The Lord's Bride Page 2

  A few fanciful times she contemplated running, but where would she go? What would she do? Everything she had was at the manor. Her entire life was there, the fond memories of her mother and father before their respective passings. She was part of the land itself. She could no more leave it than she could step out of her body and leave that behind. All she could do was hope that her new husband was a kind and able man who would perhaps make her happy.

  When the Roth contingent arrived, Mary’s hopes were dashed. Jonathan Roth might perhaps have been kind, but he was certainly not able. He was ancient, withered, and bent with a hundred different maladies, none of which had any hope of cure.

  Mary drew back upon meeting him and almost burst into tears upon the spot. His pate was bare and covered in liver spots, his face wrinkled in the extreme. There were hearty men at the age of 58, but Jonathan Roth was not one of them.

  After meeting her affianced, she made private protest to her uncle, but the man was not to be swayed.

  “You are most ungrateful!” Vincent snarled, his hand clutching at a riding crop. “I find you a husband who will take you from me without so much as a cent in dowry and you turn your spoiled nose up at him. Why, I should flay the very skin from your hide!”

  Under threat of beating, Mary sought to run to the de Stafford manor, but the word was that Martin de Stafford had gone away to Cheshire to claim his bride. There was nobody left to help Mary, no allies who could bring any real pressure to bear. The simple fact of the matter was that she belonged to her uncle and he could choose her husband as he liked.

  So it was that Mary went to the altar with a man whose rheumy, cataract-filled eyes could barely see her. Jonathan Roth may once have been a handsome man, he might still have been a nice man, but Mary did not know, for he coughed most terribly throughout the small, ill-attended ceremony, a horrible rattling, rasping sound that made Mary quite concerned for his health.

  None of her friends were in attendance. The wedding had not been widely publicized, for Uncle Vincent had not wished to spend the money on feeding guests. The dour future Mary had feared was upon her, and there was little she could do. Indeed, even the gown she wore was a source of torment.

  “You are fortunate to have this wedding dress,” Vincent had said meanly when he gave it to her. “It is not a gift, so be careful with it. I will sell it after the wedding.”

  Mary recognized the dress. It had been her mother’s wedding dress. Of course Vincent wanted to sell it. There had once been a few pearls about the bodice, but some rough hand had picked them off. Mary suspected she knew who had done that. The same man who had removed all the gold fittings from the bedrooms. The same man who had auctioned off the family silver in the garden to a throng of common merchants who trampled the flowers and scuffed the tender blades of grass.

  By the time Mary made her solemn march down the aisle, the de Vere manor was a skeleton of its former self. The portraits of her and mother and father had been taken down and, of course, sold. Vincent would have sold the family tomb if the local priest had not forbidden him to disturb the bodies that lay there.

  Mary walked down the aisle with the manner of a woman going to the gallows. Her fate was inevitable however much she loathed it, however much she despised the man who held her arm. Vincent insisted on giving her away, of course. Not out of any sense of affection or even duty, but out of a desire to see the transaction completed.

  There were only two members of Jonathan’s family in the church, a nephew and his wife. The nephew looked squinty and mean, with deep-set dark eyes that held a malice that seemed very out of place in a chapel. A twisted little devil, Mary thought to herself. The wife looked pale and coughed often into a well-used handkerchief.

  The priest seemed thoroughly disinterested in the ceremony, perhaps even a little drunk. Certainly he slurred his words more than once. Mary was not surprised her uncle had employed a drunkard priest. It was certainly in keeping with the misery of the entire affair.

  She did not pay much attention throughout the ceremony. She repeated the words as instructed, pledging obedience and loyalty and a great many other things to a man she did not know, and listened as her husband rasped his way through a similar set of empty promises.

  “Those the Lord has joined together, may no man sheparate. You may now kish the bride.”

