Rainger shot her a grin.
“Young lady, have you remained faithful to our church?” Father Terrance asked.
“Yes,” Sorcha said in a small voice.
“You know how strict we are,” Tulia said. “We’re not like the English and Scots. Lax and immoral people!”
“We have to stay in the same room.” Rainger was using the situation to his advantage, but he wasn’t saying that for effect. He wouldn’t leave Sorcha alone. The dozen people had grown to a group of twenty curiosity-seekers, and to them he confided, “She’s being hunted by those who wish her dead.”
“Arnou.” Sorcha glared at him. “You’re making a scene!”
“I won’t leave you alone,” he said.
“You are traveling companions, obviously. You know each other... quite well. If you can tell us you are married, you may stay in the same room.” Father Terrance’s brown eyes pinned them in place.
Rainger waited to see if Sorcha would lie to the priest.
She tried. “We, um, we are definitely... ” She tried very hard. But she was painfully truthful. “That is, if vows of loyalty mean that a union has been formed, then we could say—”
“We’re not married,” Rainger flatly informed the priest.
Sorcha turned on him and hissed, “Stop that, Arnou!”
“Then we have a conflict,” the priest said.
“Father, is there somewhere Sorcha and I can talk alone?” Rainger dismounted and offered his hands to assist her out of her saddle.
“The church is at the end of the main street.” Father Terrance pointed the way. “You can talk there.”
Sorcha slid into his arms with the ease of a woman comfortable to be there. He held her for a moment, looking down into her eyes, and he was pleased to see her eyelashes flutter and the color climb in her cheeks.
She might not realize it, but once again she gave off signals everyone here recognized. She was his woman.
Keeping his hands on her hips, he said softly, “Do you remember what Madam Pinchon said about the assassins? You vanquished the first one, but there are others waiting for us, and they’re smart. They’re crafty. They may be here in the crowd right now.”
She glanced around. “These are good people.”
With his finger on her chin, he brought her face back to his. “Since we left the stone circle, I’ve been feeling twitchy”—an unfortunate truth—“and I trust my instincts far more than I trust anyone here. Come on.” Taking her hand, he led her to the small chapel. It was surrounded by a small cemetery, shaded by a large oak, and painstakingly built to resemble the churches in Beaumontagne and Richarte.
Pushing open the great door, he stepped inside a memory so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He resisted only because of the deceit he must perpetrate on Sorcha. But to him the scent of candles, the wooden altar with its gold-stitched altar cloth, the silver cross, and the statue of the Virgin irresistibly reminded him of all the small village churches in Richarte he’d toured as a young prince.
He hadn’t cared for the beauty and serenity then; his visit had been a duty.
Now it was like coming home.
He didn’t really understand his own emotions. In the darkness of Count duBelle’s dungeon, he’d come to doubt God’s grace. He’d prayed so hard in prison—first for vengeance, then for escape, and finally for death. Only when he’d forsworn God had he escaped.
If God had a presence on this earth, Rainger had yet to see proof of it.
He glanced at Sorcha. She had dropped to her knees. Her gaze was fixed to the altar, her lips moved in a prayer, and between her fingers she held the silver cross still connected to a chain around her neck.
The cross Sorcha wore was identical to the ones that her sisters kept around their necks.
That cross was the only object that united Sorcha with Clarice and Amy. He’d heard the longing in her voice when she spoke of her sisters, and if he were a different man, he’d feel guilty about the letters he carried in his saddlebags. The letters written in loving script from Clarice and Amy to their dear sister Sorcha.
Guilt had no place in his plan.
Yet he found a prayer rising from his gut. It wasn’t a proper sort of prayer, but it was sincere. I need Sorcha, Lord. Let me keep her. Don’t let her die.
Because if the assassins killed Sorcha, Rainger’s schemes would come to naught.
And if she wasn’t there to nag him and tease him and ask him questions better left unspoken, the sunshine would fade, the tides would cease their motion, and he would walk forever in shadow.
But—such sentiment was silly, a temporary weakness caused by too little food and too much apprehension.
Gracefully she came to her feet and smiled at him. “Isn’t it wonderful here?”
“Yes. A good place to get married.”
“What are you babbling about?” She didn’t understand yet. She didn’t comprehend his intent—and if all went well, she wouldn’t understand why he’d urged this course until it was too late to retreat.
“We must get married in this church because I won’t leave you in a room by yourself.” Rainger managed to sound prosaic.
“I can’t marry you. It’s not necessary.”
“If they won’t let us stay in the same room, it is.” Carefully he began his argument. “Besides, it won’t count. We’re not the same religion.”
“No, we’re not.” She smiled at him fondly. “But dear, foolish Arnou, what does that matter?”
“In the Catholic church”—Rainger picked his words carefully to avoid claiming to be a Catholic—“a marriage isn’t legal unless both parties are confirmed. Is it not the same for your church?”
