All the way up the stairs, Miriel rattled on nervously, making Deirdre’s task all the easier, for she took no notice of where Deirdre was taking her. When they arrived at the tower door, Deirdre, her heart sinking at what she was about to do, pulled out the iron key and unlocked it. Only then did Miriel frown in dawning confusion.
“He wanted to meet me here?”
Without a reply, Deirdre nudged her gently but firmly through the door into the empty tower room with its pair of narrow windows.
“But where is he?” Miriel asked. “Where is Pa—”
Before guilt could set in and melt her resolve, Deirdre tossed the satchel into the room and began to close the door between them.
“Deirdre?”
The bewilderment in Miriel’s eyes caught at Deirdre’s heart. But she couldn’t afford mercy, not now.
“Deirdre? Nay!”
The slam of the oak door cut off her scream. But the thick wood did little to muffle Miriel’s pounding, so like a panicked heartbeat. Deirdre fought back overpowering remorse as she fumbled with the key until the bolt clicked into place.
For a moment, she could only stare at the locked door and try to turn a deaf ear to the dull thuds. She wished she’d had the time to reassure poor Miriel, to show her the comforts she’d left in the satchel—a cloak, a chamberpot, provender enough for two days, and to tell her she’d release her after the deed was done. But her little sister wouldn’t understand. And now she’d believe that Deirdre had betrayed her.
Sick at heart, Deirdre trudged back down the steps, trying to console herself as the hammering diminished. Surely it was for the best. Though Miriel might not come to realize it for days or weeks or years, Deirdre had saved her sister this night. Maybe from the Devil himself.
Chapter 5
Pagan was dreaming of women—beautiful, naked women bathing in a pond, smiling and inviting him to join them. He smiled in return, shedding his clothes, wading into the warm waves. One of the wenches caressed his shoulder, and he turned to find a tall goddess with soft blue eyes and long golden hair, sighing and opening her sweet mouth for…
A heavy blow to the belly suddenly folded him in half, wrenching him instantly from dreamy sunlight to stark midnight. He groaned in pain and on instinct seized his sword, at the ready beside him.
It took a moment to get his bearings. He knew he’d been sleeping on a pallet in one of Rivenloch’s bedchambers, but in the dim light of the banked fire, he couldn’t see what grappled and gasped upon him like a fallen horse. And hampered by its weight, he could neither strike nor dislodge the thrashing burden. The strong smell of wine suddenly assailed his nostrils.
“I told you, Pagan!” Colin’s voice emerged from the foot of the bed as he struggled to contain whatever beast twisted atop Pagan’s lap. “I didn’t trust her from the moment I laid eyes on her.”
Her? Pagan heard a muffled scream of feminine fury as Colin finally hauled the intruder off of him, taking the fur coverlet along.
“Let’s see what mischief you’re up to, eh, my sotted lass?” Colin said between his teeth, his voice tight with strain. “Stir the fire, would you, Pagan?”
Pagan, shaking the cobwebs from his head, staggered toward the hearth—naked, sword in hand—and jabbed the coals to life.
The sight before him would have been comical had the circumstances been less serious. Colin clung tenaciously to what appeared to be a great, furry, writhing, kicking, pummeling she-beast. He’d stifled her screams of rage with a wad of the coverlet, but that didn’t smother the fire of pure hatred emanating from her eyes.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Colin scolded companionably, though it took much of his strength to keep her contained. “You’ve been a naughty lass, haven’t you? What’s that in your hand?”
By the blossoming light, Pagan saw it was Helena, the lord’s middle daughter, drunk as an alewife. As Colin had suspected, her sudden quiet at the supper table after the marriage announcement had seemed strangely portentous, like calm air before a violent squall. Fortunately, Colin, expecting foul play, had insisted on quartering in Pagan’s chambers for the night.
“Come on,” Colin coaxed the maid, applying pressure to her forearm, growing more serious. “I don’t want to break your wrist. Let it go, lass.”
After a long moment, her brow creased sharply in pain, she cried out, and something clattered to the floor.
Colin whispered a curse.
