Page 4

T he morning of his wedding day dawned bright and full of promise if the light streaming through the windows could be trusted. He should be happy, or at least relieved. Crispin closed his eyes again and struggled to control his rising dread. Today was the biggest gamble of his life and he couldn’t afford to come up short.

Calm down, old boy , he told himself, forcing his eyes open as he tossed his blankets aside and swung his feet to the floor. Birdy Carmody and her father were hardly the biggest problems in his life. He always knew he’d marry, eventually. It was just happening much sooner than he’d imagined. Sooner, as in today. This morning. In exactly three hours. Shit .

“Butters!” he called out for his valet, Mr. Butterworth. “I’ll need a bath.”

“Already heating the water,” Butters replied as he deposited a tray with coffee, toast, and jam on the bedside table. “The tub has been delivered,” he said, nodding to the corner of the room where a copper tub rested next to a stack of folded flannels. “Will you be wanting rashers and eggs?”

“No.” Crispin rubbed his empty stomach and stretched. “The way I’m feeling, I’d better wait until the wedding breakfast for something hardier than toast.”

“Will you be needing a vinaigrette for your nerves, sir?” Butters asked, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Cheeky,” Crispin admonished. “The coffee will be fine, mother hen.”

“What suit shall I prepare while you bathe? Might I suggest a tailcoat?”

“Something respectful but not outrageous. It’s St. Marylebone, not Westminster Abbey.”

“Should you seek escape, my lord, I can have a fast horse in the alley within the hour.”

“Escape? Why should I seek escape? What have I done to give you that impression?”

“You don’t appear to be pleased about the upcoming festivities. In truth, sir, you’ve been acting queer for the past two weeks. I’m concerned, that’s all.”

“I will not be escaping to anywhere, Butters. I am eager, nay, happy to make Miss Carmody my wife.” He’d not once thought of how the people who knew him best would interpret his rash behavior of late. The simple act of asking for a second to stand at the altar with him was met with loud guffaws, as if this marriage wasn’t a matter of life and death. With such short notice, they would naturally think he’d anticipated the vows and was now being forced to marry. Shit .

“Of course, milord. I hear the footmen coming up the stairs with the water now. I’ll see to a suitable ensemble while you bathe.”

Damn . He was going to be late for his own wedding. If his coachman couldn’t pick up the pace, he’d jump out and sprint the last few blocks. Leaning his head out the window to discern the cause of their stagnation, Crispin was surprised to see his father’s carriage pull up alongside them.

He’d been notified of the nuptials, but Crispin never thought he’d attend the ceremony. They might share a principal residence in Town, but they hadn’t been on the best of terms in the two years since Mary-Alice’s forced marriage. The only explanation he’d given his father for the rushed nature of his nuptials was that his intended was an American heiress whose family needed to return to their homeland. Nodding his head at the word ‘heiress,’ his father never bothered to ask for more information.

If the man was coming to start trouble, he’d find Hardy Carmody a formidable opponent. The thought of her father facing off with his over the altar almost made him smile. Hardy would filet his father with words before his father could form the perfect cutting insult.

He would bring her no shame by being disrespectful at the ceremony. Birdy deserved a good and proper wedding with a happy groom standing beside her. Happiness could be faked. Faking love and devotion was a matter to be dealt with after the ceremony.

“I’ll see you there,” he called up to his coachman as he sprang from the carriage and sprinted to St. Marylebone. His father was the least of his worries today.

Grabbing his second by the arm as he ran up the aisle, he gave his friend a hurried explanation along the way.

“My father’s here. Keep him in line.”

“Wasn’t he expected?” Crispin’s old school chum and frequent gambling partner, Callum Mumford, asked. “I find it more concerning that your sister’s husband came. I thought you despised the man.”

“Dunwoody’s here? At my wedding?” Crispin looked wildly around the room, trying to spot his foe. Dunwoody hadn’t been invited, but Crispin wouldn’t put it past his father to have arranged his presence.