“No. Long ago, both Beaumontagne and Richarte were Catholic. But we’re small countries isolated by mountains. The winters are arduous and by the end of the fifteenth century, we had our own cardinal and our own way of doing things. Yet often marriages occurred with Catholics—holdovers from the old religion or visitors to our borders. So in special circumstances such as ours, Father Terrance has dispensation to immediately perform the ceremony for the couple, without a care to their religion, without banns or the other, more proper rituals.”
“What special circumstances?” As if Rainger didn’t know.
“It appears to the village we’ve already been sharing the favors of a wedding bed, and now you’re insisting we stay in the same room. It seems to them that we have already consummated our relationship.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s not true.”
Wait a few more hours.
“This kind of marriage is officially recognized by the church,” she said. “The common people call it ‘sliding the banister.’”
He almost laughed. He hadn’t heard that for a long time.
“It would be better if we go to a different village and a different inn.” But her longing gaze around her belied her humdrum tone. It was clear she wanted to stay with her people.
With a little concentrated effort on his part, he would convince her. “There’s not a village or an inn close.”
“Then we should find a farmhouse or stay in a field. It’s not like we haven’t done that before.”
“More assassins are waiting, and they’re waiting where they know we must go—on the road to Edinburgh. That is what Madam Pinchon told you, isn’t it?”
Miserably, she nodded.
“If the money I got off that first assassin is any indication, Count duBelle is paying well.”
Sorcha stiffened. “How do you know about Count duBelle?”
“Mr. Montaroe mentioned him.” Rainger had to be careful. Sorcha was trusting, far too trusting, but she wasn’t stupid. He needed to convince her, not make her wary of him. “I will not leave you alone in a room. You know I would never presume more than you let me. I understand my place in your life.” Long ago, he would have flinched to tell such lies while standing in a church. Now all that mattered was winning the princess and taking back his country.
“Marriage between us is prohibited for me.”
“You said the priest could marry us.”
“He could marry us if I weren’t a princess... .”
Rainger widened his eyes as if confused. “You said your church could marry across faiths.”
“The common people can marry across faiths, but we’re like the Church of England. Our rulers are the heads of the church and I, as a member of the royal family, have to marry a member of the Church of the Mountain.”
“Because you’re the head of the church.” He shrugged. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“It’s not that simple. If we marry, we can’t spend the night together in a single bed. Do you understand?”
He understood far more than she knew. “Because your prince is alive.”
She put her finger over his lips. “That’s a rumor.”
“But maybe it’s true.”
“Maybe.” She sounded unconvinced.
“Wouldn’t you be happier if you had to marry him than anyone else?”
“Rainger would probably be the lesser of many evils.”
Rainger winced. He’d asked for that.
“But I’m not going to live my life on the chance that report is true. No, Rainger isn’t the problem. The problem is—if I go into my church and repeat wedding vows which bind me to you, then I dare not consummate that marriage.”
He widened his eyes in feigned confusion.
She sighed and tried to explain. “Because there are witnesses who are my people, I’d have to tell Grandmamma and the cardinal and the bishop, and they’ll want to perform an annulment to cleanse this ceremony away, and they’ll ask me to swear nothing happened between us. I can’t swear that if we spend a night together, really together.”
“Were you really going to give yourself to me?” For the first time, it occurred to him how little she cared for the trappings of royalty, and he experienced a dangerously warm sense of worth. Sorcha liked him for who he was—a poor, ignorant, simple man.
“Of course I was going to give myself to you.”
“But you’re a princess.”
“Our coming together would harm no one, and it would make me euphoric.” She smoothed her finger along his stubbled chin. “I flatter myself it would make you euphoric, too.”
“Yes.” Stubbornly he returned to his everlasting refrain. “But we aren’t going elsewhere, and I won’t leave you alone.”
“Oh.” She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as if seeking heavenly guidance. “You’re impossible!”
“If I deliver you to Beaumontagne alive, I could get a big reward. They won’t pay me anything for your dead body.”
“Somebody would,” she snapped, then bit her lip.
“Killing you wouldn’t be much of a challenge, would it?” For the first time, he allowed a crack to form in his doltish façade, and permitted her a glimpse of how dangerous he could be.
She stepped back. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”
“In these circumstances, Your Highness”—he used her title on purpose to remind her of her importance—“you must take advantage of any stratagem which brings you back to your country alive. Staying alive is what matters.”
Sorcha walked away from him. Turned her back on him. Slid her fingers along the polished wood of the pew. In a voice so soft Rainger had to strain to hear it, she said, “Mother Brigette told me almost the same thing.” Slowly she nodded. “All right. I’ll marry you.”
“I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
“With you, Arnou, I never doubted that.” She smiled at him.
Brave, sweet girl. She accepted this small defeat well.
When she discovered the truth, she would undoubtedly acknowledge her rout as graciously.
Chapter 17
Rainger led Sorcha to the door and opened it. Summoned by gossip, the group outside had grown from two dozen to over a hundred. The buzz of their conversations faded as he faced them.
“Heavens.” Sorcha peered over his shoulder. “Why are they here?”
“Perhaps they’re excited about their first visitor from Beaumontagne.” But he didn’t believe it, and the crowd made him edgy. “I’ll talk to the priest and make the arrangements, but wait here until I’m done.” He shut the door in her anxious face and swept the crowd with his gaze, looking for potential attackers.
