Her Noble Lords (4 page)

I watch his retreating back. Despite my predicament and his delusions, I cannot fail to admire my betrothed. He cuts a fine figure. His shoulders are broad, his arms strong. He exudes authority and confidence, as does his brother. They both made me feel safe in a peculiar, vulnerable sort of a way even as they snatched me from my bed and brought me here as their prisoner. They are handsome men both, startling in their golden masculine beauty. Lady Eleanor must be quite deranged to have so readily dismissed her opportunity to become wife to Sir Ralf.

Now it appears that rosy future is to be mine, however briefly. I have no illusions this will end well.

For want of any better course, I skirt the campfire and wriggle into the tent assigned for my use. I crouch and peer around me. The ground is covered by hides and several blankets, so with the additional warmth provided by the fire at the mouth of the tent I doubt I will freeze tonight. The sack containing Lady Eleanor’s belongings is in the corner. I open it to see what items they deigned to bring for my use. Apart from the gowns and chemises I saw Ralf grab whilst we were still in my lady’s chamber, he has seen fit to include a hairbrush, a pair of slippers, some stouter shoes more suited to outdoor use, and Lady Eleanor’s rosary. The latter has seen little use up to now as far as I am aware. I suspect I may have occasion to be glad of the comfort it offers.

Piers returns briefly to deposit a small loaf and a mug of mead on the floor beside me. He unties my bound wrists.

“You are surrounded by armed men. Any attempt to leave this tent will be discovered and punished. If you wish to avoid attending your own wedding unable to sit in comfort, I suggest you consider that carefully, my lady.”

His threat is clear enough. I nod and back away from him.

Sir Piers gone, I huddle at the rear of the tent, my view of the goings-on outside now severely restricted though the sounds of male voices, the clatter of metal occasionally, the faint whinny of horses is evidence of preparations to depart as soon as the business here is concluded. I assume that business will culminate in my wedding to Sir Ralf St. John, earl of Egremont.

I reach for the rosary and offer up prayers for my safe delivery from this unholy mess.

The small fire has died. I kneel at the entrance to my tent and I watch the pale fingers of a May dawn poke through the trees, casting soft smudges of grey light across the darkness of the camp. Minutes crawl by, the smudges lengthen, become joined in spreading pools of misty radiance as the night recedes and the sun casts her warmth over the earth. On my tiny patch of it I wait, clad now in my mistress’ light blue velvet, her slippers on my feet. I curse the fact that her shoes fit me, even if her gown is somewhat generous around the bodice—not so much though that the disparity would be obvious.

I dressed as best I might, huddled at the rear of my shelter to remain concealed from inquisitive eyes. I dare do no other, since my protests and explanations have fallen on deaf ears and any apparent attempt to subvert my bridegroom’s plans for me is likely to earn me his retribution. I am terrified of what this day might bring, yet oddly excited, too.

It is my wedding day. I am to marry a man I could have barely dreamed of even as recently as yesterday. It is a dream come true and my most dire nightmare.

Even if this travesty of a ceremony should proceed and I can find no cause to believe otherwise at this moment, surely it will not be legal. I cannot speak vows for another woman, nor may I accept them on her behalf. My betrothed is labouring under the most pronounced misapprehension but he does sincerely believe me to me the lady to whom he is contracted. Once the truth is established, I cannot imagine any other outcome but that our union will be void. I am determined to survive this bizarre adventure and if I am to do so, I see no alternative but to comply with the wishes of my captors. I will therefore go through the marriage ceremony. I will speak the vows if I must since I will be before God and He knows the truth. He understands that I have told the truth throughout and that the events unfolding here are not of my making. I will be forgiven. I have to believe that.

So I wait, patient, as the camp comes to life in the grey dawn. Voices carry across the clearing, the snorts of horses a little farther away, the sound of hooves, the clatter of arms being hoisted. We are soon to be about our day.

“My lady, are you ready?” Despite anticipating this with every taut fibre of my being, Piers’ voice outside still startles me. I stiffen, try to subdue my shivers.

He crouches at the entrance, his handsome features harsh in the half-light. He extends his hand to me. “Come, my lady, I will take you to your bridegroom.”

