The Wrong Bride

  The wrong bride

  By Cameron May

  CHAPTER ONE

  The house was nearly pitch-black, and the scent of dry, stale air hung around as the two young men made their way along the shadowy corridor. Jaren, mouth open, eyes wide, following Lance closely, thought he heard a noise behind him and swung around, striking his friend with his elbow. “Watch out there,” Lance hissed. Jaren mumbled a contrite apology.

  “I can’t see nothin’” he then said in response. “You sure we’re in the right house?”

  “Yes,” Lance hissed again. “I know my way around like the back of my hand, for certain. And keep your voice down!”

  “I dunno. My bones feel this is a bad idea,” Jaren whispered back. It was spooky, being in a strange house and wandering around, especially in the dark. “Let’s go back to the tavern. One of the wenches was favorable.” Jaren was convinced he’d missed a tumble by coming along with his friend. “Our luck would be better there.”

  “No. When we’re done, you can do whatever you want. The girl’s been teasing me long enough. She wants me, made it plain, and I for sure want her. The room’s just ahead.” Jaren sighed and nodded. His head swimming with drink, he was so near Lance his warm, beery breath came back to him. “Once we’re married, her folks will have to accept me,” Lance said. Overheated in the unmoving, claustrophobic air and the considerable liquor he’d consumed, he was sweating with agitation. He stumbled and heard the nervous hiccup of a giggle from his friend.

  In the luxurious bed of a room much nicer than her own, Winifred snuggled down with a smile on her face, ready to welcome sleep. Her sister Miranda and the parents were off to a visit with friends. Winifred had begged off another boring jaunt to over-drink, overeat, and over-talk with people who pretended they knew more, owned more, lived better than anyone else but were as common folk as anyone else she knew.

  Hearing funny noises in the house, Winnie decided it was due to being in the front of the house, not the rear where Winnie’s modest room was the one that overlooked the kitchen gardens beneath her window. The plants seemed gasping for water. It hadn’t rained for almost two weeks. Tomorrow she might just take it upon herself to water them, since no one else seemed to care. A week, she thought, a whole week to myself without complaining parents and a whining sister. What did her folks complain of? It might be easier to enumerate what they didn’t grumble about: aching joints, tired muscles, the cold, the heat, the want of entertainment, the lack of enterprise on the part of servants whom one had to constantly remind to adhere to their work, et cetera, et cetera, and so on and on. And then there was Miranda, a prize if ever there was one. Pretty enough, quite pretty for certain she was, but always needing something new, like more ribbons, a new dress or shift, or slippers, or this, or that, or something else.

  They’d left to visit the Munster’s place in the next county. The son, a plain, whey-faced young fellow had taken a fancy to Miranda. “Just think, if I marry the fellow, I shall be Miranda Munster,” she said, making a face. “I wouldn’t mind so much, their place is quite nicer than ours, if ony Master Munster were better looking.” Miranda sighed. “I suppose I shall have to overlook that, however.”

  “He seems quite pleasant to me,” Winnie retorted. “Looks are nothing, can be deceiving, as well you know. I like him,” she added. “He’s tall, and though a bit shallow in the shoulders, has a very nice smile.”

  Miranda looked thoughtful for once. “Yes, there is that. And I suppose one can endure anything if they land in the right circumstance.” Winnie swore she could almost see numbers going around in Miranda’s brain until the poor thing became confused and had to stop. The right circumstance meant, assuming they were to marry, a neat cottage of their own, a handful of proper servants, not like their own household with an odd collection of too old, too young, too infirm, the exception being the most excellent cook. But if Miranda’s dowry had to be got, the shortcomings of Winnie’s household must wait until that was settled. Still, events were proceeding apace. Miranda’s face took on an odd expression as she looked into space and sighed with regret. “If only he weren’t so plain. You remember that dance we went to a month ago? A fellow there, ooh, he made me almost drool, he was so handsome.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Oh, never mind, Winnie,” Miranda said, waving her hand dismissively. “You wouldn’t remember him, anyway, your nose is always in a book. Came to call twice since the dance, but Mum and Da will have none of him.” She’d allowed the fellow to sneak a kiss, just to compare it to one of Melville Munster’s, and it was so marvelous. His firm mouth moving with urgency against hers, she allowed him to do the same a couple more times, maybe three, maybe more, and allowed him to press against her until they heard her mother coming and broke apart, returning to their places across from one another, Miranda’s face hot and her heart threatening to thump out of her chest. She looked across at him. He was grinning, the brown eyes shining with heat for her. She ducked her head and felt a smile widen her mouth irresistibly. Alas, however, there could be no more of that. Her father had shown Lance Brevard out the door. Miranda longed to confide to someone, just not to her younger sister, what else had happened: she had slipped out of the house on two occasions, and there had been the exchange of more than a few kisses, a nibble on the ear and neck until she was nearly swooning, his hand caressing her breasts and then a hand moving up from the bottom of her skirts to touch her in secret places. Just to think of it made her knees almost give way. His little seduction had made Miranda feel boneless and weak as a kitten, but she became afraid for her virtue and had the sense at last to break it off before something dire happened.

