Page 7 of The Handfasting
Surprised by the pang of jealousy that shot through him, No?l suddenly longed to whisk his bride away from this place. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else desiring his wife.
He didn’t like Laird Gille either. Didn’t like the fact he seemed to be irresponsibly drunk. Didn’t like the way he kept cutting his daughter off. Or how he was manhandling Caimbeul. In fact, until the laird died and surrendered his keep, No?l would just as soon remain as far away from the Highland holding as possible.
But to his own amazement, more than anything, he wanted to please his bride.
He spoke for her ears alone. “My lady, is somethin’ amiss? Do ye find marriage to me repulsive? Are ye afraid o’ me? I won’t beat ye, I promise.” Then he thought of something else. “Are ye afraid o’ the marriage bed? Is that it?”
He saw that calculation in her eyes again, as if she were winnowing wheat from chaff. She turned to him with new determination.
“Aye,” she decided. “That’s it. I’m afraid o’ the marriage bed.” There was an eager light in her eyes now as she clutched his sleeve in both hands. “So if ye vow not to bed me tonight, I’ll go through with the handfastin’.”
She was up to something. He could see that. He doubted the intrepid lass was afraid ofanything. But though her notion didn’t please him—already his body stirred with desire for her—if it was what she wanted, he supposed he could wait another day.
“As ye wish,” he said.
Ysenda sighed in relief. She’d bought herself a day. No handfasting was official until it was consummated. Hopefully, in the morn, when her father was sober, he’d realize what a grave mistake he’d made and correct it. Their sham of a marriage would be nullified, and Cathalin, therealCathalin, would take her place as No?l’s bride.
Part of her was not happy about that. Already she could tell that Sir No?l was too good for her sister. Cathalin was selfish and spoiled, accustomed to getting her way. No?l was considerate, noble, and polite. He’d likely try to accommodate her, and she’d end up running him ragged.
Cathalin would never appreciate his gentlemanliness. She was used to forceful Highlanders who took what they wanted. She would probably mistake No?l’s kindness for weakness and belittle him at every turn.
It was a pity really. But Ysenda could say nothing about it. She was the youngest daughter, without power and without a voice.
Her father still had a dagger at Caimbeul’s throat. He obviously didn’t expect Ysenda to go through with the ceremony willingly.
But now that she had the Norman’s promise—and she trusted the word of a noble knight—she knew she was safe, at least for tonight. So she’d oblige her father and recite the damned handfasting vows.
The ceremony would be brief, doubtless briefer than the lavish weddings of France. Highlanders had little use for religion and no patience for church approval when it came to unions. Matrimony was achieved simply by mutual consent.
Sir No?l’s men made a formidable appearance as they gathered round him. They were large and powerfully built. Their manner was grave and guarded. Ysenda thought they looked ready to unsheathe and do battle if anyone so much as cocked an eye at them.
She wasn’t sure why, but that gave her strange comfort.
Sir No?l had brought the marriage agreement with him. One of his men unfurled it across the table between the roast venison and the smoked mutton, along with a quill and ink. Sir No?l penned his mark on the document, as did Laird Gille.
Ysenda swallowed hard. The heavy black scrawls on the parchment made the marriage seem all too real…and permanent.
Before the ink was even dry, Laird Gille stood at the table to preside over the rite, and the hall again hushed.
“Join your right hands,” he directed.
Sir No?l faced her and clasped her right hand, which felt dwarfed within his. She could feel the calluses that marked it as the sword hand of a seasoned warrior. His palm was warm and dry. She feared her own was sweaty. Yet there was something reassuring in his grip.
“Here,” her sister offered, tugging a long scarlet ribbon out of her hair and passing it forward. “To make it fast.”
Her father wrapped the ribbon around their joined hands, binding them loosely together.
Then she lifted her face to look at her bridegroom. She was startled. In the low light, she’d assumed his shadowed eyes were brown. But standing this close, she could see they were actually blue—a blue as deep as the ocean, as dark as the falling night. For a moment, she only stared at him, lost in the heaven of his gaze.
And then she saw he was waiting uncertainly as the silence dragged on.
“Say your piece, lad,” Laird Gille urged.
A tiny furrow formed between No?l’s brows. Ysenda realized he didn’t know the vows for a handfasting. They probably had no such thing in France. It was up to her then.
Her voice shaking, she began. “I, Lady Ysen—” Heat flooded her cheeks as she recognized her blunder. She coughed to cover the mistake, whispering to No?l, “Forgive me. I’m a wee bit anxious.” Then she cleared her throat and began again. “I, Lady Cathalin ingen Gille, Maid o’ Rivenloch, take ye, Sir…No?l de Ware…to my wedded husband, till death parts ye and me. And thereto I pledge ye my troth.”
She gulped. That hadn’t been so difficult. And yet those simple words held such great weight.