I take his hand. His fingers are cool, firm, they wrap around mine as he draws me from the meagre safety of my tent. “You managed to dress, I see. Do you require assistance at all?”

“My lord?” I gaze at him, baffled.

“With your fastenings? I am no lady’s maid but will endeavour to offer such help as I may.”

“Oh, I see. No, my lord, I think…” I pause, then turn my back to him. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your aid.” The ties which hold the gown secure are but loosely fastened, the best I might contrive alone. I stand still as he provides a few deft tugs and the bodice tightens around my front. My lord omitted to gather much in the way of underclothing for me yesterday evening so I have settled only for a clean chemise. It will suffice.

“There, that should do. I can allow you a few minutes’ privacy if you have need of such and an opportunity to break your fast before your wedding.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I murmur, grateful for the consideration. Despite the fare I was offered last night I am famished.

“Come.” He leads me to the edge of the encampment and points to an area of shrubbery. “You may use that. As before, answer when I call.”

I scurry past him to answer the insistent call of nature.

Breakfast consists of a bowl of oatmeal and another mug of mead, which I take perched on a fallen tree trunk as my tent is already disassembled and has been packed onto a small cart ready for our departure. Piers is striding about the clearing barking orders at everyone but I have yet to see Ralf this morning.

It seems to take hardly any time at all for the camp to be dismantled, leaving nothing but flattened grass and the scars of several fires to testify as to our presence here. Piers comes back over to where I am seated.

“My lady, it is time.”

“Where is Sir Ralf?” I cast my gaze around but cannot see him.

“He is with the priest. Come, I will accompany you there.” He offers me his arm. I rise and take it.

Two guards fall in step behind us as we make our way through the forest for several hundred yards. Each tows two horses in his wake. We emerge from the trees before a tiny church set beside a narrow lane. Behind the church are nestled a handful of tiny cottages, the hamlet numbering no more than a dozen dwellings in all. Ralf stands at the door to the church, a grey-garbed priest at his side. The two are conversing in low tones as we approach but Ralf turns to greet me with a smile.

My heart does a strange little flip within my chest. Would that such a welcome were truly mine rather than intended for a woman who is miles away and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding in her name.

“Eleanor. I trust you slept well?”

“Aye, my lord.” It seems the proper response, though in truth I did not sleep at all.

“This is Father Peter. He will conduct the marriage ceremony. Are you quite ready?”

No!
“Yes, my lord.”

“You look lovely. Blue suits you. I have something to add.” He turns to the priest. “Father?”

“Ah, yes, of course, my lord. It is here.” The padre disappears into the church for a moment, to reappear bearing a woven coronet of white lilac blossoms. He hands it to Ralf.

“This is my wedding gift to you. It is not the traditional orange blossom but the closest that could be fashioned at short notice.” He places the floral crown on my head then tips up my chin with his fingers. “Do not look so terrified, little one. ‘Tis your wedding we are performing here, not your execution. And you have been married before, you are no stranger to the procedure, I am sure.”

“Sir, I—”

He silences me by the simple expedient of laying his finger across my lips. “Do not persist with this, my lady. You
will
fulfil the terms of our contract.”

It seems I shall. I nod and lower my eyes, unable to hold his brilliant dark brown gaze.

“Come, we will go inside.” Ralf cups my elbow in his palm and shepherds me through the narrow door into the body of the church. It is but three or four strides of his to reach the altar where he lowers himself to his knees. I follow suit, the rosary gripped in my fist. I had secreted it in the pocket of my gown and now seems a good enough time to draw on its comfort.

The priest moves to stand before us and the shuffle of feet tells me Piers and the two guards have filed in behind. I assume they are to be our witnesses.

The priest’s monotonous tones ring out as he chants a short prayer over us, then commences the ceremony proper.

I am oddly distanced from the whole affair, vaguely conscious of my husband-to-be murmuring his responses and answering with my own when prompted. I manage a suitably vague rendition of my name, quite unable to speak a direct falsehood in the presence of Our Lord. If my betrothed notices he is polite enough to allow it to pass unremarked. Too soon it seems Father Peter is uttering his final benedictions over our bowed heads, splashing the requisite drops of holy water around and declaring our union to be blessed in the name of God.