  “Again, I like Melville.” Winne spoke again, interrupting Miranda’s wayward thoughts. “He’s sturdy in the head, knows all sorts of things. He reads, too.”

  Miranda frowned. She wasn’t interested in a man’s head or whether he could read. Those might be Winnie’s priorities, but not her own. “Then you ought to marry him, squirt.” Miranda cast her eyes on her sister with a malicious smile and a lifting of the chin. “When are you going to grow breasts, for heaven’s sake? You’re so skinny, you could pass for a boy.”

  The little speech made Winnie squirm. It was another reason Winnie hadn’t wanted to go away. Her dresses were not as nice as Miranda’s since the parents hadn’t wanted an outlay of any sort until they figured out how much the dowry of their elder daughter would come to. Winnie guessed her own breasts would develop in time. At least she prayed it was so. And she disliked intensely Miranda’s bringing it up, the matter of Winnie’s shapeless form compared to that of her nicely endowed sister. “I wish I had been born a boy,” she grumbled. “At least then, Mum and Da might take notice of me.”

  “What’s that you say?” Miranda asked, staring at the comely face in her mirror and giving her sleek red-brown hair a pat.

  Winnie gave up with a shake of her head. “Never mind.” And that was the end of it. But now, the very next evening, she was in Melanie’s much superior bed and room, luxuriating in the feather mattress and plumped pillows. In short order, she was so sound asleep she didn’t hear the new sounds that blended in with the creaks of the house and noise of blowing wind outside.

  Lance Brevard’s hand trembled as he turned the knob of the door to his beauty’s room. He gulped and took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was a big move, stealing away a girl to marry her. Fortified with drink before making the trip, his head might not be as clear as it should be. A short trip across the border into Scotland, and he would be married! Lance stepped into the room, and there was just enough light from the moon filtering into the room that he could make out the form of his love in the bed. He motioned to Jaren, whispering besides in case his friend couldn
’t see the movement of his hand toward the clothes press. It was Jaren’s assignment to collect clothes from there and the chest of drawers across the way, close enough to the window for Jaren to recognize as Lance motioned again. Jaren nodded, and Lance moved toward the bed. “Right, my sweet, come to your man now,” he cooed as he slipped his hands beneath the limp form. The form made a noise and came upright slowly, head mixed up but somehow recognizing that she was in some sort of a pickle. Winnie screamed, or thought she did, but suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth. “Quiet now, Beauty, we’ll soon be quit of this place.” When the words wound in and out of Winnie’s ears from one side of her brain to the other, she shuddered and came awake at once. She tried screaming again, but the hand made the sound come out muted, so it sounded like a moan of despair. “Now, don’t make trouble for us, Love,” Lance cautioned. It was clear to him that the girl was in a fright. Whatever was the matter with her? He managed finally to wrap her, rolling her into the covers like a caterpillar in a cocoon, so even what speech she was capable of at last was muffled. “Jaren, are you quite finished?”

  “Drawers all cleaned out, top swept clear, me arms full of dresses, aye,” he replied softly.

