Tyr leaned in close until his mouth brushed her ear. “Maybe you’re right. Some redheads do tend to have hair that is unkempt and quite unpleasant. You may be providing a service of mercy by hiding it even now.”
Edythe cocked a brow and smiled impishly. Time to fight back. She wasn’t a practiced flirt—not like Lily—but she did know how. What was more, she knew exactly what would rattle Tyr. Walking her fingers up his chest, she whispered, “Aye, it is a kindness, for my hair is long, wild, and incredibly soft. But since I have chosen to marry another, you will live in want to discover if what I say is true.”
“You marry another only because I refused to marry you.”
Edythe tilted her head back until they locked gazes. “I would be insulted, but you refuse to marry anyone.”
“You and every other woman are lucky that I know my limits.”
“Aye,” Edythe replied, mocking his burr. “Besides I understand the man I am to wed is far better than you.”
Tyr took a step back, suddenly needing space. “You didn’t choose him, I did. Ranulf asked me what I thought. So know this, Finch, your husband is the man I selected.”
“Well, it won’t matter unless you were able to convince Father Morrell about the ceremonies. You were in there a long time.”
“Where’s your faith? I was so good at convincing him of our plan, the man probably would profess it was his idea.”
“Our plan?” Edythe repeated, unable to hide her mirth.
“You wouldn’t begrudge me a little credit, especially as it would enable me to tease Ranulf with the fact for the rest of his life.”
Edythe laughed aloud, wishing that she could keep from turning soft inside when Tyr smiled at her. “In that case, did Father Morrell agree to all of our plan?”
“Everything. I told him that due to the unusual circumstances and to keep the villagers focused on Christmas and not their lord and new lady, maybe it would be best to have the ceremonies without an audience and in the order you suggested.”
“So all we have to do is keep everyone from meeting until it is too late.”
Tyr nodded. “See if you can persuade Bronwyn to wait in the inner close on the other side of the chapel. There, she won’t see anyone coming in and out, and even more importantly, no one will see her.”
“What about his lordship?”
Tyr licked his lips, unconcerned at the notion. “Ranulf will be easy. He already told me to come get him only when it was time. A most uneager groom.”
“He said that?”
“No, but one of the servants told me that if any message was to arrive from Lady Bronwyn, he was to be notified immediately, even if that meant interrupting his own wedding ceremony.”
Edythe frowned. “I overheard Bronwyn give similar instructions to Constance this morning.”
“All we can do now is bring them to the altar.”
“Afterward they are going to have to clean up their own messes.”
Tyr laughed out loud and nodded his head. “Agreed,” he said, intertwining her arm with his as he escorted her back around the shack and toward the chapel.
Neither had been aware they had been observed the entire time.
Ranulf told himself for the tenth time to look away, but he continued to stare at the couple conversing directly below. He could not see Bronwyn’s face as she was wearing a wimple and the angle was almost vertical, but he could make out Tyr’s demeanor.
At first, Ranulf thought they were discussing the upcoming nuptials, as Tyr was going to stand in for Rolande. He watched his friend’s demeanor intently, waiting for a sign that Bronwyn had changed her mind, but the conversation looked far from controversial. It looked almost intimate with Tyr whispering in her ear and she remaining close.
Ranulf felt a wave of jealousy hit him, but before he could act on it, Tyr pulled back. His face had grown animated as if he was sincerely excited…and then he laughed. A real laugh, not the half chuckle his friend typically produced when amused, but the type that originated from within and was almost always shared.
Ranulf’s apprehension about his decision suddenly vanished. After witnessing Bronwyn’s lethargy last night, he had considered stopping the proceedings and ending the farce. At the very least, he had decided he wasn’t going to marry Lily. But if Bronwyn could feel such ease and merriment at the prospect of his marrying her sister, then why shouldn’t he? Lillabet was undeniably beautiful and most likely would be compliant and unchallenging as long as he adorned her with pretty dresses and mollified her with infrequent trips to court. She wouldn’t provide him passion, but she would give him sons. It would be enough.
