“And why pray tell, it that,” he asked somewhat slighted.
“Because if you knew everything about me, you’d eventually find me boring.”
“Boring! Good God woman.” Garren exclaimed incredulously. “When you are as unpredictable as the wind, when your logic follows a path all its own and when you can make my heart spin faster than a carriage wheel how could you ever believe I could find you boring?”
Thora reached up to his hair weaving her fingers into the silken, chestnut locks and gently urged his head down until their lips were a breath apart, “I think you ask too many questions, my lord,” she softly murmured then pressed her lips to his. She and Garren rode back to the manor without uttering another word.
Chapter 11
On the day of her wedding, Thora awoke early. Unlike most brides, she didn’t have the normal flutter of butterflies in her stomach and that she owed to Nyle. Being raised by a brother, Thora had always been taught to keep things simple and to always be on time.
For her wedding dress, she selected an elegant gown, one she had never worn. She had purchased it in London on, unknown to her, the very day Nyle had gone to see Garren. It was an ivory silk gown with small puffed sleeves. Its only embellishment was a trim of white, baby ostrich feathers on her scoop-necked bodice. She wore her mother’s diamond necklace and matching teardrop earrings.
Molly had coiled her hair in an intricate braid atop her head, which was held in place by her most precious possession—the pearl and diamond hair comb Ivey had gifted her. Wearing the comb gave her the feeling that in some way her friend was with her, watching over her. Without a mother to insist on all the traditional wedding trivialities, it was a tearful Molly who supplied her with the customary sixpence to put inside her shoe for good luck.
“Oh, miss, Mannington Manor won’t be the same without you!”
Thora hugged her maid. “I’m sure my brother will say it will be a lot more peaceful.” She took Molly hands in her own. “Do see that he’s taken care of.”
“I’ll do my best, miss,” Molly promised.
Thora was putting on her gloves when there was a light tap on her door. Nyle. Punctual as always, he had come up to tell her the carriage to take her to the church was ready and it was time to be on their way.
When Nyle entered his sister’s room and saw Thora standing in her wedding gown, he swallowed hard. At that moment he sensed what every father must feel on the day of his daughter’s wedding, a mixture of pride, happiness, and a touch of sadness. Pride at seeing that the girl he raised had blossomed into a beautiful woman, happiness seeing the joy in her eyes that she had found her true love, and sadness that she would be leaving his home and protection to go to another. His eyes started to mist as he went over to Thora and placed a kiss on her forehead.
“You look beautiful. Garren is a lucky man,” he told her, his voice cracking.
“He most certainly is,” Thora replied with a snicker, breaking Nyle’s poignant mood and causing him to give a hardy laugh.
If anyone had butterflies in their stomach, it was Garren. To those inside the church who had gathered early for the wedding, Lord Huntscliff was a typical groom. Standing next to the vicar, he nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, repeatedly pulled out his pocket watch to check the time, and turned his head more than a few times to the rear of the church to glance at the open doors leading into the church. Inside the church, Garren took his place at the front and checked his watch. Knowing what a stickler Nyle was for punctuality, Thora would not be fashionably late for her wedding. In five minutes, Thora would be walking into the church. Only five minutes to endure this torturous, nerve-racking wait. To pass time, he looked out over the seated guests.
Lord and Lady Langless were there with their daughters. The youngest, Miss Emily, smiled up at him, which momentarily helped to put him at ease. Her older sister, Lady Floris, was sitting with Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, who seemed to be gazing at the church’s stained-glass windows, undoubtedly ready to give the young woman a detailed description of the artist who crafted it.
Lord Avery Flemington, looking proud as a peacock, was sitting with his betrothed, Lauryn, and his future mother-in-law, the Lady Mayfield.
Sitting alone and off to the side was a smirking Mason, who was no doubt took great pleasure in seeing his beaded brow.
He started to check his watch again when he heard it. Starting at the back of the church and working its way upward to the altar, a murmur arose. He turned and spied a young boy in the church’s open doorway who suddenly turned and raced up the side aisle to the organist. After the youngster whispered a few words into the man’s ear, the organist began to play.
Garren’s heart gave a nervous jump. Thora was here. At last, his wait was over. The assembly of guests rose and turned in their pews to see the bride. His bride. Garren took in a quick breath as he watched Nyle lead her into the church. God, she looked beautiful! Walking slowly down the carpeted center aisle, her hand resting her on Nyle’s arm, she smiled at the guests. When finally their eyes met, calmness washed over him.
