The Hourglass by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page B

grand guests—foreign diplomats, generals, and local gentry—would dine inside, but common soldiers and servants, all those who could walk or limp to get there, were going to be served in the stable yard. Ardeth had declared it a day of celebration, of his nuptials and the British victory, a day to set aside the suffering and grieving, if only for an hour or two.
    Sergeant Campbell was not the only grizzled veteran to wipe his eyes. Half the ladies present sniffled at the romance of the thing, and in regret that their own husbands did not measure up to Lord Ardeth.
    This time Genie’s formidable groom was magnificent, putting every other man—and the bride—in the shade. The earl wore formal dress, black satin knee breeches and tailcoat, with sparkling white neckcloth and waistcoat that set off his black hair and dark eyes. He smelled of spices and woods and scented soap, with a bit of smoke mixed in, most likely from a pipe, Genie guessed. He was tall and well formed—and he was smiling.
    Today was also literal and figurative worlds away from Sir Coryn of Ardsley’s first wedding. That one was held at his bride’s father’s drafty, mildewed castle. He’d ridden there in full armor against marauding bands, with his own troop of knights, vassals, and pages. Hot and sweaty, with no opportunity—or inclination, truth be told—to bathe, he’d knelt in the chapel next to his fifteen-year-old bride, who’d sobbed through the ceremony despite the chest of gold and jewels he’d brought as the bride-price. Everyone got drunk after, and a fight broke out among the two factions, instead of the alliance the marriage was supposed to cement. He did not remember what the girl wore. He barely recalled the color of her hair or her name, only that she sobbed throughout the days of their marriage until he rode off to the wars six months later.
    What a difference an eon made, give or take a century or two. Today he was dressed in the finest garments money could buy, having bathed in oils from India with steaming hot water, and shaved not once but twice. He’d driven to a well-appointed mansion in a fine carriage behind highbred horses, to be welcomed by powerful, intelligent, unarmed gentlemen and their lady wives.
    And his bride was radiant, without a hint of tears.
    Too bad this union was not destined to last longer than the last one.
    Everything was going well until the vicar asked, “Do you, Imogene Hopewell Macklin, take this man…?”
    Silence.
    Did she know he was not truly a man? Ardeth shook his head. That was impossible. He had been facing forward, letting his mind wander to his plans for the reception and the coming trip. He hadn’t been listening to the vicar’s droning speech until the lack of it caught his attention. Why should he heed this stranger when he knew the holy vow he was taking, its rights and responsibilities, as well as the cost of forsaking it, better than any collared cleric?
    Now he turned to face the bride. He’d thought Genie rapt in attention to the vicar, a slight smile on her lips. Now he recognized that smile for the same kind of frozen rictus he’d seen when he’d done his job, his former job. She wasn’t…? No, of course not. She was simply paralyzed with fear, poor puss, and he had no idea what to do about it, not with all these people watching. She was right to be afraid, by Hades.
    He squeezed her hand, bothered that he could not tell how icy hers was through their gloves. His hands were always cold anyway and could not have helped warm her. Damn, he cursed, then prayed that she would not change her mind now. Campbell, beside him, started to gnaw on his lip as the vicar repeated his question.
    Marie, on Genie’s other side as her attendant and witness, whispered loudly enough for half the guests to hear, “You’ll never get a better offer, chérie, ” which served only to remind Genie that she was gambling with her life and that of her child on a man who moved in the highest