Chapter 1
October 19, 1813, London, England
Peter never intended to marry.And he certainly never intended to marry like this.
He stood rigidly, at perfect attention.But the way his hands fisted and his heart pounded as if he was running from enemy fire revealed that this wedding day was anything but normal.His back was framed by the large windows of the Heathridge Chapel.Light streamed around him, painting the stone floor and wooden benches in radiant colors.The vibrancy almost made him feel as if he were back in Spain.But before Peter could appreciate the beauty of the moment, the red light filtering through the stained glass looked a little too physical, like a seeping, staining pool of blood.And it certainly did not help that he was wearing his finest uniform, freshly starched and gleaming in shades of scarlet and cream.The very sensation of the fabric took him back to the battlefield in an instant, try as he might to avoid it.
Not now, soldier.It’s Ana’s wedding day as well.This is not about you.
Mother nodded at him reassuringly from the wooden pew, but the tapping of her foot revealed an anxiety she would not confess to.She had used all her connections to speedily arrange this day, had procured the special license and permissions for the couple to be married at the small chapel on the Heathridge Hall lands.Surely writing to her to ask for help after years of distance had implied a great deal of urgency, although she had likely not expected to receive word that he was to be married, and as quickly as possible.The familiar setting should have brought Peter some portion of comfort.It did not.He felt every muscle in his body tensing, bracing for attack.
Golden autumn light from a door opening at the back splashed over the floor, fading the red colors of the stained window to pink, and a shadowed silhouette appeared.Peter’s eyes jumped upward, meeting the dark gaze of Ana María, and his hurried breathing stilled.He would not deny it; his bride was beautiful.Of course, she had always been beautiful.He would have to be a fool to be blind to her.But at the war camp, hers was a rough, intimidating sort of beauty.Today, this type of beauty was soft, romantic, and entirely enthralling.Her dark brown eyes shone with a hope that he had not seen in months.Her generous lips were rounded into a smile.Most bridegrooms would be thrilled at such an irresistible sight.Peter was made nervous by it.Theirs was not intended to be that sort of marriage.He was to be her protector, not her lover.She had a secret to be kept.He tried to swallow, but his throat was entirely dry.
The high waistline of her gown floated over her figure.The gown’s rich pink shade set off her deep black hair and olive skin at a most stunning advantage.If one looked closely enough, it was clear that the fit of her gown was imperfect, even if very slightly so.Mother’s seamstress had done her best to adjust one of Mother’s gowns for Ana María in only a few short hours.A small bunch of red flowers was pinned in her tight curls along with a small veil of black lace, a nod to the traditions of her Spanish heritage, implying that they would be connected as spouses until death parted them.However, for Peter, death could come much sooner than expected—it could come at any moment once he returned to the battlefield.
Again, he mentally shook himself, rolling his shoulders back and squeezing his eyes shut.He would not lose this moment to powder-strewn memories and visions of the blood-soaked battlefield.This was one of the few moments of his life that Peter would want to remember.He needed to be present.
When he opened his eyes again, Ana María reached his side.He held out his arm for her, but she reached for his hand instead.
“How do you fare?”he whispered.
“Estoy bien,” she responded, although the shadow beneath her eyes hinted at another restless night.She was putting on a brave face, as she was so apt at doing.
Peter squeezed her hand, looking down.Her wrists were no longer bruised, something he was glad for.Any visible injuries would draw too many questions, which would be most unwelcome when he was already doing his best to protect her from danger, even of the social sort.Their fingers interlaced, a strange sensation as they had never had such closeness before.Her fingers were cold and trembling, and his were flushed with heat from the adrenaline coursing through him.The juxtaposition was strangely comforting.
“Friends, we welcome you here today to celebrate a felicitous union,” the vicar began in a droning voice.It was to be an Anglican service, typical of the Church, although Ana surely had always dreamed of being married in a Catholic service in one of Spain’s glorious cathedrals.But they were in England, so it would have to do.
