by Anne Stuart
The noise and heat were unbearable, suffocating. She wanted to push him away, but she knew further argument would only endanger him. “Stupid man,” she whispered against his chest, certain they were both about to die.
A moment later they were out of the inferno, into air so fresh it hurt to breathe it. Alistair sank to his knees, Elspeth still clutched in his arms, and she raised her head to see embers burning on his dark velvet sleeve. She slapped at them, ignoring the pain in her hands and in her neck until he stopped her, holding her hands in his, staring at her out of his wild, golden eyes.
“He cut you,” he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke. He touched the blood on her neck and it glistened bright red with life. “I’ll rip his heart out.” He tried to pull away, but she caught his hands firmly. Her strength was no match for his, yet he didn’t pull away.
“Why didn’t you leave me in there?” she demanded. “You could have been killed.”
“Foolish sentiment,” he snapped.
“Is that all?”
“Practicality,” he added. “You might be carrying my child.”
“Your son,” she said, saying it aloud for the first time.
He looked startled. “You’re not the witch. There’s no way you could know.”
“I know.” She looked up, realizing with sudden shock that it was raining quite heavily, soaking down upon them as they knelt in the courtyard. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning streaked across the leaden sky. “You had no other reason to save me?” she asked.
“Perhaps I didn’t want the prophecy to come true. I detest being a whim of God.”
She smiled then, and released his hands. “If you say so,” she said, sinking back.
Whatever threats De Lancey had used to keep the inhabitants of Huntingdon Castle in their homes had long since lost their power. A crowd of people was congregating around the burning chapel, muttering darkly. The heavy rain was soaking everything, keeping the fire from spreading.
“You, there,” Alistair called in his lordly, arrogant voice. “See to my wife. She needs tending. The rest of you, there’ll be a reward of forty marks for the man who brings Gilles De Lancey to me.”
“He’s right here, your lordship,” one of the men-at-arms said in an uneasy voice.
Alistair surged to his feet, instantly dismissing Elspeth’s existence as he followed the voice, but she managed to struggle to her feet, hauling the heavy wet dress around her to trail after him.
“Where?” he demanded.
“He’s dead, your lordship. Looks like he fell on his knife.”
Elspeth came up behind her tall, rain-drenched husband and stared down at the dead man, trying to keep the bile from rising in her throat. In death, Gilles De Lancey was no longer a handsome man. He lay on his back in the mud, his bright blue eyes wide and staring, his jeweled knife skewering his manly throat.
She could feel her husband’s rage, his tension as he took a step toward his enemy’s body, and she decided now was as good a time as any. She swooned, deliberately graceful, prepared to topple onto the ground if need be to stop her husband from committing an act of savagery.
She never made it to the ground. Alistair caught her, cursing loudly, holding her with infinite gentleness. She closed her eyes and let him carry her out of the rain and into the warmth and safety of the keep as he cursed all the way, issuing orders and then countermanding them. He was a rare handful, her husband, she thought, hiding her trembling smile against the wet velvet of his tunic. He smelled like rain and smoke and Alistair, and she wanted to cry.
The eventual silence came as a shock. She lifted her head, plastering a wan expression on her face, only to find that he’d brought her to his rooms. None of the servants had followed—he must have dismissed them or scared them away with all his ranting and raving, and now they were alone. He stood beside the high carved bed and stared down at her, an enigmatic expression on his face.
“Liar,” he said, and dropped her.
She landed with a tiny yelp. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, affronted.
“You didn’t faint.”
“I felt dizzy.”
“You didn’t want to see me cut out Gilles’s heart.”
She sat up, fully aware that the neckline of the blood-red dress gaped attractively. At least she suspected he found it attractive, judging from the way he was looking at her. “Well, no,” she admitted. “I told you, I don’t like the sight of blood. Would you have done it?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “What about this?” He touched her neck and she winced. “Doesn’t he deserve to pay for this?”
“Considering that he is already dead, I think the debt is paid in full,” she said. “What are you going to do now? Continue to terrorize the poor people of Huntingdon? Send me back to the convent? Find another madman like De Lancey to commit your crimes?”
He stared at her, and there was no reading his expression. “Things have worked well so far,” he said. “In my short life I’ve amassed enormous power and wealth. People will do anything I tell them to. I see no reason to change the way I do things.”
“You have everything you could ever want. There’s no need to frighten people into doing your will. It’s just as easy to inspire their love.”
“Why in the devil’s name would I want to do that?” he demanded.
“If not for God, then for me,” she said simply. “And for the sake of your children.”
He looked horrified. “I could always gag you,” he said, half to himself. “You must have taken a vow of silence in the convent. There’s no other explanation for your being quite so vociferous now.”
“I’m not as meek as I should be.”