Dunwoody must now know his wife didn’t perish as he’d planned. If he were looking for her here, he’d be disappointed. Mary-Alice had been quietly escorted from Town and hopefully out of her husband’s clutches sometime late last night.

Birdy had to be protected. She must never know his true purpose in marrying her. His wife-to-be saved his sister’s life, even if she didn’t know it, and he’d be indebted to her for the rest of his. Mumford could handle his father and even a blackguard like Dunwoody was no match for Birdy’s father. Crispin’s purpose today was to marry Birdy and then keep her safe and happy.

The ceremony started only ten minutes late, giving him time to warn Mumford and Carmody that there was likely to be trouble. Turning his attention from the guests to his bride, Crispin stumbled over his own feet at the sight of her and reached out to steady himself on the edge of a pew. The bold, brave woman he’d gotten a glimpse of in the Black Widow’s office showed up to remind everyone who she was.

He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, but no one would forget her again after today. Whether in tribute or as an act of defiance, Birdy wore the attire of her mother’s people. Her dark, shiny hair was styled into two long, simple braids and adorned with nothing save for a few feathers and strings of beads attached with leather bands.

Her gown was a work of art. Her butter-soft buckskin dress was adorned with beads, shells, and tiny, hammered silver bells that jingled with her every step. With her legs sheathed in leather stockings and feet in heavily-beaded moccasins, she stood tall at the altar with her head held high. This was her statement, and she deserved to make it.

No matter what happened today with Dunwoody, guests would only remember Birdy and her gown. Lady Godiva could ride through naked as a jay and no one would notice. It was brilliant.

Dunwoody could go hang. There was nothing to see here except Birdy Carmody, soon-to-be Birdy Morgan. He’d forgotten to breathe, and Crispin gulped in a steadying breath before stepping forward to offer his arm.

Presented with a wink by Hardy Carmody, Crispin had just enough time to glance out to the crowd to find his enemy. Dunwoody was dressed for mourning with a black armband, and his face was red with fury.

“Dearly beloved,” the reverend shouted out before Crispin could greet Birdy properly and apologize for his tardiness. There was no time now, there was no way forward without this marriage taking place. There were so many things he should have said to her. Fairly difficult to express his gratitude when he couldn’t share the details of his dilemma. Instead, he wasted their one meeting with banalities.

“We are gathered together here in the sight of God,” the reverend continued before clearing his throat. “And in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

Shuffling his feet that had suddenly begun to sweat, Crispin swallowed hard. He didn’t even know if Birdy’s people believed in God. His eternal soul might be damned to hell for it, but he’d do what he could to save Birdy and his sister from harsh judgment. He turned to Birdy and smiled his reassurance.

“If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace,” the reverend read dully, and Crispin’s heart stopped as commotion erupted behind him.

“I protest most vigorously,” a familiar voice called out. “The groom has no honor! He’s a resurrectionist!”

Dunwoody might have said more, but the sound of Hardy Carmody clamping his hand down on Dunwoody’s shoulder rang out like a thunderclap.

“He’s stolen my wife’s body. God only knows for what nefarious purpose…” Dunwoody’s voice stopped mid-rant as his face contorted with pain. Whatever Carmody was doing to the man’s shoulder was having a stupefying effect.

“The poor fellow is obviously overcome with grief,” Carmody announced with a pitying smile as he pulled Dunwoody into his broad chest, effectively shutting him up. “As a widower myself, I believe I can counsel the bereaved. We’ll find a quiet place to pray while you carry on here.” Keeping Dunwoody’s face smashed against his chest, Carmody managed to look reverential as he quickly hustled the man from the church.

“May we continue?” Crispin asked, as he heard the doors close behind them.

“That is a most serious charge,” the reverend replied with a scowl as he lowered his prayer book.

“I have come a long way to marry this man,” Birdy spoke up. “The sacrament of marriage will not be tarnished by a baseless charge hurled in anger by an unrepentant sinner.”

The reverend’s mouth fell open, and he gaped like a fish for an uncomfortable length of time. But her words spurred his resolve, and as his attention snapped back to his prayer book, he cleared his throat to speak.

