her palm. “Just as I forgive you trying to steal away into the night. I know that the baron threatened to claim me a witch and that you agreed to wed, and save me.”
He started to speak, but she shook her head. “Please, let me finish. Under normal circumstances, I would refuse your kind gesture. But these are not normal circumstances. My family has too much at stake, and I am unable to free you from your noble gesture.”
She paused, waiting for … what? Words of comfort that would never come—he did not love her, and she did not love him.
Her muscles tensed and she continued, “But I have a plan.” Careful not to touch him, bare skin to bare skin, she placed her hand on his covered arm.
Nicholas looked at her, unflinching, and nodded. “Tell me.”
“What say you to an annulment?” Her words came out on a rush of breath, and she hardly believed her own daring.
His eyes turned stormy and unreadable. Then he bowed his head and clasped his hands over his knees.
“The baron will not release your brothers from service until you and I have a babe.”
Getting to his feet, he laughed without a trace of humor. “Preferably a boy.”
Chapter
Three
Aboy?”
Nicholas understood the shock on Celestia’s pale face, as he’d been reeling from it, as well. “Aye. The bastard’s trapped us. But why? Why you and why me, eh?” The man was evil and cunning enough to know that Nicholas would not abandon an innocent woman to a falsified charge. The fact that he owed his life to Celestia made it impossible for Nicholas to refuse her. His respect for her grew as he watched her swallow tears that would not change anything.
“I see.” She stood as well, swaying slightly. “I don’t suppose we could kill the baron, then feed his body to the wild fox, thereby freeing us both of his ridiculous command?”
If she only knew, he wanted to tell her. But while she joked, he was deadly serious. He’d learned his lesson from Leah well. No matter how sweet or innocent women might look, they were not to be trusted. He’d not tell her that while she’d been planning a possible annulment, he’d been planning the baron’s quick, yet painful, demise. “Murder is a sin, my lady, as well as a criminal offense.”
She brought her hand to her lips, her o
dd eyes widening. “It is my turn to apologize, Sir Nicholas. I had forgotten that you were raised at the monastery. My words were a poor jest, meant to be taken lightly.”
Now he felt guilty for making her feel bad. He gave a clipped nod. Writing for the abbot had been a solitary task with plenty of time to think. Being a knight was a strength-building honor that was oftentimes opposed to the teachings of the Church. Surviving captivity had left him weak. Focusing on the death of the baron was crucial to his peace of mind, not to mention his soul. Forget about Celestia’s feelings.
“How old were you, when you came to Abbot Crispin?” She placed her fingers on his sleeve, staring up at him with bright interest.
Nicholas had not even started to think about why he’d been raised as an orphan when he had a father who obviously liked to meddle in his life. “Six?”
“Hmm. I wonder …”
He could see she had another question forming, an indelicate one, by the way she was frowning. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask. I doubt I have any more answers than you do.”
She blushed. “Were your mother and father truly wed?”
“Ah.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “Petyr just gave me this. ‘Tis the deed to Falcon Keep, my mother’s ancestral home. King Henry arranged the marriage between my mother and father, so that Falcon Keep would stay in English hands. The property is rural, close to the border. It is now mine,” he swallowed at the awkwardness of it all, “and soon to be yours.”
Celestia’s chin trembled.
“It is wild country, but safe enough.” He felt the onslaught of new guilt, since he knew he was going to leave her there, mayhap for good. “Don’t cry.”
“I am sorry.” She sniffed once, then tilted that stubborn Montehue chin. “I know that you didn’t want this, or mayhap you did, but with a wife of your own choosing.”
He ground his back teeth together, burying any emotion that dared to surface. “I had thought to be a scribe. It was a happy enough time, copying divine works for the abbot.” He paced the small garden, his borrowed boots crushing basil and rosemary, sending sharp scents into the spring air. “I was twelve when the baron’s men came, one of them called me a ‘strapping lad,’ and the next thing I knew, I was training as a squire. I did not understand why I had been picked for such a great honor, as I had never met the baron.”
Picking a sprig of mint, he squished the leaf between his finger and thumb. “What an idiot I was, to never even think he could be my father. I thought …” He turned to Celestia, who hadn’t run away while his back was turned, even though she could have, and he wouldn’t have blamed her. “I thought that one of the other men was my sire, and that he was not able to claim me as his own, so he did what he could. It was a game. Pick out which man looked the most like me.”
“Nicholas,” Celestia said, a wealth of compassion in her voice as she patted the bench. “Won’t you sit?”
Why did he tell her these things? Instantly angry at himself for letting his guard down, he kicked the bench leg instead. “Nay. Do not think of me as some kind of hero, with you the damsel in distress. I will marry you, and tup you until you quicken,” his heart raced as he imagined Celestia beneath him, “but then I am gone.”
She flinched at his harsh tone. “You want to go to Spain, for your soul. I know.”
Nicholas did not clarify the misunderstanding. He did not need to care what she thought, he was doing what he had to do to save her brothers, and to save her from burning as a witch. Then they’d be even. He said, “It is settled. There will not be love between us, but we will marry this afternoon.”
Unable to read the expression that flew across her face, he nevertheless understood that she was hurting, with a pain that he’d deliberately caused. He pressed further, not trusting her to hold a promise. “Do we have a bargain?”
“Yes.” She bowed her head.
He turned his back on her and walked away.