We are, it would seem, man and wife.

Ralf helps me to my feet and proceeds to kiss me most soundly. The experience is not exactly unpleasant, though it is short-lived as Piers, too, demands his turn. I am passed between the brothers as each does his utmost to welcome me to their family. It would be exhilarating, charming even, if the whole situation were less bizarre.

“Put my wife down, if you please. She and I have important matters to conclude before we may be on our way.” Ralf delivers a not especially gentle punch to his brother’s arm to gain his attention. Piers lifts his head, breaking the kiss he was intent on bestowing. His enthusiasm for the task is most startling, though Ralf appears not unduly perturbed. “Perhaps you could conclude matters with the good padre here. A few gold coins for the parish coffers will doubtless find a hearty welcome.”

“My lord is most generous,” agrees the priest, nodding his tonsured head. “If you wish to avail yourself of my humble accommodations for an hour or so, my lord, in order to, er, to…”

“To prepare adequately for the long journey ahead of us?” Ralf suggests.

“Indeed, my lord. Yes, quite.” The priest accepts the handful of coins offered by Piers and scurries out of the church.

“We will avail ourselves of such hospitality as may be found in this hamlet,” announces Piers, leading the two guards from the nave. “We will be close by, when you are ready to set out.”

Ralf mutters something in response and we find ourselves suddenly alone. And married.

“Countess?” He offers me his arm once more. I take it, my mind racing.

Humble accommodations? Prepare for the journey?
I may lack the experience he assumes his bride to have but not so woefully that I have no notion of what such preparations will entail. I have been wedded, now I will be bedded.

Sweet Mary, Mother of God, what do I do now?

Ralf leads me from the church and along the narrow path which winds around the side of the minuscule building. The path brings us to the rough lane connecting the few houses. Piers and the two guards are negotiating the price of a flagon of good ale from a sturdy peasant woman who it appears has no illusions regarding the quality of her brew. I pause to watch as more coins change hands and the men retire to a nearby grassed mound to enjoy their celebration. The bridegroom himself has settled upon a more direct approach to the nuptials and tows me in the direction of the closest dwelling, a one-roomed structure consisting of solid stone walls and a roof of roughly hewn wood.

“The priest has graciously offered us the privacy of his own cottage. I trust you will find the accommodations not too cramped, my lady, though I promise to do what I may to take your mind off such considerations.”

“It, it is all right, my lord. I am happy to simply leave now if you prefer, for Westmoreland.”

“I do not prefer, my sweet bride. Our journey will take days and I do not intend to wait until we are both travel weary and exhausted before I consummate our union.”

“C-consummate?”

“Aye. Consummate. Here and now.” His grin is mischievous and sensual too. “My ardour for you knows no bounds, little Eleanor.”

“But, I am not sure, I mean…” I have no ready excuses, bar the truth and I know that will not suffice. “Sir, could we not wait?”

His expression hardens as his humour evaporates into the crisp morning air. Even so, I detect a flash of what appears to be genuine regret. He shakes his head. “No waiting, my sweet. I do not believe a delay would aid our cause.”

We have reached the cottage. Ralf opens the door and ushers me inside. The single room offers little in the way of comfort—a narrow pallet bed, a low chair, a table, and a pail fashioned from short lengths of shaped wood. On the table I see a platter of bread, several apples, some lumps of cheese, and a knife with which to carve the victuals. The ubiquitous flagon of mead accompanies the fare.

“Ah, our wedding breakfast, my lady. ‘Twill fortify us for the coming journey.” He turns to regard me. “‘Tis time, Eleanor. It would please me greatly if you would remove your gown.”

“I… I cannot, sir.”

“You require assistance? I believe I might contrive to provide it.”

“No, sir, I mean—”

“Eleanor, I appreciate your reluctance and despite my insistence so far I swear I have no desire to harm you or to alarm you. I have no notion of how these matters might have been conducted in your previous marriage but here, now, let us try this my way.”