Crispin fought the urge to kiss Birdy’s cheek, pull her close, and tell her how beautiful she was and how much he admired her bravery. Until the ceremony was over, he could do nothing but smile and nod.

“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” the reverend asked, looking to Crispin expectantly.

“I will,” Crispin answered loudly so no one would ever wonder.

When asked the same question, Birdy turned to him before speaking. Her dark eyes met his and burrowed into his soul as if examining his feelings. Let her look, he told himself. Open the gates, lower defenses, let her see that I will honor her and do her no harm.

“I will,” she said at last. “ Debwetaw .”

The reverend stumbled a bit on his next passage as if thrown off his cadence by the unfamiliar word. Crispin had no clue what it meant and could only hope it wasn’t a curse.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asked dryly.

“I sure do.” Hardy Carmody, red-faced but unscathed, called out as he ran back up the aisle. “Take good care of my Nenokaasi, or I’ll take her back.”

“What?” The reverend, apparently unaccustomed to any conversation on the topic, harrumphed out his disapproval. To Crispin’s relief, Carmody said nothing more and simply nodded and stepped away. Perhaps he was still on guard for any more Dunwoody antics. He didn’t take a seat but hovered nearby.

The reverend finally continued with the bit about plighting troths that no one had understood since the 1600s. Suddenly aware that his shoulders had tensed up to his ears, Crispin relaxed them slowly and took a deep breath. It was time for the ring.

In the short time he’d had, Crispin gave much consideration to the ring he’d present to Birdy. Knowing his father would balk, he didn’t bother to ask for a ring from his mother’s jewelry collection. A plain gold or platina band might be sufficient for someone accustomed to working with her hands, but Birdy would soon be Lady Morgan and deserved something more.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he repeated when prompted. He slipped the platina ring with three round diamonds on her finger, hoping it would stay put until they could have it properly sized.

A lengthy prayer gave him time to surreptitiously scan the room for any signs of trouble. He could only wonder what Hardy Carmody had done with Lord Dunwoody. Crispin wasn’t na?ve enough to think the maneuver would go unchallenged. There was sure to be a penalty for wrestling a lord of the realm out of a church. Carmody would likely have to escape back to his island.

It didn’t matter; he told himself, Mary-Alice was well away, and he was minutes from being married. With Birdy at his side, he would face the repercussions. Snapping to attention when he realized the prayer had ended, Crispin mumbled out a weak, “Amen.”

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” the reverend said at last. Crispin had attended enough weddings to know while the business at hand was nearly done, there was a long, boring bit to get through before they could sign the register. Prayer, communion, more prayer, singing, and a sermon were still ahead of them.

He’d never considered how Birdy would handle the communion. Had she been baptized in any religion? Could she partake? Would she? Was it too late to ask to skip this part? Damn. He went through the steps by rote, hoping Birdy would just follow along. She must have sensed his nervousness because there was naught but serenity on her face as she performed the church rituals as if she’d been doing them her entire life.

“The Lord mercifully, with his favor look upon you,” the reverend finally said. “And so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

For the first time, he felt Birdy tense next to him. She, like him, realized that the only thing between them and a lifetime of marriage was a signature in a parish ledger. As their small audience stood and shuffled to the door, he and Birdy were directed to the reverend’s office and the open ledger. Scribbling his name while listening for any sign of trouble outside, Crispin tried to imagine what wedded life would be like.

Hesitating with the quill in her hand for a moment, Birdy debated how to sign the register. Should she use her anglicized name, her tribal name, or the spirit name her mother whispered in her ear before she died? There was no tribal elder here to consult. She stepped back and the bells on her skirt chimed, reminding her that her mother’s spirit was with her. When the reverend made a small noise of impatience, she quickly wrote Nenokaasi Carmody and handed the quill back to him.

The one Catholic wedding she’d observed back in Sault Ste. Marie had chanting and incense. Her Anglican service was rather plain in comparison. They might at least have burned a little sage or sweet grass. She’d known better than to suggest it.