  “Lead the way. She’s light as a feather, and, quick as a bunny, we’d best be on our way,” Lance muttered quietly, reaching into a pocket and leaving a brief note on the chest, letting them know he had taken their daughter to marry, and they’d be in touch in a reasonable length of time, such as ‘after the honeymoon’. Thinking of the pleasure that awaited him, Lance chuckled to himself just before picking up the slender protesting bundle, so closely wrapped Winnie thought she might suffocate. The men stumbled to their waiting carriage, Lance depositing his bride-to-be along one seat of the vehicle. Jaren tossed his load of clothes on top of the moving form, some slithering to the floor. Lance, cooled by the night air, slid his tall frame inside, ducking his head and closing the door firmly while Jaren, his head cleared some, too, leapt by two quick moves onto the driver’s seat. Inside the carriage, suddenly tired, Lance reached under a seat and brought forth a bottle, uncorked it and took two swift slugs, warming his throat. Inside the rolled-up thickness of blanket and coverlet, Winnie was undecided. Afraid to struggle, afraid she might be smothered by using up what air was left, fear took hold of her and she tried to turn herself, finding it even harder to breathe and becoming so frightened she caused herself to faint. The supine form stilled, and her breathing steadied. Had Winnie but known it, her head was just inches below an open end and there was enough air. Not that it mattered to Winnie, out like a lamp.

  It appeared to Lance that his captured lady was sleeping. Reaching out a hand, he gave a little push, then a little tug, but there was no response. After a shrug, he reached under his seat and retrieved a blanket, shivering. It was colder than he’d thought. He hoped his friend would be warm enough up top. Lance squeezed into the seat space, raising one knee and allowing the foot on his other leg to drop to the floor. The roads were much better than he’d hoped so that there was not a lot of jarring back and forth. After a time, warm again, he drifted into sleep.

  They traveled for hours, with Lance’s sleep interrupted once or twice, but since the lady was unresponsive to his questions, he gave up and let it go. Very soon, just as light was peeking over the eastern rim of the known earth, the carriage stopped, and after a moment, Jaren tugged the door open. “We’re here. I’ll just go wake the marryin’ man.” Lance yawned, stretched, and sat up groggily, somewhat disoriented. He brushed the dark blond hair alongside his face and groaned, his stomach rebelling mildly. “Come to Papa, Miranda, my sweet.” He heard her muffled voice, possibly a noise of protest, but he wasn’t sure. “Soon we’ll be man and wife, with all the cheer and satisfactions of that state of life.” God, he was fortunate. His russet-haired wife with her green eyes, lovely white bosom and shapely hips, was his, and there would be a tidy little dowry when they returned to the Alexander household. He was thinking perhaps a thousand pounds, at least five hundred to be sure, enough to see them started in their new home, his home. Blowing out his breath, he bent to collect his prize from the floor of the carriage where she’d fallen, lying both over and under a layer of women’s clothing.

  At the smithy’s shop, two signs hung akimbo alongside the door, one that said ‘marrying here’ beside the other, the name of the smith. He looked at the two newcomers oddly. Lance set his bundle down, holding on just in case his woman was not stable enough to stand on her own, and the smithy frowned before raising his eyebrows and speaking. “Och, there’d be nae funny business here noo, would there be?”

  “No, no,” Lance hurried to assure the fellow and grinned. “We’re just eloping, that’s all. ‘Tis alright, you’ll see.” Carefully holding on to stabilize his love, he unwound the cover and blanket underneath. “See,” he said, looking at the man, his loose hand out toward the girl as if presenting her.

  Lance heard Jaren’s gasp and turned sharply to him. Jaren’s mouth was gaping,

  his eyes stretched so wide the whites showed all around. “Good God, Lance, is that yer bride?”

  “Huh?” Lance turned and squinted at the girl at the center of three men. Winnie was shivering and obviously scared out of her wits. “Jesu! What the hell?” After staring, he gave the girl a shake. “Where’s Miranda?”

  “She…she…” Winnie’s teeth were chattering, and she fought down the urge to scream, biting on her lower lip to keep her emotions in check. “She’s gone to the Munster household, along with Mum and Da and a couple of the servants.” It suddenly occurred to her what had transpired. “Please,” she said whisperingly, a sound of desperation in the word, “take me home.”

  “Damn, Lance, what a mess this is. I didn’t feel right about the thing from the start.”

  Lance, his face a mask of dark irritation, rounded on his friend. “Shut up, Jaren.”

  Jaren, whose mouth had snapped shut, opened it in shock. “Don’t tell me to shut up, you slack-brained idjit. ‘Twasn’t my idea.”

