There was more truth in her sister’s words than she wanted to admit. The veil would protect her, but once taken, her vows could not be undone. She would have peace and the ability to do something useful with her learning, but not freedom. Nor would she ever again know the closeness with a man that she’d experienced today.
He was wrong for her … wasn’t he? Everything about the battle-hard warlord overwhelmed her. He was too intimidating. Too fierce. Too …too. But he was also honorable, controlled, and—as she couldn’t help but be aware of—handsome enough to make her knees weak.
But none of this mattered. Beatrix was forgetting something very important. “I told you what he said. He doesn’t want to marry me.”
Beatrix cupped the side of her face in her hand and gave her an indulgent smile, looking more like a mother than a sister. “He’s angry. Give him time to think. He’ll see that you had nothing to do with our father’s trickery and do what is right. From everything you’ve told me, everything you know of him, do you believe he could do anything less?”
Nay, not if her estimation of him was true. But Beatrix hadn’t seen his face. Christina shuddered at the memory, having never faced such vitriol. “What if I’m wrong?” What if he wasn’t the chivalrous knight that she’d made him out to be, but the brutal warlord she’d first imagined?
“Is that what you think?” her sister asked.
Did she? What did she know of him? A strange question to ask about a man who’d touched her so intimately, roused her passion, and taken her virginity in one wicked stroke.
She knew that he spoke with authority and carried himself with the pride of a king, that he was a warrior of repute and incomparable skill, that he was capable of mercy, and that he would save a serving girl from rape where others turned a blind eye. Everything she knew of him spoke of honor.
She looked at Beatrix and shook her head. Deep in her gut, she knew she wasn’t wrong about him.
“Then the question is what do you want?” Beatrix asked quietly. “But I think you already know the answer.”
Christina’s chest squeezed, knowing that her sister spoke true. “What if I’m wrong?” she said hoarsely.
“The nunnery will always be there, but this might be your only chance to find happiness. What if this man is your Lancelot? What if he is the man you are destined to love?”
Christina managed a wry smile. “I thought I was the one who let my imagination run away with me.”
But Beatrix had only given voice to her deepest girlish dreams. The alternative, a lifetime of “what ifs,” spread out before her like a path without end. Like the endless tolls of bells sounding the “Liturgy of the Hours” from Matins to Compline.
Her sister was right. It was worth the risk. She wouldn’t be the first bride to seek refuge in a nunnery to escape a terrible marriage. The reverse, however, was not possible. If she took the veil, there would be no going back.
And truth be told, after what she’d experienced tonight, she didn’t know if a life of chastity would be possible. Her desire had been awakened. No longer was she innocent. And though it was certainly wicked to think such things, she was glad of it. She’d liked how it felt when he touched her. She bit her lip. Well, except for when he’d entered her. But pain was to be expected the first time. At least that was what she’d heard.
Something about Tormod MacLeod called to her in a way that she could never have expected from such a fierce and terrifying warrior. The very first time their eyes met she’d felt it—that strange current of awareness running through her. And when he’d pulled that man off her like some dark avenging angel, it seemed like destiny—as if he’d been drawn from the pages of her stories.
She wanted him. But did he want her?
