A WEDDING AT CASTLE LOCHLANN
“Must I go through with it?”
Amabel sighed wistfully. She was sitting in her bedchamber while Alina wove flowers into her hair.
This was her wedding day. Broderick had returned from the raid, exhausted but elated, just yesterday afternoon. She had barely had a chance to talk with him, spending most of the day as he did closeted with her uncle, talking about their military campaigns.
She sighed again. “I suppose there is no last-moment remedy?”
Alina paused in her brushing. Amabel glanced at her reflection, wondering what she was thinking. Their two faces were side-by-side in the silvered mirror, long ovals with pale skin and red lips. Her sister was smiling.
“What?” she asked crossly.
“Nothing.”
They both giggled.
Amabel sucked in a breath, letting her giggle gradually fade. There was no good in hiding things from Alina. Alina always guessed. Her sister knew her feelings for Broderick were... not as damning as they had been.
If I am honest, I am... not unexcited.
Amabel had felt her feelings change following their meeting upstairs before his campaigning. She did not hate Broderick anymore. In fact, if she were honest about it, she felt something she had never felt for anyone before. Alina, observant and sympathetic, had noticed her changed attitude. She knew her sister actually liked him. Knew, probably, that she lay in bed thinking of him, that her heart thumped whenever she remembered his smile, his face, his words.
“You're wearing a circlet with the veil, yes?” Alina asked tranquilly. Having raised the subject of Amabel's feelings for Broderick, she now coolly ignored them.
“Yes.” Amabel ran her fingers down her white velvety-soft skirts. She glanced at herself in the mirror, admiring her dress.
She was wearing a long tunic of finest white linen, belted with a kirtle of cloth-of-gold over her narrow hips. She would wear a veil of finest lace, held in place with a silver circlet over her red hair. It was along the design of that her mother had worn, but with minor variations to make it more fashionable. Her wedding would be attended by all the local lords, and a lady of Lochlann must always lead the fashions.
Alina was frowning as she reached for the gauzy veil. “Then, since the circlet will go on top, I'll leave some room for it here, and put more flowers in the front.”
“Yes. Thank you, Alina.”
Alina smiled again. “It's the least I can do, sister.”
Amabel bit her lip. She knew that this was the last night she would spend here in Castle Lochlann – unless, that was, her great-uncle chose to keep Broderick for a raid or two. She almost hoped that would happen. She did not want to lose her sister. Not so soon. Thinking about it made her want to cry.
“You'll visit me?” she asked, hearing her voice wobble.
Her sister reached across and wordlessly squeezed her fingers. Amabel gripped fiercely back, feeling the threat of tears trembling on her lashes.
“Of course.” Her voice was raw, and Amabel could see the tears glinting in her eyes. Amabel cuffed away her own tears, feeling wretched.
“I'll look a right mess if I keep this up,” she said roughly. “And then what'll happen?”
Alina smiled. “My sister, I think absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I think your betrothed is quite enamored, sister, in a way a few tear stains won't change. The bedding ceremony will be the most enthusiastic we have seen in Castle Lochlann in a while.”
Amabel stared at her. “Sister?” She gave incredulous laugh, covered her mouth with her hands. “How can you say such a thing?” Warmth filled her body, rising and filling her from her head to her toes. It was a delicious feeling. The thought of the bedding made her heart thump.
“Well, quite easily. As easy as it is to say anything, sister.”
They both laughed.
Amabel wished that this moment would last forever. She and her sister, dressing for the wedding – friends and confidantes. But all too soon she heard the tread of feet on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Heavy and firm, with a slight limp, there was no mistaking the footfall: Uncle Brien.
Amabel and Alina glanced at each other, and Amabel stood. Alina frowned.
“It is well, Alina,” Amabel whispered. She tried to smile, but she could feel a tear wobbling on the edge of her eyelid. “I am ready.”
She turned to glance at herself. A column of pale linen, the kirtle emphasized her slender form and the wide, oval neckline skimmed her pale breasts. She wore her hair loose, a symbol of purity, and it hung to her waist, shining like polished copper. Her oval face was serene, if a little sad, the alabaster skin flushed with red. Her sister stood behind her, clad in blue and silver.
“Here's the veil,” her sister whispered. She reached up and dropped the circle of silver into place. Amabel felt her vision blur, then clear as her sister folded back the veil.
She leaned in and hugged her and Amabel held her fiercely to her chest, feeling her sister's heartbeat against her own.
