Jolene had barely mumbled a few distracted thank yous for the congratulations the men offered when Sigimor dragged her toward the place where someone had laid out their bedding. “What are you doing?” She quickly looked for Reynard and found him fast asleep on his rough bed in the midst of all the other blankets laid out for Sigimor's kinsmen.
"Ye need your rest. I dinnae want ye to be too weary on the morrow."
Realizing why he wanted her well rested, she blushed furiously, but he was already walking back to his men. She removed her boots then huddled beneath a blanket as she stripped to her shift. Glancing at her plain, modest shift as she tried to get as comfortable as she could when only a blanket separated her from the hard ground, Jolene found herself wishing she had brought something more delicate, then cursed. The man turned her wits into warm gruel. Closing her eyes, she decided that it might be wise to think a little harder on what she had just agreed to.
"There is a priest but a half day's ride from here,” Liam said as Sigimor sat down by the fire.
"Good,” said Sigimor as he reached for the wineskin that was being passed around.
"Eager, are ye?"
Sigimor did not bother to reply as he took a long drink, his gaze fixed upon the slim woman he would soon call his wife. In less than a day he would have the right to crawl beneath that blanket with her. Eager was a mild word for what he felt.
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Chapter Eight
Warily eyeing the short, round priest Sigimor was talking to, Jolene moved closer to Sigimor's side. Rousted out of bed when dawn was only a meager promise, they had ridden hard to this tiny village. As a result, she had had no chance to speak to Sigimor, although she had done a great deal of thinking. If she did not know better, she would think that Sigimor had done his best to make sure there would be no further discussion concerning the marriage. They would talk about it now, she decided, and tugged on his sleeve only to have him grasp her hand and keep talking to the priest—in Gaelic, a language she did not understand.
Odd, she thought suddenly. Why would they speak in Gaelic now when the priest had greeted them in what Jolene considered the Scot's own peculiar, and very attractive, form of English? Was Sigimor trying to hide something from her? She quickly cast aside that twinge of suspicion. Not only was it a poor way to think of a man who was doing his best to keep her and her nephew safe, but she could not think of any sound reason for him to be so secretive. He had asked her to marry him, she had said she would, and he was arranging that marriage with this priest. No need for secrets there that she could see.
What she could see a need for was a little private talk with Sigimor. No kisses, no pressing that fine, strong body up against hers, and no licking her neck. Just talk. Jolene had come up with a plan she felt he ought to consider. It was one that would satisfy his need to marry her to keep her out of Harold's clutches, yet insure that he was not tied for life to a woman he did not love.
Staring at the small stone church they stood in front of as she waited for Sigimor to finish speaking, she tried to strengthen her resolve. She just hoped she did not lose her courage in the end. It had taken a great deal of effort to decide to present him with her plan. A loud, somewhat hysterical voice in her head was crying out in shock and denial. If Sigimor did not hurry up and finish his talk with the priest, Jolene feared she would falter, that she would take what she wanted, never telling the man her plan to save them both from being trapped in a marriage neither of them had freely chosen.
Sigimor could almost feel Jolene's impatience, but he kept his attention fixed firmly upon his cousin William. What good was it to have a priest in the family if the man could not do what he wanted, he thought crossly. When Liam had told him that the priest they were riding to meet with was a kinsman, Sigimor had been delighted. He had forseen getting Jolene married to him and thoroughly bedded before her clever little mind could think of any alternative to his plan. Instead, he was wasting precious time arguing with a cousin who was proving to be inordinately fond of following the rules.
"There are rules that must be followed, m'laird,” William said, then glanced at Jolene. “And she is English."
The way William stared at Jolene as if he feared she would turn into some warty demon right before his eyes was beginning to irritate Sigimor. “I did notice that."
"There are banns that must be called out, signed agreements from her kinsmen—"
"Her kinsmen are dead save for the fool chasing us with murder on his mind. Aye, and if he gets his filthy hands on her, he will drag her back to England and wed her. He will make her life a pure hell on earth for a while, then he will kill her. And, he willnotbe told he has to wait to marry her, either."
"Corrupt priests,” snapped William. “England is ripe with them. Do not try to tell me this is all some noble gesture on your part, either. You lust after her. Well, you can just wait a few weeks."
"Or, I can throttle a priest in the next minute or so."
"Sigimor,” Liam said sharply as he stepped up beside him, then gave William a friendly smile. “Cousin, it may be true that Sigimor's reasons are not all noble,” he said in Gaelic, “but that does not change the truth of what he has told you. This Harold intends to marry himself to the woman to tighten his grip upon all he has gained by murdering her brother. Once he has removed the child from his path, he will certainly be rid of her. If she already has a husband, however, it will put at least a short halt to his plots. That way, if he gains hold of her, we will have time to rescue her. Come, are not two innocent lives worth a little bending of the rules?"
"But, rules are set out for a reason—” began William, although doubt now clouded his expression.
"Aye, to keep some rogue from grabbing an heiress and marrying her against her will. Such is not the case here. Sigimor will not gain much of anything from this marriage for her dowry will surely be held fast in England. Handfast will not protect her. The marriage needs a priestly blessing. Now, if you feel you must obey the rules, call the banns three times, just wait only a few minutes between each one. We can also write up a marriage agreement and we have witnesses right here."
William hesitated another moment, then nodded. “I will do it. I shall wait seven minutes between each calling. Liam, you can help me write up a marriage agreement,” he said even as he started toward the church.
"Sigimor,” Jolene said the moment the others left them, “I have come up with a plan. I have been thinking—"
"I was afraid of that,” Sigimor muttered.
She decided to ignore that remark. “I do not dispute any of the arguments you put forth yestereve. Howbeit, this marriage need not be so final. If ‘tis left unconsummated—” She squeaked softly as he started to drag her toward the apple orchard just behind the church. “Where are we going?"
"To some place that is private so that I may say a few things I dinnae want the others to hear."
That sounded ominous, Jolene thought, but did not offer any protest. If they were about to have an argument over something as private as consummating their marriage, she did not want them overheard, either. Hers was a very good plan, but, when they stopped just within the orchard and Sigimor yanked her into his arms, Jolene strongly suspected he was not going to agree with it. She wondered why she did not feel dismayed by that possibility.
"Did ye really think that I would agree to nay bedding my own wife?” he asked.
