Midsummer Night

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “How old are you, Cornelia?” he asked.

  She didn’t hesitate. “Nineteen last month.”

  So she’d just reached the legal age of marriage. Fortunate, or unfortunate, for her. Her brown eyes were studying him just as frankly as he was studying her. He noticed how her thick lashes fluttered with each breath she took. This close to her, he could see the faint freckles on her nose and another freckle on the side of her mouth, as if it had escaped the rest.

  Fine ladies didn’t have freckles, but if she was the second daughter, it meant she’d been made to serve the elder daughter, and likely that included less structure on her activities. For an inane moment, he wanted to touch her face again because her skin had been so soft. And the way she smelled of the strawberry she’d eaten at the banquet wasn’t making it any easier to keep his focus where it should be.

  “How old are you, Lord Moss?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  She was nervous around him, that was clear. Of course, she should be, the deceitful woman. Yet he sensed she was just as much a pawn as he was in this game of lords and ladies marrying for convenience and political agendas.

  But that didn’t mean he should trust her with much. “Twenty-six. And call me Moss. I am your husband now.”

  Her gaze flickered away, and she released a slow breath. The rise and fall of her chest was a bit of a distraction as she did so. Moss re-anchored his gaze on her face. “When did you plan on telling me of your deceit?”

  A dusty pink stole over her cheeks, and her gaze shifted back to him. “I had ... My parents told me to keep the veil on until you blew out the lamps tonight. And then, tomorrow, to continue wearing it—”

  He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. This young woman was certainly naïve, and her parents fools.

  “Cornelia,” he said, placing his hands on her arms. The silk of her wedding gown was smooth, and the warmth of her skin headed the palms of his hands. Her eyes widened at his touch, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t draw away, and strangely, this made him pleased.

  “I knew the moment I saw you approach the castle doors that something was different about you,” he said. “Do you really think you could pass for your petite, blue-eyed sister, even with a veil?”

  Her faint blush now bloomed to red, which darkened the color of her lips as well. Fascinating. She took a heaving breath, which only emphasized her curves. No. She could not have fooled any man who’d spent any amount of time staring at the portrait of her older sister.

  The pulse at her neck seemed to be racing as fast as his heart.

  “Yet you married me anyway,” she said, her voice less timid now. “Why?”

  He inhaled her strawberry scent, mixed with something else. Roses. Of course.

  “I believe in keeping my friends close but keeping my enemies closer,” he said, holding back a smile as her lips parted in surprise. “I have yet to determine whether you, Cornelia, are a friend or enemy.”

  He watched for a subtle shift in her gaze, a narrowing of her eyes, a lift of her chin. Anything that might create a barrier between them and indicate that she was indeed taking her sister’s place in order to do him harm. But she did none of that. She simply gazed at him, both confusion and innocence in those deep-brown eyes of hers.

  “I am no enemy,” she whispered.

  If she was a witch, she was the best one he’d ever come across, because the purity in her gaze and words had him convinced of her innocence.

  “I wish I could read your thoughts,” he said. “How am I to trust a woman who married me under false pretenses?”

  She did look away then, but he still had his hands on her arms, so he could also feel the tension in her body.

  “Yet you married me, knowing I was not Felicia,” she said in a barely-there voice. “And I signed the marriage contract with my true name.”

  Moss stared at her. She’d been a pawn. He’d been a pawn. “Why did you do it? Why did you agree? Your sister ran away and started a new life. You could have done the same.”

  “I have a gift,” she said.

  This admission shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.

  She turned from him then, and he dropped his hands, yet she didn’t move away. “I can hear the thoughts of men. Not all men, but most men. I cannot hear your thoughts, but—”

  He grasped her hand and spun her toward him. “You cannot hear my thoughts?”

