Page 8 of The Winter Husband

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Etta greeted Lucas with a nod. “Captain Lucas. I present your bride.”

Lucas bowed, murmuring, “Mademoiselle,” then straightened up and looked her over with those sharpshooter’s eyes. Though she wore the same blue brocade dress she’d worn at Madame Bourdon’s—it was the only fine dress she had—Lucas took in the sight of her with an odd intensity. Her knees nearly buckled. Dear Heavens, what had she done, when she’d shook this man’s spit-wet hand?

“Is everyone here?” A priest hurried around a corner, cassock flying. “Good, good, good. The sisters are already pouring brandy in the common room. We could all use a quaff to warm our chill bones, so let’s get on with the ceremony.”

Lucas held out an elbow. “Second thoughts, Chepewéssin?”

A hundred thousand of them, tumbling all over each other, but what choice did she have now? She slipped her gloved hand over his massive forearm. Five months until spring, Etta had assured her. Five months until Captain Girard, of the arm like oak, would pay for her passage back to Paris, to her old bed in a dormitory of the Salpêtrière orphanage, near the narrow window where she could lose herself in a borrowed book and watch a sliver of life from behind the safety of convent walls. The air would smell of apple blossoms, tinged with a fecund hint of the Seine. Warm summer breezes would make the branches of the plane trees dance, and it would seem as if she’d never married a soldier in an Ursuline chapel in the wild settlement of Quebec. Today’s events would be an outrageous story she would whisper in the shared sleeping room with Isabelle and Esme, Noelle and Violetta, and all the other young orphans who’d never been gripped by the disastrous idea of venturing into the world outside the convent.

Lucas led her into the chapel behind the others, and the rite of marriage began. She stumbled over her responses, came in late for the prayers, and hardly heard the priest’s Latin. When it was time to face Lucas to make their vows, she fixed her gaze on his milky-white cravat, slightly askew. She mouthed syllables about honor and love and obedience that weighed heavy on her tongue, but couldn’t possibly have any real meaning. She said what she must while itching to adjust the knot, as if, by doing so, the entire world would be set aright.

When Lucas took her hand in his, she startled out of her dizzy dislocation. Tugging the fingers of her glove, he peeled the leather away and tucked it between the buttons of his waistcoat. She dared a look above his beardless jaw and found his expression as sober as the priest’s. Lucas slipped a ring on her thumb—in the name of the Father—and then on her index finger—in the name of the Son—and then on her middle finger—and the Holy Spirit—only to settle it on her ring finger and leave it there. The pounded silver gleamed, a new and pretty thing too bright for her hand. She closed her fingers into her palm.

Done, except for the kiss.

Around them came nervous laughter, a shuffling of feet, and a rustle of petticoats. She raised her chin, because it was expected she would offer her lips. The scent of wine intensified as he bent toward her.So he needed fortification, too.Would his kiss make her toes curl and her whole body tingle and give rise to the kind of anticipation that could numb a woman’s mind and make her do reckless things?

His cheek scraped rough, a prickle of stubble, a brief contact that quickly eased. The spot on her cheekbone tingled until a draft cooled the sensation, leaving her standing with her neck arched, swaying from pulled-back expectations. She raised her gaze to find his face guarded, inscrutable.

His steady gray eyes held flecks of gold.

The sudden bustle around them gave her an excuse to tear her attention away. Lucas tucked her bare hand under his elbow, trapping her fingers against the barrel of his ribs. Did he expect her to bolt as he led her out of the chapel? He steered her through the hall to the common room, where Etta awaited, flushed and gushing congratulations. Etta’s husband Philippe, his broad smile stretching the scar that furrowed one cheek, came up beside his wife. While teasing the captain for embracing matrimony, Philippe laid one hand on the swell of Etta’s belly with guileless affection. Marie caught her breath and turned away, seizing a glass of brandy as the nuns approached with a tray.

Philippe took two glasses, giving one to his wife. “To the newlywed couple,” he said, toasting the captain and herself. “May you find happiness in a glorious future.”

Etta gave Marie a slow wink above the rim as she sipped. Marie couldn’t help herself. She shot the brandy down like a cavalry man.

Philippe made a snorting sound. Etta’s eyes danced with mischief. Against the back of her hand, her husband’s ribs tightened. She regretted her haste when her head went light just as the priest made a last blessing over the crowd. Their cloaks were presented. Moments later, everyone was ushered out of the convent into the violet light of a falling twilight.

How short a ceremony, she thought, as a cold wind hit her.

And yet how long the commitment.

In the middle of the dirt road, Philippe swiveled on a boot heel and raised a brow at Lucas. “Fancy a pipe and another brandy, old friend?”

“He absolutely would not,” Etta scolded, tapping her husband’s arm. “It’s their wedding night.”

“A night I thought I’d never see.” Philippe grinned. The scar on his face made him look wicked in the twilight, but Marie had only seen the man’s gentle side. “My wife is right, as usual. Talon is probably waiting for you in the lodgings he arranged for this evening, expecting to be personally thanked for the wedding supper as well as the wedding night.”

“Philippe.” Etta’s voice was a warning.

Her husband grinned. “I’ll see you at Talon’s office tomorrow, Lucas.”

“Early.” Lucas’s voice dropped to a reverberant rumble. “I intend to sign the papers first thing.”

Philippe winked. “I won’t arrivetooearly.”

“That’s quite enough.” Etta tugged on her husband’s arm. “Our children are no doubt clamoring for supper. Goodnight, you two, and congratulations.”

Marie willed roots to grow out of her feet and plunge deep into the rutted road, but with one tug, Lucas nudged her alongside him. Marie cast a glance over her shoulder at Etta and didn’t look away until Marie and Philippe turned a corner.

Marie struggled to keep up with Lucas’s long stride. The gloaming fell over the settlement, washing all color from the world. They soon stopped in front of a house very much like Marietta’s, two floors of gray fieldstone with glass in the windows. On the second floor, one window spilled golden light.

Lucas pulled a key out of his pocket. The sound of the tumblers turning kicked up fresh panic. Had there really been no other way out of jail, no other way back to Paris? She cast her gaze about, searching for…what? Nearby, a stranger dragged a wagon full of wood in the direction of the convent. Another man carried a sack of something over his shoulder. A lady with a basket came out of a poulterer’s, locking the door behind her.

“Come inside.” His voice dipped low, like he was talking to a frightened child. “Nothing will happen tonight.”

She shouldn’t believe him, no matter how gentle his words. There would be no getting away, if he proved himself a deceiver.