Page 27 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter twenty-one

J ames scanned the bay-side cottage, pleased by the transformation. Despite a fortnight of heavy rains, his mother had swept away the cobwebs and strewn fresh rushes and lavender across the dirt floor. A mat, large enough for two, replaced the ones Thomasse and her father had used.

On the table, he placed his wedding gift.

Upon receiving word that Thomasse had agreed to marry, he had spent many hours carving intricate designs into the chest. He traced the heart-shaped lock with his finger.

A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience; guilt at moving on, guilt that he might forget his first love.

“I am sorry, Becca,” he whispered. “But ’tis time I bid farewell to the life we will never have.” His throat tightened. “Thomasse is a good woman. I just hope I am worthy of her.”

A warmth enveloped his body, and the fragrance of gorse filled the air—the yellow flowers Becca loved. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent, and heard her whisper, “You are worthy.”

He wrapped his arms around himself as if he could embrace her one last time. “I will always love you.”

Taking one last look around, he quit the cottage, shutting the door on his past. When he next opened it, a whole new life would await.

T homasse stared out the window of her chamber. Rain pounded against the windows, and fog made it impossible to see even the green below. In the fortnight since she agreed to wed James, the rain had been unrelenting. It was difficult not to think the storm forebode a troubled future.

Moving to the dressing table, she brushed and braided her hair before the looking glass.

The eyes of a poor working girl stared back at her.

All resemblance to the girl who attended that last party in England had vanished.

She had been so flighty then, gossiping with friends, and believing herself so in love with a man she had hardly thought of since.

She could not imagine ever being so frivolous again.

A knock sounded on the door. “James has arrived,” said a maidservant.

“Tell him I shall be right down,” Thomasse called back.

She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out the blue cotehardie and donned it quickly. There was no special gown for her wedding day, but at least it was not gray.

She took one last look in the mirror. Within the hour, she would be a married woman—her descent from the status of her birth to a permanent servant class complete. She donned her cloak and quit the room.

James waited at the bottom of the stairs. When their eyes met, her breath caught, realizing the implications of this next step. As his wife, he had the right to claim her—the way the pirate had. Bile rose in her throat, and she fought the urge to flee back to her chamber.

James smiled, ascended the stairs, and offered her his arm. “You look lovely.”

She trembled, but she stiffened her spine. This was necessary to keep her position as governess.

She hooked her hand through his arm. As they crossed the great hall, the servants and men-at-arms shouted ribald comments. What seemed like harmless fun at other weddings only magnified her fears.

On the half-hour walk to St. Ouen’s Parish Church, they dodged raindrops and skirted the large puddles formed by two weeks of relentless rain.

At the church, they stood on the porch and declared their vows—just her and James before God. She had insisted upon marrying here, for it felt sacrilegious to proclaim themselves married anywhere else.

“I take thee, Thomasse, to be my lawfully wedded wife.” James’s mouth ticked as he pushed the ring he had carved onto her finger .

Thomasse’s thoughts tumbled. What did he find so funny about marrying her?

He brushed back a strand of her wet locks. “Look at us, dripping wet. Probably the most sodden bride and groom the parish has ever known.”

Water pooled on the stone threshold beneath their feet. A droplet trickled down James’s forehead and hung off the tip of his nose. Thomasse smiled, then laughed, truly laughed for the first time in months. Her heart soared, for she had oft wondered if she would ever laugh again.

James leaned in to kiss her. Her first instinct was to draw back, but they had just exchanged vows. He was entitled to seal their union with a kiss. His lips touched hers, soft and gentle.

Her stomach fluttered, just as it had in times past. All those feelings she had suppressed burst forth anew.

She sighed contentedly as his arms encircled her waist and drew her close.

Of their own accord, her hands travelled along his muscular chest, moving upward until her fingers intertwined in his hair, her whole body begging for the kiss to deepen.

“Let me take you home,” James said, his voice husky.

Not sure where that was, she chose to trust.

Hand in hand, they strolled along the shoreline of St. Ouen’s Bay, stopping to share passionate kisses and dance in the rain.

They headed toward the hills and stopped at the doorway of the bay-side cottage.

All her newfound happiness drained away.

She stared at James, soaking wet, and suddenly it was not him standing there, but the pirate.

She yanked her hand away. “Why did you bring me here?”

“This is our home,” James replied, his voice wavering.

“No!” Thomasse stumbled back as the world spun around her. “I—I will not go in there!”