  “No.” She tugged her hand away from his and folded her arms. “I’ve been trying, but your mind is closed to me for some reason. And I’ve heard that your life is in danger. That there have been assassination attempts on your life. So I thought, if you didn’t have me beheaded for treason, that I might help you. Listen to the thoughts of the men on the Isle. And uncover who wants you dead.”

  Could he believe that this woman, this new bride of his, had married him to save him and not to kill him?

  Lord Moss’s face had changed colors three times, and still he hadn’t responded to her statement about reading men’s thoughts. Would he accuse her of witchcraft, so instead of hanging for treason, she’d burn at the stake?

  “You can hear a man’s thoughts?” he said, his voice sounding incredulous.

  She’d hoped that by telling him her greatest secret he would see that she had not set out to deceive him, but rather that she was willing to help him. “I am not a witch,” she said.

  Lord Moss’s green eyes skated over her face as if he was trying to decide if she was telling the truth.

  “I am not a witch,” she repeated, desperation creeping into her voice. Would he take pity on her and spare her life? “My grandmother had the same gift, but not my mother or sister.”

  Lord Moss stepped away from her then, but instead of leaving her side, he walked around her, openly studying her as he walked. Finally, he stopped behind her, and she felt his fingers tug at her hair.

  “Hearing another person’s thoughts is a gift,” he said in a murmur.

  Was he sincere? She could not see him to be sure.

  She waited for him to continue, her pulse wild.

  “I can also read another’s thoughts,” he said. “Females, to be specific, except for yours.”

  She drew in a breath. Could it be possible? Was that why she could not hear his thoughts? She turned slowly to face him, and he let go of the lock of hair that he’d grasped.

  “That’s it, then,” she said. “You have the gift too, and that is why we cannot read each other’s minds.”

  His nod was slight. “That might be a problem.”

  “Problem?” Why did this send a rush of panic through her?

  “I am used to knowing what a woman thinks at all times,” he said. “But you are a mystery.”

  His gaze was open, almost vulnerable, and definitely curious.

  Strangely, she felt like smiling. “You are a mystery too, my lord,” she said.

  “Moss.”

  She nodded. “Moss.”

  His features relaxed then, more than she’d seen thus far. But he was still carefully studying her, as if he weren’t completely sure she was trustworthy, although she’d just told him her greatest secret.

  She reached up and tugged off her blond wig. Moss’s eyes widened, but he didn’t look completely shocked.

  “Your hair is as black as night,” he said.

  “Yes.” She couldn’t help the heat that rose to her face because of the way he was looking at her ... as if he liked what he saw.

  “It suits you,” he said.

  “You are not ... disappointed that I’m not my sister?”

  One of his brows rose. “I did not know Felicia. Marriages of convenience are just that ... convenient.”

  Cornelia nodded. “I understand.” But her voice sounded breathy, unsure. She could not deny he was a handsome man with his dark hair, his green eyes, broad shoulders, and strong hands ... but there was something more that drew her to him. When he looked at her, it was like he was really seeing her. It wasn’t something she was used to
. She’d always been the second daughter, the second best, the sister who served the eldest. The sister who made sure the eldest was happy and had everything she desired.

  Cornelia had never considered her own desires. There had never been an opportunity to think of a life outside her home or lands. A life that was beyond her small bedroom or her parents’ estate. No, Cornelia had never imagined that she might marry the Lord of the Isle of Rose and that he might stand before her, as her lawful husband, with appreciation in his eyes. Perhaps it was only a physical attraction on his part, and that was flattering enough, but it was more attention than she’d ever had in all her nineteen years.

  “What now, my lord?” she asked, then quickly corrected. “Moss.”

  The edges of his mouth lifted, and although it was still far from a smile, it was also far from the soberness of before.

  “I need to find out if I can really trust you,” he said, his voice quiet. “And if I can, then we put a plan together. You and I. To find those who want me dead.”

  What a feat. How was she to prove to this man that she was sincere in her desire to help him and that she was trustworthy? Hadn’t she followed her sister’s wishes and delayed telling their parents the news of Felicia’s departure?