It was a beautiful afternoon for a wedding, Celestia thought absently. It was too bad that the wedding had to be for her. Father Jonas was to perform the ceremony outside in Galiana’s flower garden, with the entire manor in attendance.
“Ela! Stop fussing, please. My hair is fine.”
“Just this last sprig of honeysuckle … there. Oh, you are beautiful.”
Celestia gave her image a cursory look in the polished silver. She supposed she would do, not that it mattered. The baron had ensured that she marry his son, but why her? With his title, he could have forced a much better match for money and land, and perhaps beauty, too. She lifted her chin. Her sacrifice would be for the good of her family, and she would live with her choice without whining. All right, she told her conscience, mayhap a few private tears, but she would put on a good face.
Numb, Celestia followed her sisters down the stairs. Galiana looked ravishing in a pale yellow silk dress with flowing sleeves. Her headdress made her seem even taller and more regal. Ela, her head covered in a light green silk kerchief, walked as if she were leading her sister to the gallows. The bouquet of spring daffodils shook in her hands.
Celestia lifted the hem of her ivory gown, careful not to trip on her grandmother’s gold chains. They looped from the braided gold girdle, adding a heaviness to her clothes that matched what was in her heart. Silver heeled slippers peeped out as she descended, and the gold and silver bells in her curled hair made muffled protests with each step. She’d cried in her bath, cried as her sisters and mother and grandmother all patted her and assured her that Destiny would prevail. She’d sobbed as they’d curled her hair, and was only sniffling by the time Galiana placed sliced cucumbers on her eyes.
If she’d really been a witch, there would have been hell to pay.
Falcon Keep was north, on the Scottish border. A rough and untamed land, much like Nicholas, she supposed. Celestia had never met anyone so nobly broken.
Her mother and father waited at the bottom of the staircase, her grandmother, as well. The sound of the lute player out in the enclosed garden carried through the windows, and Celestia hurriedly lowered her eyes, determined to hide her pain from her family.
“I have changed my mind. We can send you to my sister, Nan. Abner has a horse saddled for you,” her mother whispered in her ear.
“Or you can go to the church. Surely Baron Peregrine can’t have you labeled a witch from within the nunnery’s walls.”
“Father!” Celestia gasped. The consequences to a Montehue rebellion had been made clear.
Her parents flanked her on either side. “Just say the word,” her mother said, gripping Celestia’s elbow so hard, she knew there would be a mark. “We will help you escape. But it has to be now.”
Clearing her throat, she stopped walking and demanded quietly, “And what of you if I were to be so selfish? Hmm? Your reputations would be tainted. Gali and Ela still need bridal portions, and what about the twins? Nay.” Celestia lifted her chin and put her fist on her hip. “I will marry Sir Nicholas.”
“But …” her mother said, letting the word fall from her lips.
Taking a deep breath, Celestia accepted her father’s arm. She smiled brightly, yet falsely, as they walked out of the manor and into the colorful garden. He said in a low voice, “An accident can be arranged, if need be, daughter.”
Saying nothing to that, she focused on the beautiful arbor, which had been entwined with flowers and ferns, and decorated with ribbons of gold. The sun shone its blessing down upon them, and butterflies added color and beauty wherever they landed. She nodded to everyone, right and left, coming to a halt before the priest.
Sensing Nicholas, and his gaze upon her, she knew that he was the one person she couldn’t look at without crying. He would never love her.
Nicholas stared down at the petite blond whose head barely reached the middle of his chest and felt a stirring of protectiveness. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want this; she was as much of a victim as he. The hard shell around his emotions cracked as he saw the damp lashes, but no
tears. She was strong and brave, yet so small and fragile in appearance. His fingers itched to touch her flaxen hair, but he knew that he would not give in to such a foolish gesture. It would be pure folly to care for her, even a tiny bit. His soul was already dark, and he planned on blackening it further.
Bowing his head as he listened to the droning of the priest’s prayers, Nicholas wondered at how he had come to be in this garden, next to this woman, when he’d been on his way to mete out death’s justice without thought of what would happen if he didn’t die himself in the process.
He did not care about tomorrow.
Father Jonas discreetly elbowed him, loudly clearing his throat. Nicholas snapped to attention, realizing the priest had given him an instruction and he had no idea what it was.
“Join hands, please,” Father Jonas said kindly for the second time.
Celestia brought her hand forward slowly, and he could see the uncertainty as plainly as if she had written it down. She was afraid. He would never hurt her, he thought with surprise. He just could never love her.
A cloud passed over the sun, darkening the sky.
Nicholas reluctantly clasped her slender outstretched hand.
Panic clawed at her breast as he took her hand. Tempted to jerk it away, Celestia knew she could not. She’d been wary of touching him unguarded after she’d merely brushed the wounds at his wrists with her fingers and she’d been inundated with his pain. As an experienced healer, she was trained to look at injured body parts and see what she could mend, but his scars were too tender, as if he was protecting himself even deep in delirium.
The same had been true when she’d skimmed his unmarred flesh. His deepest injury lay buried within his spirit. Unprepared for the shock of it, she’d almost fallen into his despair. After that, she’d avoided touching him because it had felt like an intrusion on his privacy. As an innocent woman, she was terrified of the feelings he brought out in her. She could not afford to give him her affections, because lust without love would ruin her. As a healer, she was mystified by his hidden wounds.