I’ll marry her, angel, and find a way to forget you as you have forgotten me.
Ranulf stirred at the sound of someone knocking. He rose from the hearth chair and opened the door, surprised to see a small servant boy and not Tyr telling him it was time. His friend had no doubt already served as proxy and Bronwyn was now married. He scowled at the lad, who scampered away immediately, leaving Ranulf to descend the staircase and walk toward the chapel alone.
Aside from a few people who were shuffling around the stables, not a soul was in sight at the nether bailey. Perhaps they were all inside the chapel, waiting.
The morning sun burst into the dark room as he opened the doors. With the exception of Lillabet and the priest already at the altar, the place was empty. The door closed behind him. At the sound, he could see Lily’s back stiffen. She didn’t turn around and he was glad. He did not want to see her expectant shining face and be forced to smile in return.
Unhurried, he moved down the center aisle to her side, reminding himself that he was lucky. He had never thought to marry at all, let alone to someone all men desired. And he should desire Lily. She was beautiful. Her figure swathed in silver was similar to Bronwyn’s, tall, lithe, and curvaceous in just the right ways, but without Bronwyn’s spirit, she was just a pretty face.
Arriving at Lily’s side, he looked down and saw the damp spot darkening the shimmering silk sleeve. Another drop fell onto the garment. Lily was crying. If she was this upset at the altar, what would she do in his bed? Suddenly, he didn’t care. Relief flooded through him as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted.
Before Father Morrell could start his speech, Ranulf turned toward her, picked up her hand, and said, “Lily, I cannot do this. I don’t want this, and by your tears, it is clear you do not want me either.”
Hearing Ranulf’s voice, Bronwyn froze, unable to move or speak. She had felt dead inside standing at the altar. When Tyr had entered and made his way to her side, she couldn’t even make herself look at him, and was wondering how she was going to be able to speak the vows that represented a life she desperately wanted—but with Ranulf.
Hearing his deep voice, Bronwyn twisted guardedly. Was Ranulf playing some kind of trick? Had he not married Lily earlier? She lifted her veil to see unhampered by the fine linen and verify it really was Ranulf standing beside her. His steady gaze instantly became remote, the amber color of his good eye turned dark and ominous. Everything about him—the granite hardness of his jaw, the severity of his demeanor—made it clear he was far from just unhappy. He was furious at the situation and the last thing in the world he wanted was to marry her. Whatever was going on, Ranulf was not party to it.
Ranulf was just as shocked as Bronwyn, but he had no trouble finding his voice. “Just what kind of game are you playing now?”
His booming attack was just the trigger Bronwyn needed to find her own ability to speak. “I am playing no game, my lord, and I am done trying to play yours,” she declared through clenched teeth and then pivoted to leave.
She had not made it three steps when the chapel doors sprung open. Edythe and Lily ran in, dragging a very rattled Tory. Tyr followed and closed the door, with a pleased look.
Bronwyn stopped in her tracks and pointed, yelling at Ranulf, “See. There. It’s a mistake. Tyr is here now and can…” Her voice dwindled off as she realized
Tyr was shaking his head.
“Tory and I have done our proxy duty, Lady Bronwyn, and you can look, but I doubt you find another man available to marry you today.”
Remembering the vacancy of the courtyard, Ranulf glared at his friend. Whatever was going on had been cleverly orchestrated. “Explain. Now,” Ranulf ordered, his tone leaving no misinterpretation of his meaning or the severity of his request.
Completely unperturbed, Edythe stepped forward, her face filled with self-satisfaction. “I look forward to meeting Garik—my husband,” she said with glee, making clear that her nuptials had already taken place.
She then glanced at Lily, who moved beside her. Lily issued a pleading look to Bronwyn and said, “If Rolande is anything like Tyr described, then he and I are much better suited. You know that I am not ready to run a keep, let alone a castle. The wife of a prominent and good-looking commander is much more to my liking.” Bronwyn’s blue eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment before narrowing again as her thoughts raced dangerously. Her future, her life, had been decided by those she loved and trusted. “Is this done?” she demanded. “Is this a proposition or are you both married?”
