The priest standing in front of the altar cleared his throat. He had a huge nose and watery eyes, which he rubbed from time to time on the sleeve of his robe. “Ready to begin, my lord?”
James nodded. “Make haste, priest. This helmet itches my neck.”
The clergyman opened his Bible. “Dearly beloved…”
Not releasing her wrist, James peered down at the woman standing beside him. She stood as straight as any warrior, proud and sturdy. She was covered from head to toe in fabric just as he was clad in armor. Mother-of-pearl buttons lined her sleeves like tiny shields.
She didn’t try to pull away from his grip, but she didn’t stand any closer than she had to either. Her bones felt small within his grasp, and yet, strength of will radiated from her.
Yes, this marriage was a battlefield. And it would be true justice to bend her will to his. King Edward had demanded this union to bring peace to this turbulent region, and he would definitely start by conquering his own wife.
As Father Peter droned on with the wedding ceremony, Brenna seethed with anger that her new husband had hauled her here like a prized sow. Coldness from the floor tiles seeped into her one bare foot. Damned barbarian.
She twisted slightly to peer up at him.
He was the largest man she had ever seen—nearly seven feet in height with shoulders as wide as a bull’s.
Huge. Enormous. Utterly grotesque. He reminded her of one of the fearsome warriors from her paintings. Only he was fully clad in battle gear, not naked as most of the figures in her artwork were.
He smelled of leather, blood, and the heady scent of male musk. Blood splattered across his blue surcoat, right at eye level.
A tiny bit of relief flowed through her that he didn’t flinch when Father Peter mumbled her name. Thank the stars he did not realize he had been duped into marrying the wrong sister. Their union had been arranged by that bastard King Edward so mayhap he did not know the name of his future bride. Or mayhap he could not hear well with the helm on.
“I worship thee with my body,” she gritted out when prompted, wishing she could grasp the dagger hidden in the bodice of the wedding gown to bolster her nerve.
Standing beside him here at the altar made her feel tiny, even shorter than usual.
She averted her eyes from the bloodstains on his surcoat and tilted her head back, wishing she could see beneath the shiny silver helm that concealed his features. She swallowed, thinking of her sister’s assessment of his scarred face. Bloody hell. Was there nothing about the man that wasn’t daunting? ’Twas no wonder children ran from him.
Hail Mary, full of grace, she began silently, unsure if she was saying a prayer or her last rites. Gwyneth said he’d murdered his last wife…
She’d have one chance with the dagger. And if she failed, only God knew what her punishment would be. With luck, he’d have her hung. But The Enforcer was not reputed to be a man who merely hung those who crossed him.
She squelched the shudder that threatened to quake her shoulders. Mayhap he was enormous and forbidding, but at the plunge of her dagger, he would bleed like any other beast.
“Kiss your bride,” Father Peter said, squinting up at the man’s covered face. He rubbed his watery eyes and gave Brenna a sympathetic look.
“My lady,” her new husband taunted, his voice muffled because of the helmet.
Her heart pounded against the steel blade betwixt her breasts and gooseflesh popped up on her arms. By force of will, she remained stock-still in front of the altar, fighting the urge to flee. Nay, not kiss the beast!
“This is no love match,” she sneered, fighting for a measure of control. “We have no need to kiss.”
The warrior’s palm covered hers, rough and large. Claiming. “The kiss seals our bargain.”
Her stomach cramped. He’d been holding her wrist all through the ceremony like a manacle. She glanced down and, for an instant, was surprised to realize he had man-hands, not paws like a bear. He had long, blunt fingers with thick calluses. He was a privateer; no doubt his hands had been roughened from pulling the rigging on a ship. His grip was firm and strong, but not biting or painful.
Fresh from battle, his hands should have been filthy, but instead were clean as if freshly washed for the wedding. She wondered at that small measure of respect.
He pulled her closer and she checked the urge to withdraw her hand. Best to make him think she was cowed and submissive.
Damn beast. Loathsome, unholy barbarian. Brenna ducked her head to keep him from noticing her glower.
“As you wish, my lord,” she said through clenched teeth. Tonight, she vowed, ’twould be his life that would be spilt, not her virgin blood.
His chain mail clinked as he released her to remove his helmet.
Patience, girl, patience, she coaxed herself. Soon he will be without his guard and you can use the dagger.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his warriors grip their sword hilts tighter. They stood around the perimeter of the sanctuary, also still in full armor.
Unbuckling the lower strap, her husband slowly lifted the helm.
Husband. The word sent a new shot of fury through her. Being a wife was akin to death for an artist. A passel of brats. A household to attend. Duties. Duties. More duties.
But, by the rood, she wouldn’t be married very long. She would be a widow by the first cock’s crow. She allowed herself a small smile at that thought. Widows had freedoms that maidens did not.
Montgomery’s helmet rose. Her first impression was a strong jawline chiseled with cold precision. She widened her eyes and leaned her head back so she could peer directly at the monster she would soon slay. Nary a stray whisker protruded from his close-shaven cheeks.
She gulped.
He was not a beast.
He was perfect.
Too perfect.
Like a beautiful painting with no passion. As if he had no tolerance for human flaws.
His black hair was thick and as close-cropped as a Roman warlord’s. Cobalt-blue eyes gazed down at her, shining with hard resolve. He had a broad aquiline nose, angular cheekbones, and a severe mouth that could have been carved from stone. Even his eyelashes were blunted into perfect midnight crescents, as black as his soul.
A shiver raced down her spine. Gwyneth had told her wrong information: no scars marred this man’s perfection.
He was breathtaking. Magnificent. The handiwork of an arrogant artist, too prideful to show a blemish that would make the work a true masterpiece.
She’d ne’er seen a man like him afore.
Kill him? How could she destroy such beauty?
Biting the inside of her cheek, she hardened her resolve. Beautiful or no, she would not become the chattel of a man to be raped and beaten at will. Nor would she leave her family at his mercy.
Even with her back turned, she felt her father’s intense, expectant glare from the front bench in the chapel. This was her chance to finally redeem herself in his eyes—to put to rights the rift that had formed betwixt them. Then she could leave for Italy with his blessing.
Gwyneth sat beside her father on the pew, wringing her hands. She wore a loose blue wool surcoat with a deep red underdress. ’Twas obvious she was trying to look as plain as possible—in place of one of her elaborate headdresses, she wore a wimple—but her beauty was like the sun, too brilliant to hide.
Adele, with her uncanny ways, had managed to escape from the ceremony.
Tension pulled across