Taking his hand off Marmaduke’s shoulder, Duncan gave him a friendly jab in the ribs. “A fat and ill-fit one, if we choose to believe the tongue-waggers.”
Marmaduke swallowed hard.
Something was amiss.
And whatever it was, it slithered up his back, cool and smooth as a snake, to then curl around his neck and squeeze ever tighter the longer he watched the merry twinkle dancing in his friend’s eyes.
Marmaduke frowned. “There is something you are not telling me.”
“Oh, dear.” Linnet glanced away.
“Ah, well…” Duncan stretched his arms over his head, loudly cracking his knuckles. His fool grin widened. “As ever, I can hide naught from you,” he said, almost jovial. “I’ve long suspected you’re as blessed with the sight as my fair lady wife.”
Lounging against the cold stone form of his long-dead forebear, Duncan finally tossed down his own gauntlet. “Lady Caterine wishes you to pose as her husband. Only if word spreads she has wed a third time, does she believe she can rid herself of her current woes.”
Marmaduke stared at his friends, too stunned to speak. None would deny he loved them well. Saints, he would give his life for either of them. But what they proposed went beyond madness.
Impossible, he shouldposeas any lady’s husband no matter how great her plight.
No matter who her sister.
Never had he heard anything more preposterous.
“You ask too much,” he found his voice at last. “I will offer the lady full use of my sword arm, and I shall guard her with my life so long as she requires my aid, but I will not enter into a blasphemous relationship with any woman.”
He bit back a harsher refusal on seeing the hope fade from Linnet’s eyes. “By the Rood, Duncan,” he swore as softly as he could. “You should know I am not a man who would pretend to speak holy vows.”
“Then don’t,” Duncan said, triumph riding heavy on his words. “Make the lady your bride in truth.”
* * *
Makethe lady your bride in truth.
His friend’s parting comment lingered long after Duncan and his lady took their leave. Like the repetitive chants of a monk’s litany, the taunt echoed, increasing in intensity until the words seemed to fill not just his mind but the close confines of the chapel as well.
Make the lady your bride…
By the saints, did his liege mean to mock him? Duncan MacKenzie knew better than most of the loneliness that plagued Marmaduke in the darkest hours of the night, was well aware of Marmaduke’s most secret desire: to have a fine and goodly consort of his own once more.
And a sister of Lady Linnet could be naught but a pure and kindly gentlewoman.
Was there more behind his friends’ insistence that only he can champion the ill-plighted young widow?
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Marmaduke’s mouth and a pleasant warmth the likes of which he hadn’t felt in many years began to curl round his heart.
Make her your bride…
The words came as a song now.
A joyous one.
Hope beginning to burgeon deep within his soul, Sir Marmaduke went to the altar, sank to his knees, and bowed his head.
Sometime later, he knew not how long, a shaft of multi-colored light fell through the chapel’s one stained glass window to cast a rosy-gold glow upon his folded hands. The beam of light illuminated his signet ring, turning it to molten gold and making the large ruby gleam as if set afire.
Then, no sooner had the colored light reappeared, did it vanish, extinguished as if a cloud had passed before the rising sun.
But Marmaduke had seen it rest upon his ring.
