by L. L. Muir
“Sir Tamhas,” she began. “I am sorry, but I am unworthy. I will not marry you.”
“Unworthy?” he scoffed. “Tell me.” He suspected he would be forced to give her his gift early. It might be best, after all, if she knew who she was marrying.
“I’ve had a lover,” she confessed, then turned her back to him. “I met him a few days before you arrived, my lord. At the kissing tree. I thought I would never see him again until one night he came to my bedchamber. I’m afraid you can guess what happened after that, can you not?”
Someone cleared their throat on the other side of the chapel door, and Tam realized he might need to keep his secret just a while longer. Others were waiting on them.
“My dear Astrid,” he said. “I can forgive anything of you. If you will be faithful to me from this day forward, our past can remain behind us.” He offered her his arm and a sincere smile, hoping she could see how he truly felt about her.
“You can forgive me anything?”
“Anything, my love.”
She shrugged and moved toward the door. But just before she opened it, she turned back with a charming smile. “My lord, you are a truly gracious man—and I was certain you would not find me worthy of you, but if you still wish to marry me…”
“I do.”
She inclined her head. “Then I shall not give the man another thought. I shall forget the dozen nights my lord Nimmo has shared my bed, and if I prove to be with child, I will insist the child is your own. Come.” And with that, she pulled the door wide and walked inside, past her waiting sister.
Tam found it impossible to move.
Lord Nimmo? Twelve nights? Or did she mean a baker’s dozen—thirteen? And if the blackheart had used the name Nimmo, it had to be one of his own men! Jessop’s face came to mind. The perfect way to murder the man came next.
And what of his would-be bride? She was likely standing before the priest, waiting for him, expecting him to do as he said he would. But no, he would not! Not even Hellingsby was worth the Hell he would suffer every day, every time he looked at her. Every time he looked at his men and wondered, which one? Even holding his lady Astrid in his arms was not worth that torture.
Or was she?
In the midst of his anguish, Bronwyn slipped out of the chapel to join him. For the first time in the last two weeks, he considered she might have had a hand in this intrigue.
“You do not deserve to hear this, my lord.” She sighed. “But you might care to know that the only one who shared my sister’s bed, since you arrived at Hellingsby…is me.”
He shook his head, confused. He had no time for a riddle.
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “You must have done something quite foolish to cause her to hurt you so. If I were you, I would think on that.”
Odin’s teeth! Astrid knew! Somehow she’d learned he was her Nimmo, had realized he’d knowingly broken her heart, and had discovered a way to break his.
“The wee minx!”
Bronwyn laughed and turned back to the door. “Someday, you’ll have to write me a long letter and tell me all about it. Are you coming?”
Ah, but that was the question. If she thought he would hurry away after her pronouncement, she would be fairly surprised when he joined her at the altar. But then she might suppose he was too enamored of Hellingsby to allow her scandalous behavior to deter him.
But how to prove he was enamored only of her? For even if her queen took Hellingsby from them, he would want her still. And what was more, he wanted her now.
Chapter Seventeen
Astrid fiddled with the lace on her sleeve while she innocently waited with the priest. Her parents had said nothing when she’d come back inside, and she faced the rear of the chapel to keep them from seeing the tears in her eyes. Though why she should be crying was a mystery.
She’d been planning her revenge for a long while. She should be reveling in her success, for even when she’d imagined their conversation in her mind, it had never gone quite so perfectly as it had a moment ago.
He would be the one to call off the marriage. No one could fault her. He was the one now left with a broken heart while hers was well on its way to mending. The punishment had fit the crime. A heart for a heart.
And yet the tears continued. The uneasy priest pretended not to notice them, which was for the best.
The door swung open and Bronwyn entered. There was little to read on her face other than her eyes having some trouble adjusting to the light. Finally, with groping hands, her sister found her seat again. One day, Astrid might get round to asking her what she’d said to her former betrothed.
The door opened again. Light filled the doorway, then was blocked by the wide shoulders of the Scottish knight. Astrid turned coward and looked again to the rear wall, to the cross hanging there. But all she truly noticed was the shadow coming toward her from the left.
Sir Tamhas did not pause but stomped over to the table where their marriage papers lay waiting for their signatures. He shuffled through them, seemed to find the one he wanted, then came back. His footfalls passed Astrid, however, and continued toward her family. She could not help but turn and watch.
Holding a large parchment document in the air before her father, the knight slowly ripped it in twain, then allowed the halves to float to the floor. “You may keep Hellingsby,” he said.
She’d been wrong, of course. Her heart was not on the mend, but instead, it continued to crumble as if someone were grinding the pieces beneath his boot.
She turned her back to him and wept silently while she waited for those boots to make their way out of the chapel. If she were lucky, he would leave without venting his disgust where her parents might hear.
A hand took her elbow and turned her. She dared not raise her eyes to find her father’s confusion. However, it was not her father, but Sir Tamhas who had hold of her.
“Astrid. It is I who am not worthy, but you must take me in any case.” His head lowered, and his mouth took hers in a gentle kiss.
She pulled away. “No.”
“Yes,” he argued, and kissed her again.
She shook her head, but it did not break the kiss. She bumped into something—the priest. Even that did not stop him kissing her.
“Stop,” she said against his mouth.
He finally complied and straightened a bit, still close enough to search her eyes. “Say you’ll marry me, my love. I’ll change my name to Nimmo if I must, but you will have me.”
She blushed when she wondered what her parents must think of his declaration. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Come now, Astrid. Forgive me, and marry me. I do not wish to have Hellingsby if it means you will doubt my love.”
“Love?” she breathed.
“Aye. Love.” He would have kissed her again, but the priest protested.
A few moments later, they were wed and the marriage contract signed.
Sir Tamhas turned to her mother and kissed her cheek; then he shook her father’s hand. “You surely know the tradition, Lord Helling, for couples who marry for love?”
Helling shook his head. “Which tradition would that be?”
“The tradition of the bride and groom missing the banquet and other celebrations in favor of…other things.” Her new husband winked at her.
“No,” her father said sternly. Then he smiled. “I was not aware of that tradition. But who am I to refuse a couple in love?”
At the chapel doors, Tamhas stopped. “Just a moment,” he murmured, then left Astrid standing alone while he walked back to her family. He rounded the end of the bench, grabbed Bronwyn’s hand and dragged her to him. He lifted her sister off the ground as he squeezed the breath out of her. “I’m certain my new sister will tell us everything we missed,” he said, setting the girl on her feet once more.
When he headed back up the aisle, he reached for Astrid’s hand without slowing.
“Pray, Husband,” she teased. “What is the hurry?”
He s
wung around and scooped her up behind the knees to carry her out of the church and into the cheering crowd.
“We mustn’t dally,” he shouted above the din. “We’ve much practicing to do before the morrow, Lady Monroe.”
“Oh? And what must we do tomorrow?”
He pulled her close for a kiss, and she forgot her question.
“Practice, Lady Monroe. Tomorrow we will also practice.”
About the Author
L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains and writes fiction between bowls of cereal. In another life, she was an award-winning floral designer and owned an intriguing flower shop called The Scottish Rose. Now she arranges fictional lives and tries to include a Scot or two in every novel. Her website offers all the details at www.llmuir.weebly.com.