  “I am the second daughter, you see,” Cornelia said, not sure where she was going with this but hoping it would have a good ending point. “I have spent my days in repairing my sister’s gowns, keeping her hearth warm, bringing her meals in when she was ill, telling her stories to keep her smiling, and doing my duty by her in every way possible. For, you see, she was to become a great lady. All her life, and all my life, we believed that. And I wanted to help her achieve this greatness.”

  She paused and found that Lord Moss was listening intently.

  After swallowing, Cornelia continued. “This morning when I found the note in my sister’s room, she asked me to wait until high noon to break the news to my parents. And that is what I did.” She released a slow breath. “I am loyal to my sister, always and forever. And if that means taking a man for a husband that was originally betrothed to her so that she can be happy with Louis Phillipe, then I will do so.”

  “You married me for your sister?”

  “Like you said, I could have fled. But I did not,” she said. “I hope you can believe that my intentions are honest and true.”

  “You make a pretty speech, Cornelia,” Lord Moss said.

  Her name on his tongue rolled off and sent a shiver through her.

  “I know only the life of a veritable servant, my lord,” she said. “And I plan to continue that life, although now I will serve you.”

  Lord Moss blinked, and his expression tightened. “I have servants aplenty. What I am in need of is a wife—a woman who will bear my children.”

  No amount of willpower could slow down the rushing heat through her body. But she kept her chin lifted, her gaze on him. “Is that another, higher form of servitude?”

  His mouth twitched, but his eyes remained grave. “I believe it can be entirely different.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, and Cornelia was too startled to react. It was like she’d been anchored to the plush rug beneath her feet.

  When his thumb brushed against the bare skin of her collar bone, Cornelia was pretty sure her heart had skipped several beats.

  “How would it be different?” she asked, hating that her voice was breathless, because he would know how much he affected her.

  He smiled then, and it was as if Cornelia were standing on a rocking skiff as the vibrant orange and pink of a sunset bloomed all around her.

  “Being my wife will be entirely different than being a servant,” Moss told Cornelia. “I can assure you that.”

  She puffed out a breath. “How so?”

  Should he answer her, or should he show her?

  Moss had wanted to kiss Cornelia the moment she removed her veil, and once the wig came off, the feeling had only intensified. This woman might have the gift of hearing, but she was no witch. Moss had heard the thoughts of evil women, and even though Cornelia’s were silent to him, he could still ascertain much from a person’s eyes.

  Not only did he see the truth in them, he also saw her curiosity, mixed with her desire. For him. The feeling was heady, to say the least. Whatever events of misfortune had brought a different bride to him this day, he was grateful for the soft, supple woman who stood across from him now. Perhaps her pink-colored lips and her scent of strawberries had messed with his logic, but she was his wife ... and kissing her would be perfectly acceptable.

  Moss lifted his hand from her shoulder and touched her raven locks. Her hair was long, nearly to her waist, and it must have been uncomfortable keeping such a mass secured beneath the blond wig. The softness of her hair only drew him in, and he stepped closer. The only sound in the room beyond the crackle of the fire he’d built was their shared breathing.

  He leaned down, and he almost gave in, almost kissed her, but as her eyes fluttered shut, he stilled. He’d heard a soft thud coming from the other side of the room. The closet, to be exact.

  Cornelia opened her eyes, and by her expression, he knew she’d heard it too.

  Someone else was in the room with them.

  Moss brought a finger to his lips, indicating for Cornelia to be quiet. Her face had drained of color, but she nodded. Would she look so fearful if she was in on a plan to break into this place?

  Whatever was going on, Moss wasn’t going to delay. He reached for the dagger he kept secured on the inside of his boot. Cornelia moved away from him, and when he realized she was going to pick up the fire poker, he nodded his approval.

  He walked toward the closet, where the sound had come from. There was a chance that once he opened the closet door, his new wife might also attack him, and Moss would be surrounded on both sides. But there was only one way to find out.