It was a proud Nyle who presented his sister and then stepped aside to sit in one of the front pews. Garren could feel his own chest swelling as he took Thora’s delicate hand in his.
As he and Thora softly spoke their vows, a darkly clad figure stealthily entered the church and slipped unnoticed behind one of its pillars.
To Thora, the ceremony seemed to go on forever, with the vicar taking advantage of a nearly full church to deliver a seemingly unending sermon. Her ebbing patience was bolstered when she sneaked a peek up at Garren, who smiled and gave her a playful wink.
When the ceremony concluded, Thora discovered that Garren was far more traditional than she expected, following the church’s custom not to kiss his bride. Instead, he leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“Later, my love, and often.”
His words brought more color to her cheeks than if he had kissed her. As she turned to walk back down the aisle with her husband, Thora was smiling so broadly her lips began to ache.
She and Garren were now man and wife, and Thora knew her life had changed forever. While the organist was busy putting away his music, the darkly cloaked figure silently emerged from its hiding place. Keeping a safe distance so as not to be seen, the lone figure trailed behind the happy procession.
The path to the vicarage’s well-tended garden was a short one. The Mannington manor servants had done an impressive job of setting up the linen-covered tables and arranging the chairs. Baskets and vases of white roses were everywhere. Servants carrying silver trays filled with glasses of champagne mingled among the arriving wedding guests. Others stood soldier stiff behind the food-laden tables, ready to serve the wedding breakfast, which consisted of sliced lamb with jelly, ham and egg tarts, sausages and potatoes, crispy bacon salad with brown bread and butter, and asparagus and wild mushrooms.
When all the guests had been served a glass of champagne Nyle called for their attention. With his eyes resting on the newly married couple, he raised his glass for the wedding toast. “To Thora and Garren may your future be filled with unending love, good health and happiness. Any difficulties you face may they be few, may your coffers always stay full and your children_” he paused then with a grin and a playful wink to Thora added, “and may your children favor their mother, because, Garren, you know the Mannington side of the family have always been the better looking.” While the guests chuckled and Garren pretended to be slighted, Nyle softly whispered, “Bless you both.” Then drained his glass. The guests drank to the toast, then, gathered around the newlywed couple offering their own best wishes.
After accepting the well-wishers congratulations, Garren turned to his new bride, “Darling, please excuse me a moment. I have something for the vicar,” he said, slipping a thickly stuffed envelope from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He left her side and cut a path through the sea of guests to find the vicar. While Thora gaily chatted with Floris and Lauryn, she turned to take a ham and egg tart from one of the trays the servants were carrying. Gazing across the garden, her eyes fell lovingly on Garren. How handsome he was—so tall, so well formed, so charming as he spoke with the vicar.
Then his face changed and his lips stopped moving. The vicar was staring at him oddly. Something was wrong. Thora could see the alarm in his eyes. Garren started to run toward her, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were locked on something or someone else. Following the line of her husband’s gaze, she saw a strange figure cloaked in black from head to toe. The stranger was weaving swiftly between the guests. She watched Garren run toward the stranger who seemed to be headed directly . . . Oh God, the cloaked figure was moving toward Nyle!
Instinct told her whoever it was meant her brother harm.
Her eyes darted toward Garren. He was fighting his way through the guests while the mysterious figure moved closer to Nyle. He’d never reach the figure in time. She had to do something.
Startling the guests around him, Garren shouted for her to get down. Breaking the vow of obedience she had taken only moments before, Thora hiked up the skirts of her wedding gown and sprinted toward her brother, who stood a few yards away. Nyle looked at her with puzzlement in his eyes, oblivious to the dark figure racing toward him.
Thora was almost within arm’s length of her brother when she saw the figure draw something from under its cloak. Something silver and shiny. A gun! Aimed directly at Nyle’s back.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Garren closing the gap between him and the figure, but would he be able to make it in time? Fearing her husband wouldn’t be able to stop the uninvited cloaked stranger, she stretched her legs further, straining her muscles to their limit.
Dear God
, she prayed,
please let me reach Nyle. Just one more—
Bang!
