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 Brenna’s shoulders.
At once she found herself glad of the severity of her new husband’s perfection. If he had even some tiny flaw that caused him to seem more human and less cold, she might have found the task of destroying him impossible.
“Wife,” he said, reaching for the hem of the silver veil covering her face. “You are mine.” A touch of harshness laced his voice.
Her knees knocked when he lifted the pearl-sewn fabric away, but the hidden dagger pressed her flesh again, steeling her. Unless he had fangs, she could surely survive his kiss.
He cupped her chin and tilted her face up to his.
She scowled at him and shifted her feet restlessly when he did not move closer to kiss her.
His gaze roved her face, lingering on the scar that ran across her cheek.
She thought he’d seen her scar earlier, but perhaps his helm had blocked his view and now he was having second thoughts about forcing such an ugly woman to marry him. Ha. Served him right.
“Hasten and be done with it, husband,” she sneered. Mayhap she should snatch the veil from her head, and give him a look at what he’d married. Mayhap he’d run like Lord Brice.
But, as satisfying as that would be, she still needed to get him alone and unarmed if she was to kill him.
“They said you were comely,” he stated.
His words stung. There was no reason for them to sting, but they did.
“Well. I’m not.” She glared at him. Of course such a handsome man would expect a comely wife.
He thumbed her scar and she hardened her resolve. Yay, she’d kill him and take delight in the act. ’Twas no secret she was unsightly, but for him to stand there in his perfection and inspect her scarred cheek like damaged goods was excruciating.
“As I said,” she ground out, jerking her face from his grip, “there is no reason to kiss.”
He caught her chin betwixt his fingers and brought her face back to his. Interest lit in his eyes.
A curl of heat formed low in her groin. She’d seen that look a thousand times bestowed on Gwyneth. And on serving maids. And even on Adele.
But ne’er had she herself been the recipient of such a gaze. The intensity nearly took her breath. So this was what it felt like