Behind her came a short, voluble cough from an increasingly flustered Father Morrell. “May I ask if there has been a mistake? I understood that three marriage ceremonies were to take place. Each alone. I have done two…and I thought this was to be the third.”
Edythe went to pacify the round priest, who looked extremely perplexed and suddenly dubious about the morning’s curious events. “I assure you the right couples have been married. One more must be done, just give them a moment to get ready.”
Ranulf could barely control his anger at the idea of being manipulated in such a way. He glared at Tyr and then Edythe, who was standing between him and the priest, her dark green silk dress making a swishing sound as she shifted her weight. He then shifted his gaze to Lily and then to Bronwyn, momentarily studying all three—and the color of their gowns.
He should have guessed the truth that morning. It had not been Bronwyn he had been observing but Edythe. At his angle, he had not been able to discern their height difference, but the green silk had been notable and Bronwyn was wearing light silver. All the turbulent emotions of this morning swirled back to the surface. Feelings of betrayal, doubt, and shock that he could be so wrong dissipated as the truth of the situation overcame him. Bronwyn had been upset last night, and the aspect of marrying Rolande was causing her to cry even as she was about to announce her vows.
Bronwyn no longer felt sad. The tears that had plagued her since discovering Ranulf’s preference for her younger sister vanished, leaving only fury in its place. She glared first at Edythe and then Lily. “I hope you can both find happiness with your decision, but I refuse to let you make mine,” she ground out and then lifted her gown to hasten out of the chapel.
As she passed Lily, her sister’s hand seized Bronwyn’s injured arm, causing her to flinch, giving Lily just enough time to leap in front of her. “Bronwyn! You can’t leave. You have to marry Lord Anscombe. You have no choice.”
Anger rippled along Bronwyn’s spine. How could her sister not understand? Ranulf had chosen Lily, and just because she had disregarded his choice did not change the situation. “You’re wrong. I still have a choice.”
Panic overtook Lily’s face. “But you have to! If you don’t, you will have to marry Baron Craven and give Syndlear over to him.”
Bronwyn glanced back at Ranulf. His eyes blazed, and his large neck was the color of crimson. Her misty blue eyes, now the hue of a dark storm, returned to Lily. “Never. Never will I marry such a man. You forget. I have another option.” Then, after maneuvering around her sister, Bronwyn once again headed outside.
The door from her exit slowly swung back shut on the quiet crowd. Lily and Edythe stood open-mouthed, unknowing of what to do or say. The plan that had worked nearly flawlessly fell apart at the most critical part. Tyr, who had felt the icy glare of Ranulf’s barely controlled temper, had opted to remain silent rather than give him more reasons to sever their friendship. But his honor was now at stake. He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to Bronwyn in her rash decision to flee north to the Highlands in the middle of winter.
Speaking slowly and deliberately, trying to hold his own growing temper in check, Tyr asked, “Are you really going to let her leave Hunswick?”
Lily gasped and sank onto one of the empty benches behind her. “That’s what she meant?” she murmured.
Tyr nodded, but his gaze never left Ranulf’s, unable to fathom how his friend could remain stoic and motionless when Bronwyn was walking out of his life forever. “Aye, Lady Bronwyn told me yesterday that if she didn’t marry she would leave for Scotland. I never dreamed that you would let her, Ranulf. Travel to the northern lands in winter? Are you really going to let her do that?”
Ranulf scowled at his friend for almost half a minute before answering. “No, I am not.” Without saying another word, he strode out of the chapel and across the bailey toward the Great Hall.
Six days ago his life had been relatively calm and predictable. He had been far from happy with his fate, but he could have managed it. Upon seeing Bronwyn, however, his emotional state had been turned every which way and his mental stability along with it. Truths were lies and lies were truths. Then he had compounded the situation with even more lies, and as a result, he had nearly hurt Bronwyn and himself irrevocably.
