The Knight's Bride. Lyn Stone
noticed their comments on the hard-muscled warrior who stood alone in the midst of the hall. She just watched him.
He waited at his ease, as though he had nothing better to do. She supposed he did not. He just stood there, weight resting on one foot, arms crossed, and green eyes lively as they surveyed the gathering of castle folk.
“You should send him away, madame,” said Nanette, her trusted maid. The woman spoke in French so the others would not understand. “Even smiling, that one looks fiercer than your lord father ever did on his worst of days. You mark me well, he means you no good! No good at all. How can you marry such as he, especially now?”
Nanette’s dainty hands fluttered like crazed butterflies when she got excited and this Scottish knight certainly provided excitement if nothing else.
Honor ignored Nan then and stole another long look at Sir Alan. In a strange way, he appealed to her senses. However, handsome did not exactly describe him if one judged by court standards. No doubt many women swooned over him with a combination of terror and wild fantasy. Or simple lust. Not sensible women, of course. Not her.
His hair, a wild dark chestnut and probably combed with his fingers, escaped bit by bit from its tenuous tethering at his nape. A soft waving strand drifted over his high, wide brow and just missed covering one dark-lashed eye. Thick brows, a darker auburn than his hair, rose and fell, changing his expression from curiosity to satisfaction when Father Dennis approached him, Book of Prayers in hand. She liked the fact that he did not make the least attempt to conceal his feelings.
The knight’s full, mobile lips broke into an amazingly open smile, revealing two rows of even, unspotted teeth. He had good strong teeth, Honor noted, exasperated with herself for giving attention to that. One did not judge men as one did horses, after all. If so, Tavish might have been a fine, sleek Arabian, while this fellow looked a hell-inbattle destrier. But the teeth were fine, nonetheless.
Why had God seen fit to take her gentle Tavish and leave this warlike specimen to live? She could not help but question, though she knew it impious. Well, piety had gotten her nowhere.
Nanette pulled on her arm. “Listen to me! This man will be your undoing, madame. He will! Send him away and forget this nonsense.”
Honor tore her gaze from the knight and settled it on the old maid. “And then what, Nan? You know as well as I, someone would take his place. If not tomorrow, then the next day or the next, another will come. I cannot hope to hold this place alone. At least this chevalier knew my husband and cared enough to bring the body home. He promises to foster my child and protect us. Tavish knew I would need someone and he sent me this man. The king commands that we marry, so he surely trusts him. What would you have me do, forfeit everything I have to the Bruce and flee to France?”
“Oui!” Nanette said with an emphatic nod. “Just so! Let us go home.”
“Never!” Honor declared. “I would wed the devil himself before the comte de Trouville.”
“God help you, my lady,” Nanette whimpered. “This man may qualify! Look at those arms and fists. He might very well kill you should you raise his ire. And with your temper,” she said with a bob of her head, “I do not doubt me you will.”
Honor heaved a loud sigh and shook off Nan’s clutching hands. Her maid could be right, but life with her father held absolutely no hope at all. Honor felt reasonably certain she could handle this knight. He responded gently to her tears. She sensed an underlying compassion, concealed by that rugged warrior’s exterior. And surely there would be benefits in all that strength.
Chances were good that she might control the man and make him do her bidding. She had found a way with Tavish Ellerby and she would find a way with this one, though the two were different as a pigeon and a hawk. La! First comparing them to horses, then to birds. Consigning men to the level of animals stirred a bitter smile. Not so farfetched as all that.
“Go on, Nan, and order the women to prepare the solar. Take in some of the best wine and see to a tub for his bath. Father Dennis beckons me, so it must be time.”
She quit the group of women and approached the priest and the knight. This might prove the greatest mistake of her life, but thus far, her instincts had led her aright. She sensed Alan of Strode would wax tame enough if she kept her wits about her.
The father of her child lay dead now, unable to keep her past at bay, unable to secure their little one’s future. But perhaps he had, in his last moments, seen to it that someone else would. She thanked Tavish for that, for thinking of her, and for loving her as he had. Her husband had been a noble and admirable man and she would miss him greatly.
Despite her first stunned reaction and her grief at hearing that Tavish had died, Honor realized now that Alan of Strode offered her the only chance she had to hold what belonged to her and to Tavish’s child.
Unlike her first, this marriage would be real and binding for certain. Properly documented and witnessed. Tavish had arranged this union for her and wished her happy in it. She would comply with his plans, for his sake, her own and especially for their child’s.
“Sir Alan, Father Dennis, shall we proceed?” she asked, chin lifted and eyes bright. If the man respected bravery, she would pretend it. She certainly had enough practice in pretending.
“Well, ah, there are certain procedures,” said the priest. “There is the confession. You made your own just this mom, my lady, but—” He eyed the knight warily. “Sir Alan, if you would step into the alcove yonder, I would hear yours.”
Strode shook his head, his hands resting on his narrow hips. “Nay, I canna think of any reason to hide what I’ve to say. The lass should know what she’s gettin’.”
Honor perked up at that. A public confession? Unheard of.
“B-but, sir, ’tis always done in private!” Father Dennis gnawed his thin lips, glancing from one to the other several times. A titter of nervous laughter rippled among those listening to the exchange.
The knight stared them down with an arrogant look. When they fell silent again, he looked directly into the priest’s eyes. “Let her hear it. I’ll not lie.”
His brows drew together, this time in a thoughtful frown, as though searching his mind. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Och, now I remember it! Forgi’ me, Father, for I have sinned!”
Father Dennis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him, clutching his rosary and prayer book between them. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
Strode flashed another frown, the tip of his tongue worrying the corner of his mouth as he rocked heel to toe to heel. Mental calculation apparently completed, he steadied. “Nineteen years, give or take a six-month. Aye, that’s right,” he said with a firm nod. “I was goin’ on seven.”
Nineteen years! There were murmurs of horror and a few giggles, quickly squelched with another piercing green glare.
“And what have you done since that requires forgiveness?”
Honor wondered just how long they would be standing here if he decided to list everything.
Strode seemed at a loss. He started to speak, snapped his mouth shut, then began again. “Well, what is it that matters here?”
“Do you believe in the One God, keep the Sabbath holy, honor your father and mother?”
“Aye for th’ most part, though I dinna like ’em all that much. The father and mother, that is. But I do give ‘em proper respect. ’Tis only right.” He looked triumphant. “Is that all, then?”
“Not all, but a beginning,” the priest said, looking askance at the penitent. “Have you killed anyone?”
“Oh, aye to that as well! Twenty or so, all English, mostly. Mayhaps one Welshmon. Before that, I recall only three. One, a thieving Cameron, and two nameless reivers what tried to steal my horse. All good, clean, righteous kills. Should be clear on that score!”