A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection (13 page)

She looked Stuart squarely in the eyes. “This is my home. This is what I know— and love.” Her conviction deepened as she spoke the words she knew to be true. There was much to love about the abbey.

Behind Stuart, the abbess smiled approvingly.

“I know this is sudden— and unfair,” Stuart conceded, glancing behind him at the scowling nun. “But the situation is urgent. I’ve thought it through many times, and you’re the only one who can help. You’re the one he needs, Amelia.”

“He?” The heartache and loneliness she’d wrestled with many times over the past years burst to the surface. “A child?” This insane desire, as she’d once heard another nun describe it, was the greatest thing holding her from her vows: to be a mother, have a child of her own to love.

Stuart shook his head, and his unkempt hair fell across his eyes. Amelia noticed the condition of her usually well-groomed brother— dusty breeches, wrinkled and soiled shirt, bags beneath his eyes. Even his movements seemed stiff and sore and tired.

“The
he
is a man, my good friend Lord Moorleigh.”

Amelia tamped down her disappointment. “Mary’s husband.” A child might have tempted her away, but never a man. It was that species Stuart had brought her here to be safe from in the first place. She turned away, but Stuart caught her arm.

“He’s been our neighbor and my friend for years. You may remember him.”

Amelia shook her head. She’d worked hard to forget her childhood, those years of being in a family before she’d come to the convent. It was easier that way.

“Ethan was a good husband,” Stuart continued. “He still grieves Mary. He loved her dearly.”

“What has any of this to do with me?” Amelia asked.

“Nothing,” the abbess cut in. “This is a fool’s errand, and you’d best be on your way now, Lord Peyton.”

“Ethan Moorleigh must remarry,” Stuart said. “Else his title and property stand to pass to another line. Even now he is considering giving up his title and holdings. His grief is that great.”

“Giving up one’s wealth is no sin,” Mother said.

“It will not heal him,” Stuart predicted. “Amelia, I believe you’re the one person who can. Your heart is pure enough to mend his sorrows, to let him live a life again.”

“A life, Lord Peyton, is not a title or possession.” The abbess held the lantern close and looked at him pointedly. “Be honest in what you are asking your sister. You wish her to marry your friend so he may produce an heir to retain his title. Am I correct?”

“I wish her to marry him so he may retain his heart.” Stuart met her gaze steadily. “It has broken into a hundred pieces and requires another heart equally tender to heal it.”

 “Humph,” the abbess scoffed. “Is it so terrible that he still mourns his wife? I think not. In this world, we must all suffer. If your friend experienced a bit of joy before his sorrow, all the better for him. He is one of the fortunate.”

“I’m sorry, Stuart.” Amelia turned away, hoping he’d take his leave and ease her conscience. While she didn’t feel the least amount of guilt in rejecting Lord Moorleigh’s suit, she hated telling her stepbrother no. With Father, her mother, and Mary gone, he was her only family. Being Lord Moorleigh’s bride might allow her to see Stuart more often. She would have liked that.

It might also have allowed me to have a child.
Though that was her dearest wish, Amelia found that her fear of the unknown Lord Moorleigh was greater.

Perhaps that is my answer,
she reasoned.
Though I long for what I cannot have, I am too afraid to seek it. The best path for me is right here, and has been all along.

But the empty place in her heart, the spot that had begun hurting when Father was killed and had nearly consumed her after Mother’s death, felt torn open again. Amelia closed her eyes, angry at her inability to overcome the past. This loneliness, this desire for family, kept her from her vows. Stuart showing up tonight, reminding her of all she longed for, was most unfortunate.

“There is something else.” Stuart’s voice was quiet.

“It doesn’t matter,” Amelia said. God was testing her. That was all. He’d heard her prayers and wanted to make certain she was ready to take her vows and was willing to give up all her fanciful notions about what might have been. She steeled herself against anything Stuart might say. It wouldn’t matter. No luxury he might offer, no proximity to him and the home she’d grown up in. Nothing could change her mind.

“Mary’s child,” Stuart said. “The babe she died birthing is three now. The little girl hasn’t known a mother’s love, and her father has barely been a presence in her life. She needs you, Amelia.”

Five years at the abbey and all her preparations toward becoming a nun— it all seemed to fall away at his words, simply vanish, as so much vapor in the air. Though Amelia hadn’t said a word, wasn’t facing Stuart, had not so much as blinked, there was a palpable change in the room’s atmosphere.

A little girl!
The peace that had always eluded her seemed to swirl into and fill her soul. On its heels came a rush of joy.

Stuart was offering her a child. Amelia couldn’t help but smile, and she thought that God might be smiling down on her too. Even the abbess had taught that there was more than one noble calling on earth, more than one way to serve.

And I’ve found it.

