Scotland—May 1437
Evangeline Armstrong had made a mistake.
The realization was both bitter and inescapable.
If only she might have been born with foresight, but alas, she had not. She was a creature of impulse, and her very nature had steered her false.
The simple truth was that Evangeline had allowed herself to become old before choosing a spouse. She sat in the cart slowly making its way southeast to her betrothed, a stranger she would never have accepted just two years ago, but one she was compelled to welcome in her dotage—at a venerable twenty-five summers of age. The cart rocked over the uneven road, the distance seeming interminable, and, for yet another day, Evangeline sat and watched her maid snore.
Truth be told, she was feeling a little bit sorry for herself.
Once, there had been courtiers aplenty at the gates of Inverfyre, prepared to compete for Evangeline’s hand, willing to undertake any quest to earn her favor. She had believed the situation would never change, that it could not change, that she would be blessed with such a selection of potential husbands for years more.
Her mother had advised otherwise, but it was not the first time mother and daughter viewed a situation from opposing views. Evangeline had been certain that her mother’s experience had differed because she had always been acknowledged to be plain, while Evangeline herself was a reputed beauty. Was it unreasonable that Evangeline had enjoyed the attention of so many handsome knights and warriors? Clearly, as soon as she chose one, the line of contenders would vanish. And how could she select one husband from the array of men, none of whom she knew much about?
She had feared to make a bad choice; she had evaded making a decision at all; and so she had erred in not choosing with sufficient speed. The line of suitors dwindled and vanished because of her advanced age. There had been no suitors for two long years before this offer had arrived. Evangeline might as well have died.
And so the choice had been made for her. As much as that chafed, the prospect of remaining a spinster at Inverfyre for the rest of her days was worse.
Sir Rufus Percival was a stranger, a man neither Evangeline nor her parents had ever met, but evidently an affluent one. She considered the large sapphire that graced her finger and acknowledged that she had never expected to wed for wealth alone. Evangeline liked her comforts, to be sure, but she also had dreamed of wedding for love.
How her mother had shaken her head at that notion.
How her father had smiled and vowed it would be thus, that her intended could not fail to adore her. He knew Rufus’ father, of course, and considered that man to be most honorable.
At least Evangeline might have hoped for compatibility, a man who amused her or one whose views agreed with her own. She might have hoped for a suitor who would not be put aside, even a warrior who would steal his bride in the face of parental disapproval. There was much to be said for a passion that could not be denied.
At the very least, she might hope for a man who admired her on the basis of more than hearsay.
Or a man who came to present his proposal himself. Aye, that rankled. That Rufus Percival had dispatched a courier to make his offer of marriage to a bride recommended by his father was no good sign of her future happiness to Evangeline’s thinking—not that her view had been of any import.
It could not be, now that the Hawk of Inverfyre roared less frequently in his hall and his opinions were less vehement. The Hawk’s son and heir, Evangeline’s brother, administered Inverfyre in his father’s stead—although the Hawk oversaw the courts each month—and Nigel, being Nigel, was not inclined to humor his sister more than necessary.
Which was not very much at all, evidently.
Nigel had bluntly told her that she might be obliged to accept any offer she received, and pointed out the generosity of this one. Of course, he saw only the merit of coin.
She was glad she had stolen his favored dagger before her departure, and hoped Nigel missed it dearly.
The cart halted, but Evangeline had no curiosity about their location. It was too soon for their arrival at her betrothed’s home and she did not care where she was. Her maid, Anna, awakened with a start and smoothed her kirtle, her expression turning hopeful.
Sure enough, Ahearn O’Donnell dismounted, sweeping back his cloak before coming to bow before her. Her father’s trusted friend and the Captain of the Guard of Inverfyre, Ahearn had offered to lead the party escorting Evangeline to her new home. She liked Ahearn and was glad of his charm and confidence on this journey. No obstacle could fail to be overcome by this man, and she trusted him utterly. He might have been her second father or a kindly uncle, more inclined to a jest than her own father.
She smiled at him, hiding her dreary thoughts.
“All is well, my lady?” he asked, sparing a glance for Anna. Doubtless even the men had heard the maid’s robust snores.
“Well enough,” Evangeline said. “Do you mean to halt so soon?”
“I would ask if there is anything you desire, perhaps a stretch or a pause. We have had rumors of the road ahead and would ride directly to the keep from this point.”
“Why?” Evangeline asked and again she saw Ahearn’s gaze slide to Anna.
His smile seemed grim. “’Tis time to see you in your new home, that is all.”
There might be peril. Evangeline found her interest quickening. One final adventure would be welcome, whatever the risk. She did not doubt that once wed, she would be confined to the safety of the hall forever.
She eyed the road ahead, noting how it wound into a dark wood. “If I rode, we would progress more quickly,” she said and Ahearn nodded agreement.