A dagger gleamed golden in the firelight. Shite! The she-devil had meant to stab him.
At her venomous glower, Colin’s good humor vanished entirely. “You bloodthirsty little fool,” he muttered. “Would you murder the King’s man?” He gave her a punishing shake. “’Tis treason! Christ’s bones! You’d hang for that. You should hang for that.”
Her struggling diminished as the possibility of her execution slowly sank into her besotted brain.
Pagan knew, of course, that Colin’s growl was much worse than his bite. Executing the sister of the bride, the daughter of the old lord, was a certain way to insure a Scots uprising.
Still, it would be folly to let the woman believe she could commit such a monstrous crime and walk away unscathed. It was better to put the fear of God into her.
Colin must have read his thoughts. He let out a weighted sigh and bluffed. “I’ll see to it,” he told Pagan sternly.
Helena squealed in protest and bucked against Colin’s confining arms, but he had a firm grip on her now and didn’t look likely to relinquish her any time soon.
Pagan nodded. “But not tonight. Best keep her confined until the marriage is accomplished. Afterwards, you may deal with her as you see fit.”
“’Twill be my pleasure,” he sneered. “What about the other one?” He knew Colin meant Deirdre. It stood to reason if one sister had plans to murder him, so might the other. “Can you handle her?” Colin looked as if he could barely handle his captive as she heaved hard against his hold.
“She’s nothing like her sister,” Pagan said, narrowing scornful eyes upon Helena. “If Deirdre comes to kill me, ’twill not be as I sleep. She’ll look me in the eye to do it.”
Like a cornered boar, Helena threatened Pagan with a glare of pure rage. With Colin’s arms about her, however, she was helpless to charge.
Colin turned his attention to his struggling quarry. “Now, little Hel-fire, what shall I do with you?”
She stiffened.
“Steal you away, maybe,” he considered, “where no one can hear you scream. Break you of your wild ways at the crack of a whip. Keep you on a short leash to make sure you suffer from no more lapses in judgment.”
She twisted in his arms, and he chuckled grimly. “Ah, lass, if you knew what all that squirming was doing to my nether parts…”
That stopped her.
Meanwhile, Pagan’s thoughts raced ahead. “Lock her in one of the cellars below the keep.” Despite Colin’s sinister threats, Pagan trusted his man to handle the shrewish maid with wisdom and patience. Colin would be watchful in her presence, and she’d be safe in his care. “If anyone asks her whereabouts at the wedding, we’ll tell them she’s…suffering from the aftereffects of too much wine.”
But there was one detail troubling Pagan, one thing he needed to clarify before Colin whisked the damsel away. Helena had meant to slay him, aye, but Pagan had seen enough of the Rivenloch loyalty now to recognize her motive. She was trying to protect Miriel.
“Heed me well,” he told her softly. “You needn’t fear for your sister. I’m a man of honor, a knight sworn to protect your sex. I’ve never hurt a woman in my life. I give you my oath no harm will come to Miriel, nor will I force myself upon her in any way.”
Whether she believed him or not, he couldn’t tell. But at least he’d given her his word of honor.
He dismissed her with a nod, then Colin swept up his reluctant prize, coverlet and all, and stole from the chamber to the hall and down the stairs.
Pagan stared into the glowing hearth, where the coal
s were already drifting back to ashen slumber. But he knew he’d sleep no more this night.
In the morn he’d be married. Absolutely, completely, irrevocably married. And though it was to the maid of his choosing, a lovely treasure with gentle curves and soft dark hair and wide blue eyes, it was not Miriel’s face he imagined when he thought of his marriage bed.
He tossed his sword onto the pallet, and the movement pulled at the bandage over his chest. Aye, he thought, like the scar that would forever mar his body, Deirdre of Rivenloch had engraved her mark upon his soul.
Deirdre gazed out her window at the dreary gray clouds of dawn, slung low in the sky with their heavy burden of summer rain. It was fitting weather, she thought, for such a miserable event. Even the heavens would mourn this day.
She shivered despite the heavy brown cloak she wore over her plain, sky-colored kirtle. It was hardly the bright raiment of a bride, but this was no joyful event. Besides, she didn’t intend to remove her cloak at all.