  The beefy, black-haired man with a short stubble beard on the lower half of his face looked from one of the men to the other. He felt like laughing but didn’t think he ought to for the poor girl’s sake. But they’d got him up early. He might as well wake up the embers to his fire. “Let me know what ye decide, gents.” He left them standing and went inside his shop.

  Lance was downcast, shaking his head. “Hell’s blood, Jaren, I can’t marry this girl.”

  At the deeply perplexed look on Lance’s face, Jaren began laughing so hard he doubled over, and Lance’s face suffused with bitter anger. “I’ll marry the leetle girl, Lance. She don’t look so bad to me,” he joked. The girl couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. “How old are you, sweet face?” Winnie looked from one to the other bewildered, the covers slipping from nearly bare shoulders. She grabbed for the blanket to cover herself quickly. The place was cold, wherever they were.

  “Don’t be more stupid than you already are, man. Now what will we do?”

  Jaren scowled, his forehead knitting in several deepening valleys. “I don’t like ye callin’ me stupid, Lance. It weren’t me who picked out the bride,” he said, jutting out his chin.

  An angry Lance let go of Winnie. “Shut up, Jaren.” He swore rather prolifically.

  “Will not shut up,” Jaren said, his thin voice cracking. He reached over and gave Lance a shove.

  “Hey, you, don’t be shoving me!” Lance glared at Jaren and hit him straight on the shoulder with his fist. Jaren grabbed his injured arm. Damn, that hurt.

  “I’ve jest about had it with yer high and mighty manner.” Jaren drew his hand into a ball and shot it directly at Lance. Lance ducked and the fist struck Winnie on the chin. Both men gasped as Winnie started slipping to the ground, caught quickly by Jaren. “Poor leetle innocent.”

  When Winnie woke up on the smithy’s floor, it was to find three red-faced men bending over watching, their breaths stinking with drink. “Well, about
time, too,” one of them said, his head weaving in and out, back and forth in her vision. Another man, the big beefy one, burped loudly then laughed.

  “Ne’er hae I seen anythin’ like it. Good mornin’ tae ye, missus.”

  Winnie felt awful, aching everywhere, cold, hungry, and thirsty. “What happened?”

  Jaren giggled. “Ye’re a married lady, now.”

  “Wha…what?” Her head hurt like no ache she’d ever had there before, and her eyes were trying to focus without much success.

  “Yep. We drew straws. All three of us.” Jaren raised two hands, his body swaying back and forth. On one hand he held up two fingers, on the other, four.

  “You can’t be serious!” she said with a dry throat, her lips feeling as if they might crack. She moistened them quickly with her tongue. “Why, you’re all drunk! I insist on being taken home at once!”

  “Er, Ri…right this way, Madame,” Lance said, bending over and nearly falling with the wide sweep of the hat in his hand. With a deeply bemused expression, he looked at the smith. “Thank you for your, ah, your service,” he said with a little laugh, stumbling on his feet, “not, not to mention some of the best whiskey I ev…ever tasted.”

  “My pleasure,” the smith picked up a piece of paper, handed it to Lance who frowned at the letter-sized document, folded it with hands that seemed not to coordinate with each other, and tucked the thing into his waistcoat with some difficulty. “Will ye gents be able to find yer way home?”

  “Right as rain,” Jaren said. “Horses all rested…” the balance of what he was going to say was lost as he made his way on an uneven path to the coach just outside the smithy’s door. Once there, he turned around. “Ye comin’ Lance?”

  Lance held up an unsteady hand. “Sure. I’m come…coming.”

  His foot on the step, ready to climb into the carriage, he turned at the sound of the smithy’s voice. “Wait. Air ye nae forgettin’ something?” Lance looked, frowned, and shook his head. Winnie stared unbelieving at first Lance, then the smith, then back to Lance. They were going to leave her, the drunken sots! A sob escaped from her, then Winnie began to cry. Quick as you please with a look of alarm as he finally understood their intention through the fog of liquor in his own brain, the smith scooped her up in the covers and walked unsteadily to the carriage just as Lance reached out to close the door, which met her head. She cried out and the smith used his elbow to shove the door open, deposited Winnie on the floor of the carriage and shut the door with a firm push, stepped back and nearly lost his balance before steadying himself. Already the sun showed it was well past noon, Winnie thought disconsolately as Lance rested his feet on Winnie, and, once the coach took off, he fell asleep and began snoring.