FLAME OF DESIRE (29 page)

“She is overwrought,” Blythe whispered. “She is not making sense. Trying to say that he threatened to murder someone. Thomas is not a violent man. He would not kill anyone.” Her eyes looked toward her husband. “Thomas, what have you done to her?”

“I have kept her locked in her room as is my right. Do not blame me for the girl’s stubbornness.”

“I did not think you would starve her! Oh, why did I not take a hand in this?” Reaching for her daughter’s hand, she held it in her own, chafing the wrist as if hoping to bring back at least a little color into her daughter’s face. “Tabitha, bring up a bowl of hot oats, honey, milk, and barley. I would not have my daughter go to her wedding pale and hungry. Men. Such fools at times.”

When Tabitha returned, Heather ate the cereal with the frenzied urgency of those who have been deprived, washing the bites down with gulps of warm milk. “I never realized just how good food could be,” she said between mouthfuls. “I will never be finicky again.”

Blythe watched with a sad smile, which turned to glowering rage when she turned toward her husband. She was no longer the mouse. Her daughter’s welfare was her prime concern now, but though Heather pleaded with her mother to stop the marriage, this Blythe would not do. Perhaps she thought that in the long run it was in Heather’s best interest.

When at last Thomas Bowen’s sister came sweeping into the room, Heather was dressed in her finest linen chemise. There would be no special bridal costume, merely the finest dress in Heather’s wardrobe, which ironically was the white velvet with red brocade underskirt. The same dress she had worn when first meeting Catherine Todd.

Pushed and pulled, scolded and coaxed, Heather was soon fully dressed, even to the fine leather shoes upon her feet. These were new, a gift from Anne Paston, her father’s sister, and while they were beautiful, they pinched her toes.

“Why, she is a little pale, Blythe,” the woman remarked, eyeing Heather up and down. “You had best pinch her cheeks a mite.”

A bridal garland woven of wheat, rosemary, myrtle, and late-blooming flowers were thrust into Heather’s hands. Magenta corn roses, white shepherd’s purse, and violent and blue delphiniums made a colorful bouquet.

“The wheat is a symbol of fertility,” Blythe explained, blushing a little. “Let us hope that this marriage will bring forth many children, for I would so love having grandchildren.”

Casting the garland from her, Heather looked at it as if it were poison. “No!”

“Perhaps she fears they will make her sneeze,” Anne Paston said with a questioning stare. “Many women keep them all their lives as a treasured reminder of this moment.”

“To me it will be a reminder of the unfortunate plight of women in this world,” Heather replied bitterly. Nothing she could say could convince these two women of her abhorrence of marrying Hugh Seton. Only Tabitha with her kind blue eyes knew what Heather was suffering. Somehow Heather had to get the girl alone so that she could seek her aid.

Tying the bridal knots, Blythe whispered, “You are the most beautiful bride London has ever seen.”

“Would that I were as ugly as an old crone,” Heather hissed in reply. “Rather than marry that one, I would as soon remain a spinster for all eternity.”

Hugh Seton heard her words as  he met the bridal party at the door. His piggish eyes warned her to hold her tongue. “Such sweet words of modesty from my future bride,” he mocked with a low bow. “I find you, however, lovely.”

Like Heather, he was also dressed in his best, a chocolate-colored doublet, tan hose, white shirt with lace at the throat, brown trunk hose, and leather shoes.

“The queen has sent her regrets, my love,” he said. “Because of the coronation tomorrow, she is too busy to attend our nuptials. However, she has asked that after the wedding we come to visit with her at the palace.”

“I’m certain that she would like to hear everything about the wedding.” Heather said by way of veiled threat, though she well knew that no one, particularly the queen, would believe her. Mary had already told Heather of the high esteem in which she held Hugh Seton.

Walking down the stairs, Heather found a large throng of guests awaiting. They would accompany the bridal party to the church.

“The bridal cup,” Thomas Bowen exclaimed, handing it to Heather. With its sprig of rosemary and trailing colored ribbons, it looked like some pagan offering and Heather could not help but wonder if some ancient Celtic bride had held such an object in her hand.

