Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn Read Free Book Online Page B

stones of the street before the church.
    This was worse than absurd, this was madness, Brien told herself, pulling her cloak tighter about her. She was considering climbing straight back into the carriage, when the church door swung open and a skirted figure stepped into the open doorway.
    “Hullo?” The man braced himself against the doorframe. “Are you the ones come to get m-married?”
    Brien hesitated and after a moment Ella stepped into the void.
    “I’m th’ one that come t’ see ye earlier, Vicar. My employer . . .
    she’s come t’ speak vows an’ get proper wedded.”
    The man edged out into the meager light of the streetlamps to reveal a disheveled split collar and rumpled cassock. It was indeed the vicar of the parish who was leaning against the doorframe, dabbing his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief. He mumbled something that may have been a welcome, then pushed off and stumbled back through the darkened vestibule. After reorienting himself, he shuffled down the center aisle, going slower as he approached the altar. As he bent a knee before the railing, a coughing fit seized him and for a moment it sounded as if he were turning inside out.
    Brien and Ella were halted halfway down the aisle by the vicar’s hacking and a thickening slurry of unpleasant smells. The church smelled musty and neglected; the air was sour and carried a taint of mold; and the acrid blend of illness and whiskey on human breath lingered in the vicar’s wake.
    “What’s the matter with him?” Brien whispered, unaware that the acoustics of the church had lost nothing to age.
    “Do beg pardon.” The vicar straightened and turned to them, dabbing his face and running his handkerchief between his rumpled collar and neck. “S-seems I’ve come down with a bit of the grippe. Nothing to be alarmed about, I as-s-sure you.”
    But it was obvious as they approached the brighter light of the chancel, that the reverend’s face was overheated and he leaned on the altar for support.
    “R-really, Vicar, if you’re not well—” Brien began.
    “S-sound as a bell,” the man declared, his eyes brightened with feverish light. “I just need a bit of t-tonic to ignite these wretched humors.” He produced a metal flask from a pocket in his cassock, and tilted it to his lips.
    Brien swallowed hard and looked to Ella, whose family and familiarity with the area had helped them locate this needy parish and its accommodating priest. But before she could think of an alternative to this unsavory turn, there was a noise from the rear of the church and they turned to find two figures approaching through the gloom.
    Brien’s gaze fastened on the taller of the two: a neatly dressed man of more than common height, with broad shoulders and striking eyes . . . which at the moment were tightened into a scowl. His gaze darted over the altar, the vicar and Ella, and then came to rest on her. He paused several pews away and propped his hands on his waist.
    “This ’im?” Ella demanded of the old man who accompanied him.
    “As agreed,” Billy Rye declared, tucking his thumbs into his belt.

    Brien’s mouth dried. In the scheme that had played over and over in her mind, the part of her bridegroom was always filled by a dark, insubstantial shape that was more vapor than human. Now confronted with this living, reactive embodiment of her plan, she found herself momentarily rattled. Whatever she had imagined, it was not a tall, well-knit man with coppery hair, striking features, and eyes filled with questions.
    The man stepped farther into the light and turned toward her, baring a diagonal slash on his other cheek. A dueling scar. Like those that young noblemen brought back from universities on the Continent. She couldn’t swallow, much less speak.
    Fortunately, Ella was not so affected. She approached the man and boldly appraised him, crossing her arms and walking to and fro to better view him.
    “Not bad,” she declared, then looked to the