She gripped her fists. “Captain Masinter?”

“S’truth, ma’am. Sorry to say it. Worse than you imagine, I daresay.”

She swung to the priest. Dr. Stewart’s brow was tight. He nodded confirmation.

She couldn’t draw breaths. “But no one in England would accept such a marriage to be legitimate, done in such haste and by a Catholic priest. It is outrageous.”

“Do study the situation,” the earl said calmly. “If you do not shortly find yourself in—shall we say?—an interesting condition, then you might consider the entire thing a Roman farce and go about your merry way none the worse for it. But if you do, with the assistance of yours truly”—he bowed—“you could petition the Church of England for validation. Thereafter you and your child would want for nothing. My cousin’s property is . . . extensive.”

“But, even if there were a child—” Her mind grappled. “It would not be legitimate. This wedding—”

“Comes after the fact?” the earl supplied. “True. But Captain Masinter and I would never tell, would we, Tony? And the good father can adjust the date on the official record, as it were.”

Father Stewart frowned but said nothing. He was watching Luc’s face. Then he reached into his bag and drew out a book threaded with colored ribbons and a long, thin strip of cloth. He laid the stole around his neck and opened the book.

“What? No!” Arabella shook her head. “You cannot force me—”

“Dinna fash, lass. ’Tis anither sacrament.”

She shook her head. “Another?”

“Extreme Unction, Miss Caulfield,” the earl murmured. His attention on his cousin was sober now. “Last rites.”

“Good God,” Captain Masinter said in a strangled voice. He turned his face away and his shoulders heaved.

Arabella had never seen a man weep. They loved him—this sailor and nobleman and priest—because he was worthy of love. But her heart was cold, as she had known for years.

Then what was this desperate aching in her chest?

“Are ye sorry now for all yer sins, lad?” Dr. Stewart said. He pried the stopper out of a tiny glass bottle and pressed his thumb to the opening.

Luc’s gaze came to her. “All . . . but one.”

She fell to her knees beside him and reached for his hand. But she jerked back and did not take it. She dared not touch him.

“They are mad,” she whispered.

“I . . . pray . . . you.” Strain hardened his mouth.

“You will not even be able to say the vows.” Each word hurt to utter. She could not bear this.

“Beautiful . . . wife.” The lines about his mouth loosened. “I’ll . . . try.”

“You are a liar. Earlier or now, but I don’t care to know which.” Tears scalded her eyes, then her cheeks. “This is wrong.”

His cloudy gaze slipped to the earl. “Tell . . . truth.”

She could not see through the tears. “The truth that you are a madman, and not only for a moment?”

“Want you . . .” A labored breath, his throat working. “. . . to—”

“I will do it.”

“There we have it!” The earl clapped. “The lady is in fact amenable. Father, make it so.”

The Scot shook his head but he turned the pages in his book. Then he raised his hand and drew a cross sign in the air between them.

“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . . .”

In the warmth of the late summer dawn Arabella shivered. This was not a legal wedding. It was a farce for the earl’s benefit, and Luc’s. But now he watched her with hooded gaze and she could not regret it. When he might have abandoned her, he had helped. And when he might have hurt her, he had given her pleasure. She must give him this gift, however false it was.

She had not paid attention to the Reverend’s church lessons and had not studied like Eleanor; she understood nothing of the Latin incantations that preceded the vows.

“Lucien Andrew Ral—”

“Yes, yes, he knows his name,” the earl interrupted. “Time is short, Father. Move along.”

“Luc, will ye take this woman to be yer wife?”

“I will.” It was barely a breath across his lips.

“Lass, yer name?”

“Arabella Anne Caulfield.”

Luc’s hand unclenched, his broad palm opening. The priest spoke the words that asked her to commit herself in marriage to him, and she responded as they wished.

Abruptly, the earl got to his feet and walked swiftly toward the inn. As she watched, stunned and shaken, the priest returned to the earlier place in his book and began speaking softly and rapidly beneath his breath. He laid his hand on Luc’s brow. Captain Masinter stood with his back to them, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and stance wide as he stared at the sea.

Gray crept into the sky and the calls of gulls came across the morning wind. Arabella sat numb, only panic twining through her blood.

Dr. Stewart’s hand slipped away from Luc’s brow and the priest bowed his head.

No. No.

She sprang to her feet and whirled about, staggering on bandy legs.

Lord Bedwyr caught her arm. “Mustn’t neglect the formalities, my dear.”

She stared at the foolscap and ink bottle in his hand. “Why have you done this?”

“You must trust me.” He drew forth a pen from his coat. “Like your husband.” He returned to Luc’s side and knelt again, unfastened the cap on the ink bottle and flattened the blank sheet of paper on the doctor’s satchel. “Here will do.” He pointed to the bottom of the page.

With numb fingers she signed it.

“Arabella,” the earl murmured. “Beautiful name your wife has, Lucien. Shame you won’t have the opportunity to employ it.” He laid the pen in his cousin’s upturned palm. “Now it is your turn, old boy. Try not to stain it with blood.”

Arabella turned away.

“Excellent,” the earl muttered. “Now Tony, then Father. Must have witnesses and officiator.”

Captain Masinter’s face was white.

“New . . . gown,” Luc whispered. “Shoes.”

“You would like to be buried in a new gown and shoes?” the earl said. “Odd request, but a man’s last wishes are sacrosanct. I won’t tell a soul and neither will Tony,” he added, but Arabella saw the misery in his eyes now.

Impulsively, she gripped the earl’s hand. “He wishes me to have a new gown and shoes before arriving at the chateau. We made an agreement. Tell him you will help me purchase new garments and take me there.” Her voice rose. “Promise him.”

The earl’s mouth cut a line across his face and he cast a hard look down at his cousin. “Of course I will help her, you bastard.” He pulled his hand from Arabella’s. “Anthony, help me carry him inside.”

Captain Masinter came forward.

She could not look at Luc’s ravaged face, only at his outstretched hand. She longed to take it, to place hers in it and give him her life.

Chapter 10

The Widow

They would not allow her in his bedchamber. She did not protest; they had known him a lifetime. She went to her chamber, washed her hands clean of his blood, and her tears fell into the stained water.

She sat at the window, watching the sea. Footsteps and voices came and went on the stairs. After a time she wrapped herself in her cloak and curled up on her bed. Her body was bruised in the places the men had grabbed her and tender where he had made love to her.

Near dusk Captain Masinter came to her. His face was haggard, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

“Miss— That is, ma’am, I— That is to say—” He passed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’m dreadfully sorry, m’dear.”

“It cannot be.” She felt blind and breathless. “May I go in now?”