Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

Strode shook his head, his hands resting on his narrow hips. “Nay, I canna think of any reason to hide what I’ve to say. The lass should know what she’s gettin’.”

Honor perked up at that. A public confession? Unheard of.

“B-but, sir, ’tis always done in private!” Father Dennis gnawed his thin lips, glancing from one to the other several times. A titter of nervous laughter rippled among those listening to the exchange.

The knight stared them down with an arrogant look. When they fell silent again, he looked directly into the priest’s eyes. “Let her hear it. I’ll not lie.”

His brows drew together, this time in a thoughtful frown, as though searching his mind. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “Och, now I remember it! Forgi’ me, Father, for I have sinned!”

Father Dennis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him, clutching his rosary and prayer book between them. “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”

Strode flashed another frown, the tip of his tongue worrying the corner of his mouth as he rocked heel to toe to heel. Mental calculation apparently completed, he steadied. “Nineteen years, give or take a six-month. Aye, that’s right,” he said with a firm nod. “I was goin’ on seven.”

Nineteen years! There were murmurs of horror and a few giggles, quickly squelched with another piercing green glare.

“And what have you done since that requires forgiveness?”

Honor wondered just how long they would be standing here if he decided to list everything.

Strode seemed at a loss. He started to speak, snapped his mouth shut, then began again. “Well, what is it that matters here?”

“Do you believe in the One God, keep the Sabbath holy, honor your father and mother?”

“Aye for th’ most part, though I dinna like ’em all that much. The father and mother, that is. But I do give ‘em proper respect. ’Tis only right.” He looked triumphant. “Is that all, then?”

“Not all, but a beginning,” the priest said, looking askance at the penitent. “Have you killed anyone?”

“Oh, aye to that as well! Twenty or so, all English, mostly. Mayhaps one Welshmon. Before that, I recall only three. One, a thieving Cameron, and two nameless reivers what tried to steal my horse. All good, clean, righteous kills. Should be clear on that score!” His proud smile was blinding and totally guilt free.

A shocked silence ensued while the priest drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. “And have you stolen?” he asked.

“Aye, all the cattle I could trod up for my uncle Angus. A few sheep here and there, but the buggers are devilish hard to herd!” He paused thoughtfully. “Did my part, but I’m thinking I coulda done a bit more had I put my mind to it. Aye, all right, then, I admit to a wee touch of sloth a few years back. Is there a penance for sloth, Father?”

Honor bit her lips together. Small wonder Tavish had liked him. The man was amusing, she had to give him that, though it seemed to be inadvertent.

She could hear Father Dennis’s teeth grind before he spoke. When he did so, he adopted a slow cadence, as though speaking to a half-wit. “These things—the killing, the stealing—are sins, Sir Alan. Sins! Not things you should do, but things you should not. Now then, have you lied?”

Strode clasped his hands behind him and hung his head, peering from under thick, dark lashes like a guilty child. There was something endearing about it, Honor thought. As though one could always depend on that very look every time he sinned. “I let Tavish Ellerby believe I could read, when I could not.” Then he went on the defensive. “But, mind ye, I ne’er said I could.”

“A lie of omission, the same thing,” the cleric declared in a stern voice. “Now, have you committed adultery?”

The answer accompanied a vehement shake of the head. “Nay, I would not! I never took another’s wife or betrothed.” A quick shadow of worry darkened his open features. “Unless... unless some of the lassies lied. Then that would be their own sin, eh?”

“Fornication!” the priest gasped. “You’ve had sexual congress with many women!” Father Dennis did not phrase that as a question.

Sir Alan grinned and combed a hand through his long waves, dislodging the frayed silk tie altogether. Honor never thought to see embarrassment and pride combined with such equality. “I’m hoping ye’ll not be asking for a head count there, Father. Guilty, wi’ damned little regret!”

The hall erupted into raucous laughter. Even Honor could not keep her face composed. She hid her mouth behind one hand and turned away. She was appalled, but God help her, wanting to giggle. What an outrageous scoundrel he was. Then her silent laughter faded to nothing. Tavish meant for her to marry this scoundrel. A killer, a thief and a womanizer. An unrepentant womanizer!

The priest waited until the hall quieted and then resumed. “Have you ever coveted another man’s wife or possessions?” he asked in a hushed monotone.

Alan of Strode answered in kind, looking directly at Honor with a troubled expression. “Aye, I have that.”

The admission and the man’s distress over it bothered Honor. He looked as though he meant he had coveted her. But the knight had never met her or, as far as she knew, seen Tavish’s lands or keep.

Father Dennis cleared his throat again and broke the spell. “Well, I should need a tally stick, mayhaps several of them, to tote up your penances. Will you repent for your sins?”

“Aye, certainly,” Strode answered. “Could we settle up later, d’ye think? I’m good for it.”

Father Dennis blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head. “Fine. Consider yourself absolved for the nonce. Go and sin no more.” Then he threw a surreptitious glance at the waiting tables. “Shall we get on with the ceremony?”

Honor stepped forward. She could see little point in postponing the inevitable—and what she now believed necessary—event. The more she thought on it, the more she appreciated Tavish’s idea. He could not have known the trouble she would encounter, but somehow had managed to send her a solution of sorts. She hoped.

While the priest’s words droned on, she let her gaze rest on Sir Alan’s hand, which supported her own. Rough calluses and broken blisters covered his broad, square palm. His nails looked recently pared, the fingertips scrubbed almost raw. He did not tremble as she did, Honor noticed. Strong, steadfast, supportive.

Hands told much about a person. She thought of Tavish’s hands, slender, well-groomed, agile, like the man himself. By comparison, this knight standing beside her looked a rough-and-tumble piece of work, the kind of man she dreaded. And needed.

“I will,” she responded when Father Dennis prompted her.

“You are man and wife together. Tate, the marriage lines, please,” the priest called to the tall young crofter he had selected to assist him. Spreading his brief document flat on the nearest table, he motioned Sir Alan forward and placed a slender finger on the bottom of the parchment. “Make your mark here, sir.”

Alan dipped the quill Tate provided and laboriously scrawled his name. Honor noted the pride with which he did so in spite of the awkward, all but illegible results. He then handed her the plume and she signed with a scratchy flourish.

“So, it is done. Felicitations, sir, my lady. May God bless and keep you both. The kiss of peace, if you please?”

Honor turned her face up to the knight, who blushed dark red. His wide-eyed gaze darted everywhere but at her. She smiled. Good lord, the man was shy? After all those women he had bragged of bedding? This seemed too much to hope for.

Honor reached for his face and pulled it down to hers, planting her closed lips squarely on his as was customary. Just as she relaxed her hold, she heard it; a soft, almost inaudible sound of yearning mixed with denial.