In his experience, women were not forthright creatures and had to be tricked into honesty, especially when it came to their feelings. His plan to make Bronwyn jealous had been innocent, but he had not accounted for her strong sense of pride, and he should have, considering his own stubborn streak. Seeing and hearing her outrage at the situation, Ranulf had decided to give her the space and time needed to calm down before talking with her. Then, he would explain his intentions and convince her to marry him. But with Tyr’s revelation, it became clear that option was not available. There was no time to convince Bronwyn of anything.
She was going to marry him now and calm down later. The woman was going to be furious with him, but that he could handle. In time, he would remind them both of just how good things could be between them.
Ranulf slammed open the Great Hall doors just in time to see Bronwyn fight her way through the crowded trestles on her way to the back stairs. Almost all of Hunswick was inside, waiting for them to begin the celebration. Claps started from somewhere and the crowd was all on their feet. Ranulf ignored them and deftly snaked his way around the people, capturing Bronwyn just before she reached the door to the back staircase. She tried to kick his shins in an effort to get away. “Leave me be, Ranulf,” she ordered.
“Not now or ever,” he issued back and threw her over his shoulder, careful not to reinjure her arm. Spinning around, he marched back outside and toward the chapel, unheeding of the pounding he was taking on his back from her fists or the open gapes from onlookers. Within minutes of his departure, he was back inside the chapel, depositing her in front of a very flustered priest. He grasped her shoulders firmly in his hands and said, “You can begin, Father. We are now ready.”
Bronwyn twisted vigorously, trying to wrench free. “Damn you to hell,” she hissed.
With each struggle, the wires of her wimple poked his chest, causing him a surprising amount of pain. He was about to yank the horrid thing off when she came to an abrupt halt at Father Morrell’s rebuke. “I am shocked, my lady. You have always been a girl of common sense. To use such language, on Christmas, and in the chapel!”
Bronwyn bit down hard on her bottom lip, her fury inflamed further. She forced herself to stand still and succumb to the proceedings. Ranulf may be keeping her here now, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t escape before night fell.
“And you, Lord Anscombe,” Father Morrell huffed, “this is most irregular. How am I to know this lady comes willingly to this marriage carried upon your shoulder?”
“Father
, you have one duty in front of you at this moment, and that is to wed me to this woman. The salvation of our souls can wait until tomorrow.” The menacing tone in Ranulf’s voice left no room for argument. Bronwyn wasn’t sure what Ranulf would have done if the priest had been made of sterner stuff, but she doubted the outcome would have been any different.
Her mind was still trying to catch up to events when her body was suddenly engulfed by Tyr in a big bear hug. She must have said the right things at the right times for everyone around her was calling her Lady Anscombe. Lily and Edythe were embracing her, telling her that she and Ranulf might be angry now, but both would thank them later. That all their interference was a type of present to her. It was their turn to help her as she had been doing for them all these years.
Bronwyn wanted to scream and say that this was not what she wanted. She didn’t want a man by default, and she most especially didn’t want to be forever attached with one who preferred her sister. But nothing came out. It was just as well. Let them think she was happy. Tomorrow they would learn the truth.
The priest announced it was time to gather in the Great Hall and begin the hand-washing ceremony. Ranulf nodded in agreement and escorted Bronwyn out of the chapel and across the yard. Once again, they entered the Great Hall. This time the crowd waited until they saw Edythe’s and Lily’s beaming looks of encouragement before rising in congratulations. Only after Ranulf and Bronwyn took their seats at the head table did the roar calm so that words could be exchanged.
Ranulf leaned in to whisper something in her ear, but the sharp bend of the wimple interceded. He nudged the tip aside and said softly, “Know this, I won’t let you leave.”
“Oh, my lord,” Bronwyn hissed back as she continued to fake a smile to those around her, “if I want to leave…I will.”
“And then I will follow you and be most unhappy at the effort.”
Bronwyn dropped her sham expression of bliss to glare at him directly. “I wonder if you would truly care or even notice.”
The Christmas Knight Page 23