“That,” he said calmly, “is an understatement.”
“You don’t need a mousy wife.”
“I don’t need a wife at all.”
“But you’ve got one.”
“It’s nothing I can’t remedy. I’ve broken the prophecy. We weren’t destroyed by flame and fire. I have nothing to worry about by getting rid of you.”
She shook her head, feeling her long hair flow around her. “You didn’t break the prophecy. You made it come true. ‘Flame and fire destroy them both, death and rebirth, blood their troth.’ She touched his fingers, which were still marked with her blood. “A part of me died in that fire. A part of you as well.”
He jerked away. “You’re fanciful.”
“No, I’m not. You try so hard to be wicked. A truly wicked man would have left me in the flames. You came back and saved me.”
“It was a mistake,” he said sourly. “If I’d left you there, at least I wouldn’t have to listen to your infernal yammering. And I would have caught up with De Lancey before Morgana got to him.”
“Morgana?”
“Somewhere in the heart of Dunstan Woods she’s sitting with a little doll in her hand. And there’s a pin stuck right through the center of that doll’s neck. I may not have had revenge, but my mother has.”
“I don’t believe in witches,” Elspeth said, shivering.
“Fortunately, De Lancey did.”
“You can’t send me away,” she said desperately, rising to her knees in the bed.
“Why not?” He seemed no more than casually interested in her argument.
“You’ve forgotten the rest of the prophecy. ‘In thunder, rain, brought right again.’ It’s still raining isn’t it? Keeping the fire from spreading?”
“And?” he prodded.
“‘And all shall be as God’s design.’”
He closed his eyes wearily, and cursed. “Elspeth,” he said with great patience, “I have no interest in God’s will. I have no interest in anyone’s will but my own. I’m a very bad man. Perhaps not quite so bad as Gilles, but I expect I’ve come close in my time. I’m not a fit husband for a child like you. I release you from your wedding vows.”
“I never made my wedding vows!” she cried in frustration. “So how can you release me? I’m your br
ide, Alistair Darcourt, and you can’t dismiss me so easily. I’m your prophecy, your destiny, your fate. I’m God’s will, and not even you can deny it.”
He caught her shoulders in his hands, pulling her up to him. He was trying his best to glare at her, and he was failing. “Damn you,” he muttered under his breath, and kissed her hard.
She didn’t hesitate. She kissed him back, twining her arms around him, pulling him off balance, down onto the bed beside her. She tore at his clothes, he tore at hers, both of them desperate with need.
When he finally rolled off her, he was panting, breathless, and still fighting it.
“I’ll never be a good man,” he warned her, his voice severe, at odds with the gentleness of his hand as it trailed down her arm.
“You’re probably right,” she agreed cheerfully enough, snuggling up against his chest. He put his arm around her, pulling her closer, probably without even realizing it. “I suppose I’ll just have to be a good example for everyone, to make up for your unparalleled wickedness.”
“They’ll tell you you married a monster.”
“They’ll be right,” she said sweetly.
“I won’t be tamed.”
“Alistair, my love,” she said, raising herself on her elbow and smiling down at him, “you already are.”
Lady Elspeth of Gaveland never made it to sainthood, or even an early martyrdom. She lived an unheard of eighty-nine years, all of them at the side of recalcitrant husband, the high sheriff of Huntingdon.
People still crossed themselves when he looked at them askance. And they thanked providence that all but one of the twelve children Lady Elspeth brought forth and raised to adulthood took after their mother and not their father, nor his mother the witch, who was purported to still live deep in the haunted depths of Dunstan Woods, singing her wicked songs and planning her evil deeds.
And in the end, the lord high sheriff and his bride were buried in the fine new chapel at Huntingdon Keep, Alistair’s reluctant gift to Lady Elspeth on the occasion of the birth of their first child, a son. And if Morgan, that first son, had golden eyes, and if wicked things tended to befall anyone who happened to cross his will, neither of his parents made mention of it.
After all, who really believed in witches?
Anne Stuart
When Avon Books asked me to write a short story for this bridal collection, I wasn’t sure about it. I’ve never found brides and weddings that romantic. After all, the chase is over, the couple is in harmony, and the best thing about it is the bride gets to wear a nice dress.
However, in the past, brides weren’t quite so predictable or weddings so ordinary. There were marriages of convenience, stolen brides, proxy arranged marriages, marriages where the principals were strangers, and all that luscious stuff. In the past, the excitement of discovering love came after the wedding, not before.
So I took one of history’s most colorful villains, the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham, changed him into the High Sheriff of Huntingdon, matched him with a stubborn ex-nun and then watched the sparks fly. I had a great deal of fun with the two of them, and I hope you did too. And needless to say, they both lived happily ever after.