She watched as the castle folk gathered in the courtyard below, some of them scattering petals upon the steps of Rivenloch’s small stone chapel. It was nearly time. She took a deep breath of moist air and murmured a prayer that her sisters would forgive her.
She’d only done what had to be done, she reminded herself. It was better to live with the guilt of having deceived them than to forever regret her lack of intervention. It was for the best. In another hour, the ceremony would be over, and she’d have a lifetime to make amends for her perfidy.
She only prayed she could pull off this deception. Deirdre stood a half a foot taller than Miriel, and her shoulders were far broader. She’d need to stoop to make herself appear small. Hopefully the bulky cloak would help mask her size.
She doubted her father would know the difference. By the Saints, half the time he called Deirdre by his wife’s name and thought Miriel was a maidservant. It would be a miracle if he even remembered there was to be a wedding today.
Indeed, it was a blessing the marriage had been called for in such haste and at so early an hour. The chaos of wedding preparations would excuse a lot of things—the lateness of Miriel’s sisters, the bride’s lack of a proper wedding gown, Pagan’s failure to notice he was marrying the wrong sister. But Deirdre meant to add one final note of credibility to her deceit—Sung Li. She cracked her knuckles. It would be easy enough to secure the tiny old woman’s cooperation.
But she’d have to hurry. No doubt the maidservant would shortly be flapping around the keep like an indignant mother hen, demanding to know what had become of her chick.
When Deirdre snatched open the door to Miriel’s chamber, she expected to find Sung Li circling the room in a panic. But the old woman stood calmly beside the bed, hands clasped, staring stoically ahead, as if she’d been waiting for Deirdre. “What have you done with Miriel?”
Wary of the old woman’s strangely quiet mood, Deirdre told her, “She’s safe.” She closed the door, then advanced purposefully on the puny maid till she towered over her in menace. “And she’ll stay safe as long as you do exactly as I say.”
Undaunted, Sung Li crossed her arms and clucked her tongue. “If we stand here talking, you will be late for the wedding.”
Deirdre bristled at the maid’s impertinence. “Listen, you pompous, wrinkle-faced dwarf. I’m going to marry the Norman, and you’re coming with me. You’re going to make everyone believe I am Miriel. And if you breathe a word otherwise to anyone, I swear I’ll rip your arms off and beat you with them.”
The tiny maidservant turned her head slowly then and looked her up and down, and Deirdre would have sworn there was amusement in her eyes. “You could not.”
Deirdre’s brows shot up. Was the woman mad? By the Saints, she had no time for this. The last thing she needed was a half-witted maidservant getting in the way of…
“You hurry now,” Sung Li urged. “The real Miriel…would not be late.”
Deirdre peered down at the wizened old crone with dawning comprehension. Of course. The clever woman meant to help her. Sung Li didn’t want Miriel to suffer this unwanted marriage any more than Deirdre did.
The maid threw back her shoulders and thrust out her pointy chin. “And she goes nowhere without me.”
A look of collusion passed between them, and Deirdre gave her a nod of approval. Then she took a deep breath and stepped toward the door, toward her destiny.
In time, her family would forgive her, she knew. And they would eventually accept that Deirdre had acted in their best interests.
But Pagan… She had no idea how he would react. His wrath might explode upon her. Or he might shrug it all off as inconsequential. He might punish her with a lifetime of misery. Or he might treat her with indifference. And it was not knowing that made Deirdre’s heart falter as she pulled the hood closer about her face, cracked open the outer door, and prepared to meet her unwitting bridegroom.
The sky rumbled with thunder as if to announce her arrival and her mood, and a torrent suddenly descended from the heavens, drenching her with fat drops that pitted the sod and peppered the pale stone of Rivenloch. Deirdre allowed herself a secret smile of approval. The storm was welcome. If witnesses were forced to squint through the driving rain, it would make her deception all the easier. No one would question why the bride concealed her face within the hood of her sodden cloak.
“Small steps,” Sung Li reminded her.
