~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “How Do I Love Thee” (Sonnet 43)
The Past
1286
Culross, Scotland
Maggie stood shivering before the priest in the small chapel of Culross Abbey. The journey had left her wet, her skin cold, and her heart broken. She’d been betrayed by her brother and possibly her sister. Had Deirdre known that Yearger had basically sold Maggie to Baron Bellecote and that Yearger had given his loyalty to King Edward? Had she known that Yearger was involved in the killing of King Alexander? Maggie felt ill at the thought that Deirdre had known and still done as he’d bidden. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She would have wound her arms around her middle, but the baron had a firm grip on her right wrist, so she used her free arm to try to warm herself. She felt as if she would come apart at any moment. She was alone, even in the chapel with other people. Soon she would be wed. But all she could think of was Rhys.
A wail rose up in her throat. She held it in by the force of her sheer will, but her grief was determined to escape and tears leaked from her eyes. Was he dead? She could not see how he could have escaped, and even if he had, he’d hate her when he learned of her family’s treachery. Even if he didn’t hate her, it would be too late for them.
The priest, Father Andrew, was only too happy to serve Baron Bellecote’s wishes to wed them, according to the baron. He had funded the building of this particular monastery. Yet when Father Andrew turned to face them, he didn’t look as happy to be doing the baron’s bidding as he had claimed.
“Wed us quickly,” the baron demanded.
Father Andrew’s soft brown gaze came to her once more. “The lass is weeping,” he said, his words hesitant.
“Those are tears of happiness,” Baron Bellecote assured him.
Denial tried to claw its way up Maggie’s throat and out of her mouth, but she pressed her lips together, remembering clearly what the baron had threatened. If she did not wed him and do as he bid, Deirdre would be killed. Deirdre, who had possibly betrayed her. Deirdre, who would be easy to find at Kinghorn. Deirdre, who she wanted to hate yet still loved, despite what she might have done.
Two trails of warm tears slid down her cheeks. “Tell Father Andrew you are happy, my love,” Bellecote commanded.
She didn’t think she could do it. Her mouth would not work. Her tongue refused her command. The baron squeezed her hand so hard that she thought her bones might break. “I’m so happy,” she managed finally, sounding anything but.
The priest began to say the vows, which the baron would recite first and then she would repeat, vows that would bind her to a man she detested for the rest of her life. Rhys filled her every thought now. She could see his caring eyes, smell the woodsy scent that had clung to him even after their bath together, feel his hands so gentle upon her body. She loved him. She would only ever love him. She loved him in a way she’d long ago dreamed possible but had abandoned as probable when she’d grown. It was pure and true and recognized no bounds of time or limits of life or death.
When the priest turned to her and told her to recite her vows, she felt her mouth open but she could not hear herself speaking. She knew words were coming out, but she was not there. No, she was at the inn with Rhys, in his arms as he introduced her to passion and love. She did not see Bellecote any longer; she saw Rhys, so strong, so confidant, so beautiful. Her throat tightened painfully. She didn’t think she could utter the rest of the words she needed to.
God help her. God help Deirdre.
Faster. He had to go faster. Rhys compelled his horse across the icy land behind his uncle. The sense of urgency that had grown to an almost uncontrollable force as they’d failed to catch up to Bellecote and Maggie nearly exploded in him as a monastery came into view. Horses gathered outside what appeared to be a chapel.
“Dermot?” he asked, knowing he needed to follow his uncle’s lead on this given he was actually from this century.
Dermot slowed his horse as they approached the chapel, and Rhys did the same. “I imagine he brought her here to wed her.”
The news made Rhys want to tear Bellecote apart.
“If we are too late—”
“There is no too late,” Rhys interrupted.
“Maybe not in yer time, Rhys, but in mine, there is. If they are wed and she’s been bed, ye are too late. She will belong to Bellecote in the eyes of our laws.”
“She will never belong to him,” Rhys bit out. “She belongs with me, and I’m leaving here with her, no matter what.”
Dermot let out a long sigh. “I thought ye might see it that way. Ye have ‘the look.’”
Rhys frowned. “What look is that?”
“The same one my da always has when he speaks of my mother, God rest her soul. As if the best part of him died when she did. That’s the look. As if he counts the days until they are reunited in death.”
Jesus.Rhys stilled. He’d become his dad—and apparently his grandfather, too. He’d become what he’d feared most, and he welcomed it. When Dermot unsheathed his sword, Rhys did the same.
“Are ye ready?” Dermot asked.
The words broke the last tether on Rhys’s control. He barged past Dermot, kicked open the door, and charged into the chapel with his sword raised in front of him. The next moments happened almost in slow motion. He saw Maggie in front of the priest and Bellecote’s hand upon her wrist.