  Dry lips pecked at Mary. She tried to hide her revulsion, but it was not possible. She turned her head away at the last moment and received her husband’s kiss upon her cheek. Vincent snorted with dark amusement at the affair, then strode out of the chapel without another word to his newly wedded niece.

  Mary left the chapel on her new husband’s arm, or rather, with her new husband on hers, for his steps were faltering and his breath weak.

  She had hoped that once the wedding was done, she might be able to find some semblance of happiness, but the horrors of the day were far from over.

  No sooner had they stepped out of the doors than old Jonathan Roth collapsed and did not get up again. The family picked him up, carried him back into the church he had just been married in, and requested a funeral, whilst poor Mary looked on in mute horror.

  She then had the very strange experience of attending a funeral on the day of her wedding. Jonathan Roth was put to ground in a simple pine box. Then the nephew and his sickly wife set off in their carriage without so much as a word to Mary.

  For a time, Mary wondered if she too had died; certainly nobody seemed to be acknowledging her presence. The priest offered her a consolation sip of communion wine, a rare kindness on a day marked by death and desolation. She refused, preferring instead to make her way back to the family home. But when Mary returned to the manor, she found the doors locked. Vincent spoke to her through a window.

  “Go away! This is your home no longer!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the de Vere estate. You were married as Roth. You, Mary, have nothing.”

  Mary drew back in horror, seeing how neatly she had been tricked. She was now absolutely certain that her father’s death had not been unrelated to her uncle. In a few swift moves, the queen had been removed from the board entirely, and the black rook had taken possession of all he surveyed.

  “How could you do this to your own flesh and blood? You are a knave, sir! A villain! And you will see justice ere you die. I promise you that!”

  “I have done nothing that the law does not condone, trollop! Now get away from here, before I set the dogs on you!”

  Mary doubted that the dogs, which had once been hers, would do much besides lick her to death, but that was not the point. The horrid creature she shared some small amount of blood with was the greater danger, and he was right. Nothing he had done was against the law. He was well within his rights to take her land, sell her possessions, and marry her off to an invalid.

  The lands she had once roamed, the rooms that had once been home, all the possessions rightfully hers, were stripped away. A woman could not own property. Her father could, but Mary had no father. Her husband could, but Mary’s husband was no more. She was a poor widow.

  There was but one place of refuge, one place that might take pity upon her. Gathering her robes and the few possessions deemed worthless enough to allow her to keep, Mary started off down the long and winding road from de Vere manor.

  Chapter Two

  Mary walked until she was very, very tired. She walked until her feet were aching and beginning to blister, then sat beneath a tree and cried for a time. Then she silently lectured herself about being so weak as to cry, after which she cried again.

  Having alternately lectured herself and sobbed all over her dress, she tried to take stock of her situation. She was alone, with no money and no friends—no friends she would have ever allowed to see her in such a dire situation. It did briefly occur to her to go to Martin and throw herself at his mercy, but he was off being married, and she had no desire to become a burden to him, nor to anyone else.

  She woul
d have to make it on her own. Somehow.

  Her eyes were fogged with tears, so much so that she did not notice she was no longer alone in the forest. Not until a rough voice made its presence known.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Mary did not feel like standing, so she remained sitting, even as the steel edge of a blade crept toward her nose, pushed there by an oafish fellow who had not availed himself of the river’s cleansing flow in many a month.

  “I cannot stand, and I have nothing to deliver. Move along and bother someone else.”

  There was a grunt of anger. The blade was lifted into a striking position. It seemed very likely that Mary was about to lose her life. Oddly, she could not quite begin to care.

  “Hold your blade.” A slightly more refined tone stayed the execution. Following on the brigand’s footsteps was a man with a red beard and dancing green eyes. A gypsy.

  “What noblewoman sits alone in a forest?”

  “A fallen one.”

  “I detect a sad story,” the gypsy said. His tone did not contain sympathy, rather interest.

  “We should kill ‘er,” the foul-scented man said.