Deirdre peered through the folds of wool and forced herself to walk to the chapel in a hundred strides instead of fifty.
Pagan had already arrived. He and Colin stood just below the upper stair of the small sanctuary, speaking to the priest. He’d never bothered to change his clothing. Maybe, she thought scornfully, he was only some penniless knight-errant who possessed no other garments. Indeed, he seemed to have brought no belongings at all with him. It was little wonder he was in a hurry to wed. He was doubtless already drooling over the dowry.
She could see by the upraised knee he planted on the top step that his legs were thick with muscle. She faltered in her step, imagining those strong legs wrapped around her this night, trapping her, demanding her surrender.
Clenching her jaw to steel her resolve, she continued forward, forcing herself to mimic Miriel’s stride.
As she neared, Pagan’s head was the first to swing around, almost as if he’d sensed her approach. She withdrew into her hood like a startled turtle, spying upon him through the narrow gap. Faith, the sight of his face stole the breath from her. Everything about the man exuded confidence. He stood with bold command, bareheaded, as if he were impervious to the weather, and the rain drenching his dark amber locks only made him look more savage.
One by one, the people of Rivenloch turned toward her, smiling in encouragement and blinking against the rain, though they doubtless wished this whole business over with so they could return to their warm fires. Her father stood beside Pagan with her dowry, the bag of silver coins Miriel had carefully counted out the night before. His face was a mask of blank contentment, and he glanced up at the sky as if he wondered from whence the drops came.
There was one awful moment when Deirdre feared her trickery had been discovered, when Pagan’s eyes narrowed, and it seemed as if his gaze burned through her cloak and into her deceiving heart. But she ducked her head, as would any shy bride, Sung Li covered for her, patting her hand in reassurance, and the moment passed. When at last he extended his hand toward her to help her up the steps, there was nothing but the gentlest of welcoming smiles upon his lips.
Custom dictated that the first part of the vows be spoken outside the chapel. The bad weather ensured a brief ceremony, which suited Deirdre. The sooner she was done with this duplicity, the better. Still, she scarcely heard the priest’s words, her blood was rushing so loudly in her ears. She was careful to bend her knees so as not to seem too tall, and she spoke in a meek whisper. When the priest asked for her hand, she gave him but the tips of her sword-callused fingers and kept her head humbly inclined
as was Miriel’s habit.
Fortunately, there had been no time for Pagan to have a proper ring made, and so he slipped his own crest ring upon her finger, which fit loosely around her knuckle.
And then everyone was crowded inside the chapel, standing shoulder to shoulder for the sanctification of the marriage. Prayer after prayer was said as Deirdre and Pagan knelt before the altar, and with each, she felt more and more guilty. Deceit was uncomfortable enough, but to speak such falsehoods in the house of the Lord…
Despite the priest’s thoroughness, Deirdre thought she’d never heard such a brief Mass. Before she could completely brace herself for the unveiling, the ceremony was coming to a close. The Holy Father blessed their union, gave them a jovial smile, and enjoined them to share a lover’s kiss.
Deirdre held her breath. It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed. But most men unwise enough to dare such a trespass had earned from her a blackened eye or a bruised jaw.
God’s teeth, never had she desired her sword more. How gratifying if she could uncloak, unsheathe, and meet her husband with a naked blade while he reeled in shock.
But she’d wisely forborne her weapon. She’d known this moment would come, known she must confront it bravely. Without a weapon. Straightening to her full height, she turned and faced Pagan.
He lifted both hands to her hood and slowly peeled the wet cloth back. As her face was revealed, everyone gasped in astonishment, including the Holy Father. But as they murmured in stunned speculation, to Deirdre’s chagrin, Pagan’s features curiously betrayed not a hint of surprise. Instead, one corner of his mouth curved up in that knowing smile she was beginning to detest, and he curled his finger under her chin, lifting it for his kiss.
Her first absurd instinct was to seek an avenue of escape. A hard jab to the stomach, followed by a blow to the back of the head would do it. Or a knee to the groin, then a clout on the ear. A kick to the knee and a punch upwards to the chin.
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