As they rode to the church, a small troupe of minstrels preceded them, playing on flute, viol, harp and bagpipe. Behind rode Blythe and Thomas Bowen and Anne Paston and her husband, with the wedding guests riding in the rear. All along the road the Londoners gathered to watch, loving pomp and ceremony.

When they arrived at the square in front of the church, all dismounted from their horses to walk up the stone steps of the chapel. Heather watched as the priest stepped out from under the portico, the open book in his hand, the wedding ring resting on a satin pillow. At last Heather’s chance had come. This priest would ask her the standard questions: if she was of age, if she swore that she and her betrothed were not within the forbidden degree of consanguinity, if her parents consented to the marriage, if the banns had been published, and finally if she herself and her groom both gave free consent to the match. She would tell him no to the last and put an end once and for all to this farce.

“I have chosen a Catholic ceremony to please the queen,” Hugh Seton breathed in her ear. He was no fool. A ceremony spoken by a priest would be that much harder to break. There would be no divorce.

Pushing past him, Heather flashed Hugh Seton a triumphant look. “I am here against my will,” she said to the priest. “I do not want to marry this man and would have spoken sooner if not for his threats to the man I love. He has vowed to kill him if I do not comply with his demand to enter into marriage. Please, you must help me. You must get a message of warning to Richard Morgan and keep this would-be murderer confined.”

Hugh Seton’s evil laughter drowned out her words. “He does not speak English or Spanish. Did you think me to be a fool? He does not know what you are saying, my dear wife. Your words are just so much gibberish. He needs only to say the Latin Mass to make our marriage valid. That he can do, though he is a Frenchman.”

Heather couldn’t think clearly. She had not foreseen this. To ensure his safety, Seton had made certain that Heather could whisper no words of her plight into the priest’s ear. Pushed and shoved into the candlelit chapel, she fought the urge to swoon. She would not give in to that womanly weakness.

Speaking in his churchly Latin, the priest babbled words Heather could not understand while all the while Hugh Seton looked upon her with eyes that seemed to devour her. Was he  imagining what it would be like to ravish her when this was all over?

I will never forgive Thomas Bowen. Never, Heather thought bitterly as the priest held forth the ring for her hand. She was whiter than the gown she wore as she pulled her fingers away from the priest’s outstretched fingers.

Suddenly, before the final vows could be spoken, the chapel doors were thrown open as the assembled guests gasped in shock.

“In God’s name, stop!” came a voice from the back of the church. Standing there like an avenging angel was none other than Richard Morgan.

Chapter Forty

“Richard!” Heather sought to run to his side, but Hugh Seton’s strong arms detained her. Still, she knew that a glorious miracle had occurred. Richard was here. He had saved her from a disastrous marriage.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hugh Seton thundered, making all assembled tremble. “This woman is to be my wife. You have no rights here.”

“Your wife! I think not. I would see you in hell first, Seton.” Reaching for his sword, Richard brought forth the weapon and strode forward to take Heather’s hand. Weaponless, Seton could only glare in murderous rage. He was not one who was used to being thwarted, and Heather wondered if he would seek revenge.

“Now, see here, whoever you are,” Thomas Bowen spluttered, stepping forward to reach out for his daughter. “What right have you to…”

“Every right. I love this woman. She is mine. By all that is holy she belongs to me.” As he drew Heather into the shelter of his arms, his eyes were filled with love and longing.

“And I love him,” Heather said softly, looking into those love-brimmed eyes.

From the back of the chapel the assembled throng craned their necks to see what was happening. Soon the story of what had happened here would be whispered on the corner of every street in London, but Heather didn’t care. She only knew that the man she loved was here, shielding her from all that might harm her.

Hugh Seton’s face turned several shades of red as his eyes swept over the two lovers. He could nearly imagine them locked in the throes of love. Once again Richard Morgan was taking that which Seton thought to be rightfully his, and as before, he was powerless to stop him.

“Damn you to hell1” he shouted. “I will see you pay for this if it takes me a hundred years. You are a dead man. This I swear before all assembled!”

At his words Heather shivered. “He told me that if I would not marry him he would kill you.”