“Lady Morgan,” Crispin said with a wide smile, “Shall we be off to the wedding breakfast?”

“I’m famished.” Birdy took his arm, and they walked from the church. Their wedding guests, strangers to her except for her father and one of the wolves from Lyon’s Den, cut loose with a cheer and a smattering of applause as they made their way to their carriage. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was not in attendance but had graciously arranged and paid for a wedding breakfast in a private dining room nearby.

“Who was the bad spirit at our wedding? The one my father had to remove?” She was willing to play ignorant for a while longer. It wasn’t hard to guess his identity once he mentioned the disappearance of his wife. How long, she wondered, did Crispin expect to shelter her from the truth of his situation?

“My sister’s husband,” he said slowly. “Theirs is not a happy union. I apologize for the disruption to our auspicious occasion. He shouldn’t bother you again.”

“He shouldn’t, but he will,” she said, reaching into her leather stocking and pulling her knife out from its hidden sheath. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good Lord, put that thing away. Why do you have that?”

“I sensed a bad spirit and hid it in my stocking.” She could hardly blurt out that she expected trouble because she knew his secrets. Better to pretend some sort of mystical Ojibwe power that no one would question. “That man’s heart is full of malice toward you. I will protect you.”

“Protect me ? I’m supposed to be protecting you .”

“I think,” she said, “that we should protect each other now. Unless we are not truly husband and wife,” she added as she slipped the knife back into her stocking. How long should she wait, she wondered, to give him a chance to tell her the whole truth? He thought he was protecting her when his silence only made them both more vulnerable.

“Of course, you’re my wife.” Crispin followed his declaration by pulling her into his arms and kissing her on the lips. “I’m touched and honored that you’d wish to protect me, but that’s for me to do. You’ll have no need for your weapon.”

Birdy placed a hand upon each smooth-shaved cheek and brought her lips to meet his again, forcing him to slow his nervous movements. She deepened the kiss until his lips softened and his heartbeat matched hers. It was easy, so easy, to press her body against his, to feel his every breath against her breasts. If only it was as easy to get him to open his heart enough to truthfully share his troubles with her.

He pulled his lips away reluctantly when they arrived at the place for the wedding breakfast. Holding on as long as she could, she willed him to trust her, but the embrace ended when the carriage door was thrown open. If today was any indication, his sister’s husband would force Crispin’s hand soon enough. Only then could she reveal what she already knew.

Her wedding breakfast reminded her of the many feast gatherings she’d attended as a child. A table piled high with pastries, merengues, fruits, bread, and meats greeted guests upon entry. Dapper footmen with porcelain plates and silver tongs stood by awaiting their orders. At the far end of the room, another table, decorated with lace and hothouse flowers, held a magnificent cake decorated with sugar paste hummingbirds and catmint blooms.

Covering her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing aloud, Birdy turned to smile at her father. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was obviously paying attention when her father related the story of her birth. The cake was perfect, and she couldn’t help but think that her mother would have loved it.

The lord of bad spirits, as Birdy now thought of him, was not in attendance. Crispin’s friends, Callum Mumford and Arch Davies, stood on either side of the door as sentries. No matter what happened during their meal, Birdy was confident that she and her father were armed and ready for battle.

Their breakfast was a small affair, and she reminded herself that her new husband didn’t have a village eager to rally around every celebration. While polite, Crispin’s small group of friends were clearly curious about her. Her time in Montreal had taught her how to tolerate being stared at when surrounded by those not of her kind.

The only thing for it was to keep her head up, her gaze steady, and to refrain from growling. She would most likely be accused of being stoic, even bored, when she was just trying to govern her face. After the third time, she wondered how many more guests would reach out and tug one of her braids. Her hair did not differ from anyone else’s, and she’d always found pale-skinned people’s fascination with it irritating.

Ugh . Someone had already stolen one of her feathers. A white feather from a snowy owl. To them, it was a curiosity, an oddity to be displayed with a flower arrangement or stuck in a hat brim. How could they not realize each feather had a meaning and was chosen purposefully? She would no sooner touch another person’s feathers than she would pluck out their eye.