  Moss reached for the latch, then in one swift motion, he lifted it and tugged open the door.

  A boy of about nine years old tumbled out with a cry.

  The little imp leapt to his feet, his blue eyes huge with fright.

  Before the kid could flee, Moss grasped the boy’s collar and twisted it tight. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

  The boy yelped again and tried to escape Moss’s grasp. But the kid was a skinny thing, and Moss didn’t even need to use two hands.

  “Identify yourself, right now,” Moss said, bringing the dagger to the imp’s throat.

  The boy finally stilled, his eyes darting from Moss to Cornelia.

  “He’s only a child,” Cornelia said, setting down the fire poker and joining them by the closet. She knelt before the miscreant and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t touch him,” Moss said. “He might bite, or worse.”

  Cornelia simply huffed out a breath. “Who sent you?” she asked in a gentle tone one might use for a non-criminal child.

  The boy’s lip jutted out, but he said nothing.

  “Musk?” Cornelia asked.

  Moss frowned. Who was she talking about? And then he realized that she was reading the boy’s thoughts, and by the sudden paleness of his face, Moss could tell the boy wasn’t pleased.

  “Who is Musk?” Cornelia continued. “A man or a woman?”

  The boy tried to shrink away from Cornelia, but Moss kept his grip firm on the boy’s collar.

  “A man ...” Cornelia paused and looked up at Moss. “Do you know a man named Musk?”

  “No,” Moss said. “This boy needs to speak up and stop playing games.”

  Cornelia refocused on the boy. “We won’t hurt you,” she said in a soothing tone. “Are you hungry?”

  The boy’s eyebrow shot up, and Moss could almost feel the kid’s hunger in his own stomach.

  “Come,” Cornelia said with a gentle smile. “Let’s get you something to eat, and then you can tell us more about Musk.”

  Although Moss was still holding the boy captive, Moss felt the young body relent. Now that M
oss thought about it, the skinny kid looked near starving. His clothing was worn and stained, and his hair needed a good washing.

  Cornelia rose, then she gave Moss a look as if to say, Release him.

  How dare she?

  Moss released the kid, but not before giving Cornelia his own look of warning.

  “Do we have food here, Moss?” she asked in a perfectly sweet tone. “Or should we send for it?”

  “The covered basket on the table has food in it,” Moss said.

  Cornelia led the boy to the table with the basket.

  Moss watched in wonder as she handed bread, cheese, and fruit to the boy, which he ate like he hadn’t tasted food for days. The color slowly returned to the boy’s cheeks, and when his eating finally slowed, Cornelia began to tell him stories of her childhood.

  Moss wasn’t sure where she was going with these tales, but he found himself listening with interest. He also discovered that Cornelia loved dogs and books and experimenting with baking in the kitchen. She’d also spent a great deal of time taking care of what sounded like a rather spoiled older sister.

  When she had the boy’s rapt attention and growing trust, she said, “I’ll bet a clever boy like you has a clever name.”

  The boy’s face flushed, and he must have thought his name because Cornelia said, “Swany?”

  By the expression on the boy’s face, Moss knew she’d guessed right.

  “So unique,” Cornelia continued with an unaffected smile. “Are you named after someone?”

  “No,” the boy said. “I have no family.”

  “Musk is not your father?” she asked.

  Swany shook his head adamantly.

  “I’ll tell you what.” Cornelia removed one of the bracelets from her wrist. “I’ll give you my bracelet to do with what you’d like if you tell me why Musk sent you here tonight.”

  The boy looked from Cornelia to the bracelet and swallowed.

  Moss watched in fascination as the boy reached for the gold band. His thin fingers wrapped around the luster, and he turned the bracelet over. The gold gleamed in the light of the nearby oil lamp.

  “He wants me to listen to everything Lord Moss says to his new bride.” Swany looked up. “You.”