Ana María’s lips curved into a confident, endearing smile, but he did not miss the tear that escaped down her cheek.And yet her shadowed eyes reflected an understanding he felt echo through him.This marriage was a necessary action, a way to protect her past and future.Prying questions into her past could put them both at risk, considering the ongoing unrest related to the war with Napoleon.Society was not kind to foreigners, and even less to unmarried women in her condition.It was, in a way, a marriage of convenience, though it would surely have repercussions that were most inconvenient indeed.
But they had known it would be this way, hadn’t they?
And here he was, preparing himself to repeat vows that would alter their lives forever.He was to be a husband.A husband and a father in one act, and not a soul knew as much.
* * *
Oh, butEl Capitánwas handsome as a bridegroom.
Ana found she could no longer look away from her betrothed of mere days—and now soon-to-be husband.Peter’s posture suggested rapt attention, his face carved in solemnity, his dark brown hair tied securely at the nape of his neck, leaving him looking every bit the soldier he was.And when his crystal blue gaze met hers, Ana María suddenly found herself robbed of breath.But what was this feeling?This arrangement was by no means a romantic one, yet she could not ignore the squeezing of her ribs.She certainly preferred it to the nausea plaguing her otherwise...but perhaps it was just nerves.After all, she had never intended to marry an Englishman.
Still, Ana clung to the warmth of his grasp.She needed the strength of his touch more than anything right now.
“Is there anyone here to give this woman away?”the vicar asked, his voice echoing not only through the room but also through the chambers of Ana’s aching heart.
She dipped her chin, unable to hide her tears as she shook her head.Peter squeezed her hand, but it did not offer her the strength it normally had.“No,” he whispered, his tone mournful and apologetic.
Papáhad been meant to give her away.
And yetPapáhad been left bleeding and buried on the shore of San Sebastián.Perhaps if God was as understanding and merciful as she hoped He was, her father would be able to look down from above on this day.Even so, he would undoubtedly be displeased.She was not marrying a Catholic, was not marrying for love.Worst of all, she was marrying an Englishman.
It was the strangest sensation to be married without one’s family.She was dressed as a bride but didn’t feel like one in the least bit.Papáshould be here, as shouldMamá.Unable to stave off a wave of emotion any longer, she felt silent tears slipping down her cheeks.Peter pressed her hand, a slight squeeze that made her want to launch herself into his arms and soak his cravat with her tears.But of course, such a thing would not be appropriate in the current setting, even as they were about to be man and wife, not to mention Peter’s entirely unaffectionate nature.Of course, he did not intend to be cold; he was merely poised and practiced in every possible way.He was comforting in his rational-mindedness and eagerness to provide protection.Still, there were certainly times when Ana María wished he would embrace her, if only for a moment, to provide the stability she needed.
“Dearly beloved...”The short, old vicar with kind eyes began to warble the traditional words of the marriage ceremony.
Ana’s heart twinged with longing at some understanding of the proceedings.At least in Catholicism she would have been able to follow the ceremony, even if it was held in English.This vicar was more difficult to understand.His voice sounded as if his nose was incurably stuffy, although a quick glance revealed he was not sick in the slightest.It left his tone sounding swallowed, flat, and so very English.Despite Ana’s increasing grasp of English, many of the large, intricate words eluded her mind.Instead of being filled with tenderness at the moment, she was filled with confusion and quickly became overwhelmed.Even if she was being married under the most unexpected of circumstances, she should understand her own marriage vows, should she not?
But perhaps it was best that she did not understand everything.Words such as “children,” “sin,” and “fornication” stuck in her mind amid the muddle of flat English words, reminding her that their marriage was not a typical one.She resisted the urge to wrap her arms across her middle, as if she could protect herself from the disapproving comments that would surely come if any of those present knew of her condition.Peter had saved her in more ways than one.He rescued her from her attacker, shielded her from harmful accusations, and was now providing her and her child with a future, saving them from a number of unsavory fates.How could she ever repay him?
Her breathing quickened, and tears wet her eyes again.Peter’s clothing rustled at her side as he glanced at her and squeezed her hand, twice this time.It was their secret way of saying, “Estás bien?”Are you well?She was tempted to squeeze once—“no”—instead of twice—“estoy bien”—but she didn’t want to distract or worry him.This day was already filled with enough pressure.