“Luck and love, sister,” Alina whispered. She was crying, now, and not hiding the tears.
“Love and blessing.”
They held hands and then parted. Amabel sniffed ferociously, stopping her tears harshly. Then she turned and opened the door. Slipping her arm into her Uncle Brien's, she followed him on the long walk down the steps and to the chapel that would change her destiny.
The chapel was dark, a single light falling through the high, roundel window above the altar.
Amabel's eyes were drawn at once through the gloom to the straight back of the man at the altar.
All that was real in the whole world was that figure, tall and dark, standing before her. That muscled back, that upright head. That resolute form. She walked up the cold aisle, feeling cool air and smelling incense and felt as if she was floating.
She slipped into her place beside him and felt his hand twitch out of her way. She felt a slight disappointment at that tiny act of deference. She would almost have preferred him to leave his hand there, to let its warmth seep through to her and quell the numb unreality of the morning. She realized she was nervous, though had no idea why. Then the ceremony began.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti...”
The priest spoke in Latin, which Amabel fortunately understood. She cast a covert glance at the man beside her as the ceremony continued.
Broderick stood resolutely beside her, eyes to the front. He was wearing a pale linen tunic, not unlike hers, and dark green trousers beneath it. He was watching the priest fixedly, a slight sheen on his lip. He is handsome. Amabel studied the chiseled profile, the molded lips, the high brow. He looked rather scared.
Probably doesn't understand Latin. That would explain his fixation.
She tried to concentrate on the ceremony, just in case he faltered. But her mind kept drifting as she did so.
The bedding ceremony.
She wondered what her sister meant about Broderick and bedding. She knew a little about bedding and what it entailed, but most of it was couched in baffling terms that seemed to have no bearing on what she had seen. She thought through memories.
I saw Blaire's little son, once. And once some of the youngest stable hands, wrestling naked in the courtyard. Since both samples of manhood had been less than the age of ten, she had to assume that things changed when they matured. The descriptions and accounts she had heard made no sense. Thinking about this as a theory was completely different to putting it in practice. And with Broderick MacConnaway. A strange heat flowed through her body, and she was probably blushing. She bit her lip. She could not afford to get faint or stop listening.
Look ahead, Amabel. Watch Father Padriag. Do not think about Broderick.
She tried valiantly.
Beside her, Broderick was staring at the priest. He did not want to look aside. He did not want to risk seeing his bride. He would be able to think of nothing else if he did, and none of his thoughts, he was sure, would be suitable when standing before a priest.
He risked a sidelong glance. She was a lovely form, the veil draping her body in a way that revealed the traces of her while concealing her face. The wispy fabric hung down her back and sides, softening the contours of her from view. Still, he could see outlines of her long, firm leg, her slim shoulder, her shapely hands beside his own. Her hair was pale fire, glowing below gauze. And he just knew that her breasts pressed out the lace, her heart beating beneath the marble flesh...
Control yourself!
He clenched his hand, letting the stab of pain from his wounding revive him. He would not think about her. Would not think about later. Would not...
“...vis accípere Amabel du Mas, hic præséntem, in tram legítimam uxórem, juxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclésiæ?”
“Uh?” Amabel stiffened.
“Oh. Volo,” he replied quickly. I do. Amabel looked up at him and then the moment passed.
The priest turned his gaze to Amabel, clearing his throat. “...Amabel du Mas, vis accípere Broderick MacConnaway, hic præséntern in tuum legítimum marítum juxta ritum sanctæ matris Ecclésiæ?”
“Volo.”
Her voice, clear and certain, rocked through Broderick's soul.
The words echoed round and round his head. This was not the first time he was standing here. Not the first time he was saying these words, with a woman beside him, pledging his life for hers, for all eternity. But it felt like it. Deep in his heart, it felt like it.
Broderick was not sure whether he was pleased for that, or whether he loathed himself for what he did to the memory of Aisling. But all he knew was that he would do no different again.
Then the priest was blessing them and he was turning to Amabel, fingers like ice as he raised his hands.
He lifted her veil.
Her gray eyes stared into his, level and true.
Then, very gently, he laid his lips on those dark, damp lips of hers and kissed her.
The incense and the scent of orange-water mingled in his nose as he held her. But they were not what made the kiss a sacred vow. That, strangely, was his heart. And he made the vow freely and without a thought of vengeance in his mind.
He was married now, to Amabel du Mas. And he would try to keep her safe. Always.