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Authors: Traci E. Hall
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her.”
“Vision?” Nicholas released her as if she had a contagious disease, and Celestia tumbled to the grass. She felt his instant fear of her, and her heart broke. The connection between them was gone; he most likely thought her possessed or some such nonsense.
Sir Petyr quipped, “Tame her fast, my lord, afore she faints again!”
The crowd laughed good-naturedly, whispering excuses for her behavior, such as too much to drink or a bride’s nerves. Celestia drew herself up and brushed the pieces of grass off of her gown with impatient strokes, not daring to look at Nicholas. She’d worked so hard to gain the respect of her people. ‘Twas always difficult to let strangers get to know her and understand that she was not such a freak after all.
She scrubbed her cheeks with her palms, feeling her grandmother’s hand at her back.
“Not to worry,” Nicholas said in such a stone-cold tone that Celestia’s stomach knotted and she knew what he was going to say before the words ever left his lips.
“My lady will have plenty of time to rest, as I am leaving her here when we journey in the morn.”
Heart cracking into tiny shards, Celestia admired him for his misplaced sense of honor. So what if he thought her crazy?
Mayhap she was.
She only knew that she could not let Nicholas travel without her. Even if it meant giving up her healing gifts, she could not let him go alone.
Summoning the last of her bravery, she put her hand on her hip and accused like a seasoned fish-wife, “You don’t get your way, my lord, and already you think to leave me behind?” She clucked her tongue loudly and turned to face her parents and the rest of the spellbound group. “He expects me to leave without my herbs and, and …” the tears that came were not so forced after all, but greatly gained her the sympathy she needed to play this off. “And he says I cannot take my own horse!”
The expression on Nicholas’s face would have been worth remembering, if only she hadn’t been so damnably worried that he would die before learning to love her.
Chapter
Four
T he last servant finally left the chamber, and Nicholas’s shoulders eased. “I was afraid your father was going to gut me before he took his leave,” he said, staring at the closed door.
Celestia, dressed in a silk gown so sheer he could see the outline of her skin, laughed nervously. Candles cast a warm and cozy light; mulled wine spiced the air and shadows from the small flames in the fireplace chased one another on the tapestry-covered stone walls. Nicholas had the sense he was dreaming; the sort of dream that exuded goodwill, just before the jerk of the hangman’s noose.
“Would you care for some wine?” Celestia offered him a silver goblet; she was as tempting as Eve must have been with the apple.
“Nay. We leave early in the morn, and I would be clearheaded.” He wanted to know what had happened out there, if she’d really seen something, or if he’d just been duped into marriage with a crazy woman. The entire manor could be laughing at him. Was she really a—?
“I am not a witch,” she said firmly.
“Do you often have these,” he scratched the back of his neck, “visions?”
Celestia sipped before answering, as if weighing her words. “No. And Saint Paul knows that I am not good at receiving them. Sometimes they are clear, and sometimes,” she paused to take another drink, “they are not.”
“You invoke the Saint of Truth,” he huffed. Nicholas had seen enough of the world to understand there were things that were not understandable. His Truth was that he’d lived in hell, and had not once heard from God or Satan, or any of the damn saints. “The vision tonight, it involved me?” He would know if she was playing him for a fool.
“Aye.” She shifted uncomfortably, perched at the edge of the bed. “But it was not right.”
“You called my name.” He paced forward, challenging her words. He would believe, if there was but proof.
“Vision?” Nicholas released her as if she had a contagious disease, and Celestia tumbled to the grass. She felt his instant fear of her, and her heart broke. The connection between them was gone; he most likely thought her possessed or some such nonsense.
Sir Petyr quipped, “Tame her fast, my lord, afore she faints again!”
The crowd laughed good-naturedly, whispering excuses for her behavior, such as too much to drink or a bride’s nerves. Celestia drew herself up and brushed the pieces of grass off of her gown with impatient strokes, not daring to look at Nicholas. She’d worked so hard to gain the respect of her people. ‘Twas always difficult to let strangers get to know her and understand that she was not such a freak after all.
She scrubbed her cheeks with her palms, feeling her grandmother’s hand at her back.
“Not to worry,” Nicholas said in such a stone-cold tone that Celestia’s stomach knotted and she knew what he was going to say before the words ever left his lips.
“My lady will have plenty of time to rest, as I am leaving her here when we journey in the morn.”
Heart cracking into tiny shards, Celestia admired him for his misplaced sense of honor. So what if he thought her crazy?
Mayhap she was.
She only knew that she could not let Nicholas travel without her. Even if it meant giving up her healing gifts, she could not let him go alone.
Summoning the last of her bravery, she put her hand on her hip and accused like a seasoned fish-wife, “You don’t get your way, my lord, and already you think to leave me behind?” She clucked her tongue loudly and turned to face her parents and the rest of the spellbound group. “He expects me to leave without my herbs and, and …” the tears that came were not so forced after all, but greatly gained her the sympathy she needed to play this off. “And he says I cannot take my own horse!”
The expression on Nicholas’s face would have been worth remembering, if only she hadn’t been so damnably worried that he would die before learning to love her.
Chapter
Four
T he last servant finally left the chamber, and Nicholas’s shoulders eased. “I was afraid your father was going to gut me before he took his leave,” he said, staring at the closed door.
Celestia, dressed in a silk gown so sheer he could see the outline of her skin, laughed nervously. Candles cast a warm and cozy light; mulled wine spiced the air and shadows from the small flames in the fireplace chased one another on the tapestry-covered stone walls. Nicholas had the sense he was dreaming; the sort of dream that exuded goodwill, just before the jerk of the hangman’s noose.
“Would you care for some wine?” Celestia offered him a silver goblet; she was as tempting as Eve must have been with the apple.
“Nay. We leave early in the morn, and I would be clearheaded.” He wanted to know what had happened out there, if she’d really seen something, or if he’d just been duped into marriage with a crazy woman. The entire manor could be laughing at him. Was she really a—?
“I am not a witch,” she said firmly.
“Do you often have these,” he scratched the back of his neck, “visions?”
Celestia sipped before answering, as if weighing her words. “No. And Saint Paul knows that I am not good at receiving them. Sometimes they are clear, and sometimes,” she paused to take another drink, “they are not.”
“You invoke the Saint of Truth,” he huffed. Nicholas had seen enough of the world to understand there were things that were not understandable. His Truth was that he’d lived in hell, and had not once heard from God or Satan, or any of the damn saints. “The vision tonight, it involved me?” He would know if she was playing him for a fool.
“Aye.” She shifted uncomfortably, perched at the edge of the bed. “But it was not right.”
“You called my name.” He paced forward, challenging her words. He would believe, if there was but proof.
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