Confessing to this stranger seemed to ease her pain. She felt looser, freer and comfortable in his presence. She marveled at her instinct. He was a man of contradictions. Contentious, arrogant, dangerous, but never did she feel at any time would he harm her. She did not know his past, but by all indications, he believed himself to have been wronged. If truth be known, and he was innocent, then she could well understand his rage. “I am being forced to marry a duke.”
“Faith, to marry a duke would be a hardship.” His ridicule was light in the wake of his surprise.
She put her hand up. “Not this duke. I have been informed he is a monster. Fatal consequences befall those who marry him. The engagement is to be announced tomorrow. I had no alternative but to ask the gentleman for whom I had a fond attachment if he’d marry me. He informed me my financial situation was not attractive. He has chosen a bride with more adequate prospects. However, Sir Thomas did offer that once he was married, he would set me up as his mistress.”
“Bring him by, I’ll be happy to give the scum a length of my sword,” he growled.
Claire smiled. She had found a kindred spirit. “I would hand you the sword myself.” He was her knight in shining armor. For a brief moment, she wondered about what if he were free from these sad conditions, and they had met under normal circumstances.Would they be friends?She dismissed the idea as absurd. “So you can see why I have sought you out. You are my last recourse.”
There was a deathly stillness in the cell as if he heavily weighed on her words. She had poured out her heart. Would he deny her? She steadied herself. “Oh, this is humiliating. Must I abase myself by begging?”
“I confess the proposal sounds very sweet. ‘Tis my misfortune to have so little. I regret your proposal comes so late, for a husband should fulfill the nuptial night with his bride. Unfortunately, I have other plans for the evening. After all, how can I deny that grave-snatcher, Goad?”
“Don’t taunt me sir. I haven’t much to offer, but−”
“So be it. I won’t be unreasonable. If there is to be a wedding, then a wedding it is. Call the weaselly hounds. Let the act begin as your ladyship wishes. For upon my honor, ‘tis my first time wed, and no doubt, will be my last. You’ll excuse me if I wed and run, my lady?” He laughed. “My friends look forward to me in the prison-yard, and my time is scarce.”
The ceremony began in his cell with the sheet dividing them. With her head bowed, Claire stood, oblivious to the garbled responses of the rite of matrimony dulled further by the monotone of the parson. The felon stood on the other side of the sheet, his presence much larger than she expected. Despite the abuse he endured, she could feel tremendous heat and energy−a force like a million burning suns. He was a man who made her long to bolt away.
“Milady?” He’d offered his hand from around the front of the sheet.
Staring at his hand, her fingers shaking, she accepted that which was offered to her.
She placed her hand into his.
And she quivered for it did indeed seem as if she set her touch to fire and steel.
Almost as if her destiny gave her clear warning.
She drew her hand away. He recaptured her hand and held it with his larger one. Which of them trembled?
“Do I frighten you?” he said.
“Are you supposed to?”
He laughed in a rich baritone she would always remember. Her hand lay trustingly on his, like a baby bird solaced by the nest. She marveled at this strange new feeling. A warm glow flowed through her. Her hand felt at home in his, like it should be, meant for all eternity. She studied his well-shaped fingers, filthy yet unlike the ill-born that had warped, claw-like talons. His hand was strong with fingers long and supple as a swordsman’s. Although chained, she sensed he wore his chains with solid indifference, his fearlessness allowing him to escape any tragedy. He was gallant for sure, for he had come to her rescue.
He turned her hand over, drawing a trail from her wrist, across the palm to the tip of the longest finger. Her fingers fluttered then curled inward. She smiled. Tenderly he folded her hand into a fist then stroked the crown of her knuckles. At once the palm uncurled, an intimation of trust as unconscious as her shiver of sensation.
He recited his name. Devon Blackmon. Strong and daring. It suited him. Claire followed with her own name. Oblivious to the interchange between them, the parson finished. After having them sign marriage documents, he made his excuses and departed. She had done it. She had married a felon. Before God she had sworn to be his wife.
He took her hand again, brushed it with his lips, and murmured a soft, “Madame Blackmon.” It was too swift a gesture to give her any warning. She had felt a curious streak of tremors at his touch and a hint of sentimentality. Heat rose to her face.
“Would it allay your fears if I told you, I was as frightened as you?” he asked.
“You?” It was an accusation. “You seem so…so self-assured.”
“You believe it to be impossible? Is this not my wedding day too? Well, you’re stuck with me, and you’ll eventually learn to accept defeat graciously.” He laughed. “But with visions of the gallows beyond, you do not have to worry long. Do you think I, a condemned man, would have any requests?”
She tugged her hand away, wary. “I’ll leave you a basket of pastries and meats to supplement your remaining time.” A thought occurred to her. “Are there loved ones who need to be,” she coughed, “need to be contacted?”
He snapped out a cold expletive. “I am alone in this world.”
Claire’s heart thumped. “Pray tell, what do you require?”
“One night of conjugal rights with my bride.”
She drew a deep breath, and then let it out, her words uttered in one long staccato. “I−I−had–had not been prepared for this eventuality.”