He saw no one. Everyone here had left their country because they’d been loyal to him or to Sorcha’s father and her family, and the hardships they’d endured in a foreign country bonded them together.
But why the excitement? Why the buzz of gossip? Why were they gathered before the church? He sensed an undercurrent, something more than their natural delight in a wedding.
He beckoned the priest in an authoritative gesture that brought the priest’s eyebrows up. The crowd parted to allow him to join Rainger, and everyone watched as if their lives depended on this conversation. “What’s happened?” Rainger asked.
“A rumor made its way through the village at lightning speed.” Father Terrance folded his hands before him and viewed Rainger with a hint of anticipation.
“A rumor? About a female visitor from Beaumontagne dressed as a boy and her bodyguard?” Rainger tried to smile as jovially as Arnou, but the tension wouldn’t let him. “It would be a miracle if there wasn’t a rumor.”
“You called the young lady Sorcha.”
A single word. Rainger had destroyed their anonymity with a single word. But he played dumb, spreading his hands in contrived bewilderment. “That’s her name.”
“Sorcha is a rare name, and the name of Beaumontagne’s crown princess.”
“Would a princess dress like a boy?” Prevarication, and easily seen through by a priest.
“She would if she was in danger, and you said, She’s being hunted by those who wish her dead.”
Information given judiciously to pressure her into marriage. How had it rebounded so badly? “Then, Father, it would be better if this rumor was squelched at once,” Rainger said softly.
“That might be possible, except that in Richarte, our innkeeper lived near the castle. He frequently saw young Prince Rainger ride by.” Father Terrance’s sharp gaze searched Rainger’s face. “Mr. Montaroe claims you look very much like the prince would look after years... in the dungeon.”
Rainger searched the crowd until he saw Mr. Montaroe’s round, hopeful face staring at him. It wasn’t possible for Montaroe to recognize his prince when Sorcha did not—yet he had. Perhaps the passing glance was more revealing than the careless years of childhood spent together.
The people strained toward him, silent, longing, wanting so badly to be told that their faith had been rewarded.
Earlier, Rainger had thought that guilt had no part in his actions.
But he was wrong.
In his youth, nothing had been more important than sinking his cock into the most accomplished pussy he could find. Because of his folly with Julienne, he’d betrayed his country.
The people here in New Prospera were still paying for his stupid deed.
Until the day he was king and made Richarte a paradise for his people, he would be guilty... and even then, nothing he could do would fix the traditions broken or return the lives lost.
But today, he could help heal the pain. He looked back at the priest. In his native language, he said, “Today you’ll perform a royal wedding.”
“Praise be to God!” Father Terrance began to fall to his knees in thanksgiving.
“No!” Rainger stopped him. “Listen to me. Sorcha doesn’t know who I am. She still thinks I’m dead, and I have my reasons for allowing her to believe that. Please do not betray my confidence.”
Clearly Father Terrance wished to ask questions, but Rainger stared him down until the priest bowed his head. “As you wish, sire.”
“Call me Arnou. Are there other travelers in the village?”
“None have arrived yet today. None are likely at this time of the year. Travel is difficult.” r />
“Indeed. Sorcha and I are the only travelers on the road to Edinburgh.” Carefully, Rainger spelled out the peril. “We are... and Count duBelle’s assassins.”
The joy on Father Terrance’s face faded to a horrible stillness.
“Keeping all this in mind”—taking the heavy pouch from his belt, Rainger pressed it into Father Terrance’s hand—“let’s celebrate our marriage, but let it be known only to the people of the village. Your discretion, everyone’s discretion, is required, for our safety is precarious and everyone’s return to Beaumontagne and Richarte depends on it.”
“We’ll post guards on the road and turn any traveler aside. I’ll make sure everyone in the town understands.” Father Terrance put his hands on Rainger’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Trust me, my son. Scotland is beautiful and many people have been kind, but we want to go home.” He made his way into the crowd and gathered the leaders in a circle around him.
As Rainger returned to the church, he heard Tulia gasp. Glancing back, he saw her put her hand on her chest and move her lips, but she couldn’t speak for emotion. Mr. Montaroe lifted her in a mighty hug. The oldest lady, a woman who could barely stand by herself, performed a festive jig.
Perhaps destiny had directed Rainger here. Perhaps this wedding in this place and at this time was meant to be.
And with the danger that stalked them... perhaps tonight was their only chance to make love.
Rainger had to seize that chance. He couldn’t wait any longer.
“All right. It’s done. Father Terrance will marry us this afternoon.” Arnou entered the church briskly.
Sorcha stared at him. Somehow, against her better judgment, he had managed to convince her to marry him. When had Arnou become so logical—and so stubborn?
Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for his expression softened. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Changing your mind?” Before she could answer, he pulled her into his arms. “Let me convince you again.”
His body warmed her, easing the tight knot of tension in her neck and shoulders. The kiss he gave her was as light and sweet as meringue, melting on her tongue and making her hum with pleasure.