  “And what profit would there be in that, Stanley?” The redhead shook his head at his comrade. “When one finds a pretty lamb upon a path, one does well not to slaughter it. One does well to put it on pasture and make wool from its fleece.”

  “Oh, I’ll make wool from her fleece alright,” Stanley chortled. His vulgar intention was clearly transmitted through the gurgling of his glee. That got Mary’s attention. Death was not so bad, but to be defiled by such an uncouth brute? She would not allow that whilst she drew breath.

  Unfortunately, she was not armed. Fortunately, the brute was. He was near enough that when he stooped down to get a closer look at her, she could reach a sheathed dagger at his side. Without missing a beat, she reached out, drew it, and shoved it under his nose.

  “If you so much as think of laying a hand upon me, I will cut your gizzards out and serve them to you on a bed of your own entrails.”

  Perhaps it was the ease with which she handled the dagger that gave the brigand pause. Or perhaps it was the deadpan, emotionless way she spoke the threat. At any rate, Mary soon found herself being given a respectful amount of space by the two gypsies.

  The redheaded man laughed. “I see it is not a lamb we found at all, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “What do we do now, Dylan?” The bulky Stanley retreated toward the man who seemed to be his leader.

  “As this appears not to be a damsel in distress, rather a damsel ready to bring distress to others, we introduce ourselves nicely,” Dylan replied. He stepped forward and dipped in a bow. “M’lady, I am Dylan O’Connor. This is my humble associate Stanley the Knife. Or simply Stanley, now you are in possession of that item.”

  “Leave me be,” Mary said. She was not of a mind to make friends, especially not those with such boldly telegraphed ill intentions.

  “Leave you be—out here, on the road like a waif?” Dylan scratched his beard. “What game are you playing at?”

  “I play at no game,” Mary said. “Let me be.”

  “By the gods, I’ll not leave a pretty, tear-stained maiden on the side of the trail,” Dylan replied. “You look hungry, my girl. In need of vittles and warming.”

  Indeed, Mary was hungry. She had not been fed that morning, for Uncle Vincent had said her husband would be the one to feed her. But her hunger was nothing compared to her anger. That was roiling and boiling inside her breast, so much so that when Stanley the Knife made a false move and rubbed at his posterior, she hurled herself at him. The knife in her hand would likely have been buried deep in his throat were it not for the actions of Dylan.

  The redheaded man moved much faster than Mary. In a second he had one arm wrapped about her waist, the other hard upon her wrist. He squeezed hard enough for her to drop the knife, then wasted no time in clapping his hand against her bottom.

  “You’ll not attack a man without my say so,” he said, carrying her across to a conveniently fallen oak. There he seated himself upon the bark and rested her across his thighs. Mary was quite discombobulated by the experience, for it seemed to her she was being handled with all the ease of a doll.

  The gypsy pushed up her skirts and laid his hand once more against her bottom, this time over cotton drawers. “Do you understand me, my fine lady?”

  Mary shrieked out a curse. It seemed as though she was being subjected to yet another indignity in a day full of indignities, and she would not stand for it. “Unhand me! Unhand me at once!”

  “Calm yourself, lass,” Dylan purred, his voice calm but deep. “You attacked my man. That’s worthy of a strapping at the very least. Count yourself lucky you’re only feeling my palm.”

  “Count yourself lucky you still have a head!” Mary squealed as the gypsy’s hand danced a jig across her bottom. The pain was nothing compared to that of a true thrashing, she knew that much, but any pain was too much at that moment, for Mary had her fill.

  “Your threats do not scare me,” Dylan replied. “Save your breath for some fine noble sap who might quiver at them.” Again his hand came down, striking the crowns of her cheeks in a way that stung most sorely.

  Though she struggled against the gypsy’s arm, Mary could not free herself. She was forced to eventually lay relatively still across Dylan’s lap and take the stinging swipes of his palm. He spanked her without malice; indeed, there seemed to be a good bit of amusement in his voice as he assured her she would not be harmed.