James looked perplexed. “Where else should we go? The stable?”

“Take me to the manor house,” she choked out.

“As you wish,” James replied, his words clipped.

She ran along the path leading over the hillock to the manor house. She opened the door and slammed it in James’s face without a word. Once in her chamber, she barred the door.

Fists clenched, she paced the room. How could he do this to her? He knew what had happened there. Behind the door of the bay-side cottage lay the memories she was desperate to bury. How long would that one ordeal cast its shadow over her future?

J ames stormed down the path to the stable. What had possessed him to think Thomasse would ever return his love? That she would make a good wife? ’Twas the way of the gentry to toy with the hearts of those deemed beneath them.

He had taken the risk, opened his heart, and she had played him for a fool—returning his kiss after their vows, laughing with him in the rain, making him believe her regard for him.

But it was all a farce. When the time came to truly become man and wife, she had rejected him—cruelly and without hesitation.

Was she in her chamber now, laughing at him, despising the love he had so eagerly bestowed?

He saddled the roan and pressed the mare into a canter, heedless of the muddy roads. He rode toward St. Helier, for every other pathway was tainted with memories—her easy laugh, stolen kisses amongst the trees, holding her in her moment of deepest despair.

The wind whipped his cloak and his hands tightened on the reins as he nudged the roan into a gallop. All the hours he had spent carving the chest, imagining their future together, had just been folly on his part.

The seigneur and Thomasse should be satisfied. Their marriage secured her respectability. Only he was left to pay the price for foolishly risking his heart.

T he next morning, when Thomasse entered the schoolroom, she found Philippe seated on the window ledge, basking in the sunshine .

“Good morning,” he smiled brightly. “The sun finally shines today.”

Unbidden, her eyes welled. It was anything but a good morning, the turmoil of the previous day’s emotions still unsettled.

Philippe slid off the ledge and stepped toward her. “Are you unwell?”

She turned away and dashed a hand across her cheek. It would not do for Philippe to see her cry. “Never better. Let us begin your lessons.”

“You might as well tell me for the servants gossip,” Philippe said. “It is better if I hear it from you.”

She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose, then extended the hand bearing the wedding band James had placed there only yesterday.

His eyes widened. “What? When? Who?”

“James and I married yesterday at St. Ouen’s Parish Church.”

“Really? I did not know you were betrothed.”

“Your father insisted.” A tear slid down her cheek. “If I refused, he would dismiss me as your governess.”

Philippe frowned. “Why would my father do that?”

“You may be too young to understand—what happened at Christmas—there was little chance I would ever marry.” She sighed. “I should be grateful James agreed.”

“You make marriage sound horrible. So, why marry at all?”

Thomasse placed a hand over her belly. “Because I am with child.”

“Then I must congratulate you.”

She shook her head. “Please do not. I must accept that life has trampled on my dreams. I have paid dearly for the sins of my father.”

Philippe wrapped his arms around her. “What did he do that you should suffer so?”

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Penna glided into the room, dressed in an emerald riding habit and white wimple. “Thomasse, I require Philippe’s company.”

“Of course, Demoiselle.” Thomasse curtsied, then busied herself with organizing the books on the table.

“Come, Philippe.” Penna beckoned for him to follow, then paused at the door. “You are dismissed for the day. ”

Thomasse escaped to her chamber, grateful to be spared the need to answer Philippe’s question. Besides, she needed time to think. In the light of the sunny morning, she regretted her treatment of James. How could he know the sight of the bay-side cottage would send her reeling?

No one seemed to understand. Even Penna, though compassionate at first, soon acted as though the incident should be behind her—unaware that a word or gesture could provoke memories, sending her back into the cottage, reliving the nightmare.

Perhaps she possessed some flaw of character that made it impossible to let go and move forward.

That was not James’s fault. He had always been kind—gentle—patient. Maybe, if she confided her deepest secrets, he would understand. But speaking them aloud would be humiliating.

She could never tell him how at night she sometimes woke from a nightmare to the feel of the pirate’s rough hands in places no man had touched before.

Or the wicked smile on the pirate’s face when he perceived he had stolen her virtue—the gift that should have belonged to James.

The guilt that it was her fault. She had invited him into the cottage. That somehow she had led the pirate to believe she desired it.

How when people looked at her she felt like the word harlot was tattooed on her forehead.

Of how she felt—tarnished, broken, and unlovable.

If he knew it all, knew her shame—could he ever stand to look at her again?