Convincing her appetite to make an appearance today was proving difficult. The food looked good, but her body was tensed for a fight. There was a reason war parties left on empty stomachs. Getting rid of Dunwoody for good would be much harder than simply having her father rush the man from the room.

“Birdy,” her new husband whispered, “You’re not eating. Are you well?”

“I am unsettled,” she admitted. These were Crispin’s people; this was Crispin’s celebration. Every shiny white face stared at her with an equal measure of curiosity and distrust. Side glances and narrowed eyes reminded her that she was an outsider. On days like today, it was a heavy burden to bear.

She tried to smile to hide her discomfort. What did she expect? They had not courted; the wedding was rushed, and eyebrows were still raised over Dunwoody’s accusation. Perhaps she was the one being unfair by expecting more hospitality than they were able to give. They don’t even know you; she reminded herself.

She shouldn’t have worn the dress. There was no way to explain to everyone, including her new husband, that marrying an Englishman meant her children wouldn’t sit at the campfire or be lulled into slumber by the sway of a birch tree. She was losing a part of herself today. She wanted everyone to know she was proud to be Ojibwe.

“It’s rather traditional that we cut the cake before it can be served,” Crispin said, placing his hand on her arm. “Shall we do that together?”

“Of course.” It was a beautiful cake. It would be insulting not to eat it after Mrs. Dove-Lyon went to all the trouble of having it made especially for her. There was a smattering of applause from the guests as she and Crispin took their places at the cake table and Birdy felt her cheeks warm.

“Steady on,” Crispin said, placing his hand on her arm. “We could skip this part if you’d rather make our escape now.”

“The cake is too beautiful to waste,” she said, forcing a smile.

“The thing is,” he said, leaning over to whisper, “Today is a joyful celebration. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“You’re quite right,” she replied with a more genuine smile. He was right, of course. Her worry was spoiling it. She reached down into her leather stocking and pulled out her knife. “Let’s cut into that cake.”

“Now you’ve got it.” Crispin rested his hand atop hers on the hilt and they wielded the blade through the confection. While he couldn’t have known it, this was a tradition she was familiar with. While lethal, her knife had a ceremonial hilt that paid homage to her mother and her mother’s people.

Her new husband was proudly standing at her side. Across the room, her father was beaming with love and pride. Her spirit was now light as her missing feather. Somehow, everything was going to be the way it should be. How had this man beside her, a near stranger, lessened her burden with naught but a touch of his hand and a smile?

She and Crispin would make new traditions and mix them with the old. The way it had always been done. This was her life now, and she was going to make the best of it.

“A special piece for you, Father,” she said as she served him a slice. “I know how much you love icing.” She made sure his serving had both a flower and a hummingbird.

“Why, thank you, Lady Morgan.” Her father barely got the words out before he started to laugh. “I always knew you were meant for great things. Your mother knew it too. One drop at a time,” he reminded her.

“Your father looks well pleased,” Crispin remarked when they returned to their seats. “I don’t, however, understand what he meant by ‘one drop at a time.’”

“It’s from an ancient Ojibwe folk tale. One dry summer, a lightning bolt caused a wildfire. The earth and trees burned with fiery orange and yellow flames. The people fled in fear, but the hummingbird flew to a nearby lake to fill its beak with water to douse the flame.”

“A hummingbird’s beak holds a single drop of water.” Crispin sat back and nodded.

“Precisely. One drop at a time, the hummingbird began to put out the flames. When the other animals saw how hard she worked, some mocked her, but some joined in to help. Soon, all the birds and beasts fought the fire any way they could. The hummingbird didn’t stop until all the flame was extinguished. The Great Spirit was so impressed by the little bird he granted her speed and dexterity.”

“One drop at a time,” Crispin repeated. “I must admit, I thought your name a bit odd when I first heard it. But I was an ignorant fool last week. It’s a noble name. You should be proud of it.”

“I am.”