the command of the Baron of Windrose, but spelled out in the wedding contract to be turned over to James—would be a huge boon to his shipping trade.
He paced past the rows of pews. The others followed. They prodded Lecrow with the point of a sword, and he shuffled forward on his knees.
“You won’t get awa—” Baron Lecrow started.
One of James’s men drew a dagger and held it to Lecrow’s throat, effectively silencing him.
James nodded approval and turned to the woman he was to marry.
Thankfully, his new wife was the strong, stubborn one instead of the weepy, teary-eyed blonde, as he had feared. This one may not enjoy being married to him, but at least he doubted he’d have to listen to tedious pleas for mercy on the wedding night. He had no use for the sniveling cries of women. And he had no intention of granting mercy.
Three of his men lay dead from this morn’s attack.
Jacob, Robert, and Collin. Good men all.
Guilt ate at him that he had led them to their deaths like defenseless sheep.
’Twas his duty to enforce the king’s law and bring to heel the rebels who threatened the peace of England. The port was being used to smuggle in wine and weapons and needed tighter control. The wedding was arranged to bring stability to the region: both this woman and the prized port would be his.
The king had warned him of possible treachery, but he had not expected an outright attack.
Anger curled through him like a living demon as he thought of the price his men had paid.
The ambush had been a betrayal of the lowest kind. Her father had beguiled him to come here to Windrose, rather than his grander castle at Montgomery. His bride-to-be had sent him a sweet perfumed message.
And it all had been a ruse to kill him.
He could scarcely imagine this warrior-like queen standing beside him would write something so flowery and delicate.
Tightening his grip on his bride-to-be’s wrist, he vowed by all that was holy that both she and her family would learn what it meant to bow to his rule. To live under The Enforcer.
Every step down the chapel’s aisle sent another shot of fury pulsating through him.
“Slow down,” the woman beside him whispered. Her enormous silver-blue gown rustled. “My slipper—oh, drat it all to hell—” She stumbled slightly, kicked off one of her pointed velvet slippers and righted herself.
The bride-to-be’s father glared at him with narrowed eyes. He strained against the ropes.
The urge to take the man by the tunic and hang him from the large oak just on the other side of the sanctuary door snaked fiercely through James. But, nay. The man was a political prisoner, and the king himself must deal with his treason.
His hand tarried to the hilt of his sword, in case her tripping was a ruse to get him off guard so her father could attack. He would not be caught unaware again.
A heavy veil obscured her features, but he could feel her glowering at him. “I am coming. There is no need to drag me.”
“Mind your tongue, wife.”
She propped one hand on her hip, causing her enormous butterfly headdress to tilt and ruin the serene loveliness of the silver-blue gown. “I am not your wife yet.”
He bared his teeth at her, vowing both the stubborn old man and his rebellious daughter would be cowed afore this was over.
“You will be, wench.” Squeezing her wrist, he pulled her the last few feet down the aisle. Did none in this family know when they had been squarely defeated and have the sense to submit?
A harpist and violist played an off-key wedding song, as if they hadn’t had adequate time to tune their instruments.
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