Richard brandished the sword threateningly at the man who claimed to be his half-brother. “You told me once that I should kill you. Now I wish I had. If I had known what pain you would cause this woman, I would have done so.” Circling the blade in front of Seton’s eyes, Richard barked, “Now get out of here before I
do
kill you.”

Without a word Hugh Seton stormed from the chapel, pausing only long enough to look back once and raise his fist in anger.

“Let us leave too, Richard,” Heather pleaded, clinging to him. “Before he gathers armed men to harm you.” Hand in hand they fled, without looking back, leaving the room buzzing with whispers. As they made their way past Tabitha, Heather heard her cry out for their happiness and caught a glimpse of the servant girl’s smile.

“I drove the horses off. It will be a long while before Seton can follow us. We will ride north,” Richard said at last, helping her onto a horse hidden in the chapel’s storage shed. He then mounted his own horse, likewise concealed.

“I would ride anywhere with you,” she answered. “To hell and back if you asked me. I have learned the meaning of love and happiness, though it was a hard lesson.”

They rode through London in great haste, leaving the crowded streets far behind them. Heather was laughing and crying at the same time as they traveled, her tears drying quickly in the warm sunlight. Richard, glancing over at her, was startled by the sight of her crying.

“Heather, what’s wrong?” he asked, urging his horse to a halt beside her. “Do you want to go back?”

“Go back? No. I weep for joy, Richard. I am happier than I have ever been in my life. How many times have I dreamed of going away with you. Now my dream is a reality.”

He leaned over and gently touched the silken strands of her fiery hair. “I cannot ask you to be my wife until I am free. That freedom may never come. What can I offer you except my heart?”

She smiled at him, her lips quivering as she spoke the words: “That is all I want. Your heart. Your love will be my sun and moon.”

His face grew grim. “I can give you nothing but love. For your own sake I should turn you free, but how can I when I am only half-alive without you? I am a selfish man, Heather. I took your virtue…”

“I would rather be your mistress than any man’s wife,” she exclaimed with a toss of her red hair. “And as to my virtue, it was red sage and summer savory that was to blame.”

“What?” he asked. His eyes probed her face, and seeing the mischievous smile, he cocked his head in bewilderment.

Gales of laughter escaped from her mouth. “It was Periwincle. He came upon us with Cupid’s bow and wounded both our hearts. Thinking to bring us together, he gave you a love potion.”

“A potion?” Remembering now the taste of the brew, Richard looked at her as the truth dawned on him. “Why, that scoundrel. And here I have been torturing myself for weeks with bitter recriminations….”

“And I blaming you for all sorts of ill-doings.” She nudged her horse forward so that she could reach out and touch his hand. “I have learned much this past month. I never should have doubted you. I will never do so again. When I thought that I was to be married to Seton, I suddenly realized what you have been going through all these years. Now the vows of marriage are not important to me. It is what is in our hearts that truly matters. I love you and you love me.”

“Oh, Heather,” he groaned. “If only you could be my wife.”

“But perhaps it cannot be, will never be possible. I will try to live with that. With you beside me, loving me, it will be an easy matter.”

“Always.” Words could not whisper what the look on their faces said. Looking over the city of London, holding hands, love flowed between them as swiftly as the Thames. At last he said softly, “We must go. Seton will be after us. There are many miles to travel before night.” His smile was seductive. “And when we reach a proper inn, my lady, there is much that we must make up for.”

Past the fertile fields of newly sown wheat and rye they rode. Michaelmas had just passed, signaling the winter season. Soon the rains and frost of winter would be upon the land. But that was the furthest thing from Heather’s mind as she looked over her shoulder. Seton. She must not forget his fury or his hatred. He had threatened to kill Richard and her if she escaped him. Shuddering in fear, she touched her heels to her horse’s flanks. Masking her fear from Richard, she managed a smile.

“Come, love. I am in a hurry to reach this inn that you speak of.”

Chapter Forty-One

They reached the inn by nightfall as they had intended, the Rose and Thorn. Completely surrounded by rosebushes, it was easy to see where it came by its name. It was a charming half-timbered, whitewashed building with a thatched roof and boxed windows that looked out on the rolling hillside.