  “I will have order in my presence, lass,” he said. “You’ll keep your hands to yourself unless I tell you otherwise.”

  “I will defend myself!”

  The rough gypsy palm settled a moment on her bottom. “I’ll make sure you don’t need to.”

  The gravelly reply made Mary burst into tears. Since her father’s death, she had not heard any words so reassuring as those ones.

  The swats soon became lighter. In the end, there was barely a patter of slaps against her bottom as she sniffled over the gypsy’s thighs.

  “You are tired, lass,” Dylan said. “You need rest and food. Now, will you promise to keep your blade to yourself?”

  “Yes,” Mary sniffed. “I promise.”

  “Good.” The gypsy helped her to her feet, restoring her modesty with an almost gentlemanly concern. “There you are,” he said kindly. “Right as rain. Now come along. We have a camp not far off. You won’t be harmed. Gypsy’s honor.”

  It would be madness, Mary thought, to go off into the woods with gypsies. It would not be proper at all. She thought further on the matter and concluded that propriety may well be a thing of the past. She needed food and she needed warmth, and there was a certain trustworthiness about Dylan the Red.

  “Very well,” she said, scooping up the fallen blade. Stanley had apparently forgotten to retrieve it in all the excitement of her punishment.

  “Capital!” Dylan clapped his hands together in an expression of excitement. “The chief will love you. Come. A hearty stew awaits!”

  Mary followed after Dylan, largely ignoring Stanley the Knife as he came up beside her.

  “Uh,” Stanley grunted at an almost safe distance. “Can I have my knife back?”

  “No.”

  There was no further discussion on the matter.

  It was not wise to go into the woods with rough men, but when Mary set eyes on a small camp lit by a merry fire, and over it a bubbling pot of the promised stew, she no longer cared whether it was wise or not. Her stomach was growling with hunger, so much so she would have gone into a pit of lions if there were food to eat.

  “This is…” Dylan turned to her. “What is your name, lass?”

  “Mary,” Mary said.

  “This is Mary the Bold,” Dylan announced to the small crew. There were six others present, five men and one woman. They were dressed in a range of clothes and styles that made Mary quite confused. The woman wa
s dressed in a very fine gown, almost as fine as the one she herself was wearing. One of the men was dressed as a merchant, another as a sheriff. Mary knew well enough that not a one of them was a noble or a merchant or a sheriff. She realized then that she had come upon a band of impostors.

  “Hail, Mary,” several of the gypsies said. They were not overly concerned with her presence. They seemed much more interested in the stew, as was she.

  “Where is the chief?” She was eager to make the man’s acquaintance and assure herself that she was indeed welcome.

  “You’re standing next to him,” Dylan winked. “Make yourself at home, lass. I’ll have questions for you later. For now, fill your belly.”

  Thoroughly unsurprised by Dylan’s revelation, Mary did as she was told and sat amongst the gypsies and shared their food. They were a raucous, amusing lot, and more than once she found herself forgetting the fresh wounds of her uncle’s betrayal, giving way to laughter at the ribald stories and antics of the gypsy clan.

  Later in the evening, when some were resting by the fire, others creeping off into the bushes to do whatever it was gypsies did in the forest by night, Dylan came to Mary again.

  “Tell me,” he said, settling in beside her on the low wooden bench. “How does a girl of noble blood come to be so adept at stealing blades?”

  “I was taught to fight as a youth,” Mary said. “My father taught me, and I often trained with the man who will one day be Sheriff of Staffordshire.”

  “Ho!” Dylan exclaimed. “You are well connected—which makes it all the more strange that you find yourself here.”

  Mary related the tale of her father’s death and her uncle’s treachery. It was not just Dylan who listened, but all the gypsies seemed to be drawn to a good story the way moths are to flame. When she was finished, the group uttered a collective sighing gasp.

  “So, you are heir to a manor?” Dylan asked, his expression shrewd in the firelight.