At the same moment, Thora threw herself on Nyle, seizing his jacket tightly in her hands. Her momentum spun them around and they crashed to the ground. She felt a forceful breeze whiz through the puffed sleeve of her gown as she toppled onto Nyle, his hard body cushioning her fall. Around her, a flood of noise filled the air, shouts and screams and running footsteps, then an unnerving quiet.
Thora looked into Nyle’s befuddled face. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Nyle answered, sliding out from beneath her to stand. Reaching down, he took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Where did that shot come from?” he asked, his gaze darting around.
Thora was too numb with fear to reply. She searched through the people gathered around them for Garren. Her heart rose to her throat when she didn’t see him. A short distance away, people had formed a circle and she could read the shock in their eyes. Following Nyle as he shouldered his way through the tight ring of onlookers, Thora gasped at seeing Garren on the ground grappling with the black-cloaked figure. With surprising ease, Garren was able to subdue the uninvited guest.
Hauling the figure to its feet, he ripped off the dark cloak.
The guests and Thora gave a gasp.
Cecilia’s mother, Lady Boothwell! For a moment, no one spoke. They looked on in disbelief as the wild-eyed Lady Boothwell, dressed all in black mourning clothes, kicked and spat at the man restraining her. She was like a wild animal gone rabid.
With a frightening shrill, she turned on Nyle, screaming, “It’s all your fault my Cecilia is dead. This wedding should have been my daughter’s. It’s all because of you my Cecilia is dead!”
Leaving Nyle’s side, Thora ran to her husband, “Oh, Garren,” she cried and threw herself into his arms.
“Thora, thank God you’re safe,” he said, catching her in his arms and holding her close. He kissed the top of her head and, with a protective arm around her waist, led her back to Nyle.
Nyle’s face still showed his shock. “Why would she want to kill me? How on earth could she hold me to blame for her daughter’s death?”
“Grief can be overwhelming,” Garren said. “When harbored too long, it can destroy a person’s mind. Sometimes the only way to escape it is to channel it into anger and then direct that anger at someone or something. I’m afraid Lady Boothwell was one of those people. From her crazed ranting, I gathered that she attributed her daughter’s death to your rejection of Cecilia, thinking that had you married Cecilia, she would have been spared her fate.”
Nyle shook his head in disbelief. The woman had indeed lost all reason.
Suddenly, Nyle became aware of the silence surrounding them. A quick survey of the guests found stunned faces staring back at him. The wedding guests, servants, even the musicians stood motionless like figures in a painting. All caught by the same awkward uncertainty, should they leave or stay, yet no one willing to be the first to ask. Dragging a chair into the center of the garden, Nyle hopped upon it. “Everyone, listen to me,” he commanded. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a crazed woman ruin my sister’s wedding!” Stooping, he snatched a glass of champagne off tray held by one of the idle servants put it to his lips and drank it down. Finished, he threw the glass down, shattering it on the ground, startling a few of the female guest, then, quickly picked up another. “I ask you to join me for I have two reasons to celebrate today. First, my sister’s marriage to my good friend Lord Huntscliff,” he paused briefly to give Thora and Garren a grateful glance, “and, secondly, thanks to their swift actions, my life.” As he raised his glass anew a cheer rose up from within the gathering breaking the somber mood. Nyle drained his glass then, smiling, he said, “This is a celebration, so stack your plates, drink your fill but most important enjoy yourselves. I for one, intend to do my share!” Harmony restored, the earl signaled the musicians and they immediately began playing a lively tune. Nyle jumped from his post directing one of the servant to remove the chair to make way for couples, who encouraged by his words began to dance. He, then, joined Thora and Garren.
Lord Flemington with a protective and guiding hand on Lauryn’s arm steered the way through the twirling dancers over to the trio. “Lady Thora, I mean, Lady Huntscliff, thank goodness you’re unharmed,” Lord Flemington said.
Hearing her title said aloud for the first time warmed Thora’s heart.
“She may be unscathed but her gown wasn’t as fortunate,” Lady Lauryn said, pointing to the bullet hole that ripped through the sleeve of her gown.
Studying the round, powder-burned hole in the sleeve of her dress, Thora gave a quaint smile. “This will make quite a story to tell my grandchildren. And should they think it’s only a fairy tale, all I’ll have to do is show them my gown!”