She turned around and saw that they both already knew her answer. The abbess’s lined face wrinkled in defeat. Stuart’s smile was triumphant, if not a little smug. Amelia didn’t care, and though they already knew her answer, she spoke anyway.

“I will come with you. I’ll marry your Lord Moorleigh, and I’ll love his little girl.”     

Chapter Three

“The church is so— full.” Amelia’s grip on Stuart’s arm tightened, and she hesitated at the back of the overflowing chapel. More people than she’d seen in her lifetime spilled from the pews, lined the walls and— she glanced behind her— waited on the steps outside.

Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Stuart whispered, “Ethan Moorleigh’s estates are vast, more than five times greater than Papa had. He practically owns the county.”

“And the people wanted to see him wed again?” Amelia asked.

“Something like that.” Stuart stepped forward, pulling her with him. They walked down the aisle, the elegant gown flowing behind her. With the silk swishing about her feet, Amelia grasped for the confidence she’d felt a short while ago, when the maids had stood her before the tall glass.

It had been years since she’d seen herself properly in a mirror, and having the first occasion be her wedding day— when she was done up in finery, hair arranged, Mother’s pearls at her neck— had been quite a shock. She hadn’t looked at all like she remembered, like the scrawny, freckled, straight-haired, puffy-eyed child who’d entered the abbey five years ago. Instead, a stranger, a
woman
had stared back from the glass.

Now Amelia held her head a little higher.
If the people have come to see their lord and his new lady wed, then they shall.
Two weeks ago, she might have been insignificant, a lone girl locked away in a nunnery for safekeeping. But today, she at least looked the part, looked worthy of this moment that likely many women in attendance would only dream of.

I am marrying well. Papa and Mama would be pleased. Stuart has kept his promise to care for me.

 “Like a lamb to the slaughter, poor thing.”

“And giving his
own
sister.”

“Took her straight from the abbey, I heard.”

The whispered words reached Amelia as she passed the benches midway through the chapel, giving her fragile confidence a sudden dent. Much more than seeing their lord wed again
had brought such a large congregation to the church.

“There’s such a thing as loyalty, but I’d never—”

Never what?
she wondered as Stuart hurried her along.

“What must she be thinking right now?”

“Three wives dead before her.”

Three?
Amelia felt suddenly faint. “Stuart,” she whispered urgently.

“Shhh.” He cut her off and continued towing her down the aisle.

Her steps grew heavy.
Three. Three wives before me and all dead.
Stuart had only told of Mary’s death. He’d never mentioned that Lord Moorleigh had been married more than once before.

Did they all die in childbirth?
There was only one way to ensure she never suffered that fate, but Lord Moorleigh needed a male heir— likely the only reason he was marrying her.

Fear gripped Amelia as she grasped for understanding, for the calm she’d felt minutes ago. Hadn’t Stuart said that Lord Moorleigh still loved Mary? That he ignored his only child?

If so, perhaps he won’t care for me at all.
Maybe he doesn’t really want an heir. Perhaps he’s marrying me as a favor to Stuart.
With all of his estates to oversee, surely he would be gone much of the time.
Let him go out of the country tomorrow
.
Let him be lost at sea. Let him…

“Bless her bravery,” someone near the front whispered.

Amelia didn’t feel brave at all. She stared straight ahead at Lord Moorleigh’s back. Through her veil she could tell that he was tall, his hair dark, and his bearing stiff.

They were nearly there, and he hadn’t yet turned to look at her. She took this as a good sign. If he’d really wanted to marry her, if he had the least bit of interest, he would have turned to her, wouldn’t he? She pulled her gaze to the priest, hoping to find comfort in a man of God, but his face was dark and solemn.

There is no joy in this occasion.

She thought of her yearnings while living at the abbey and remembered the abbess’s saying about another man’s field not being more plentiful than one’s own. Amelia had always felt differently. She’d been quite certain there was more joy and color to life outside the abbey walls.

Perhaps I was wrong.

Two steps more and she was at Lord Moorleigh’s side. What at first had seemed a daunting journey— passing all those people— was over quickly, and Stuart released her, depositing her at the side of the man who would now be her caretaker, the one she would have to listen to and obey.

A complete stranger.

Three dead wives.

What have I done?

The feeling she’d faint returned, and she swayed a little on her feet. Stuart grabbed her arm, and in a move likely not traditional ceremony, placed her hand into Ethan Moorleigh’s.

His palm was warm against her cold one. Surprisingly, he gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze. She glanced up at him. His face was still forward, eyes glued to the priest. But she’d felt his offer of comfort, and she accepted it as one would a lifeboat in the midst of a storm. So simple, yet somehow, it calmed her frantic heart.

She dared a squeeze back, a thank you. He turned to look at her, and in that brief second, his eyes were kind, if not sorrowful, and he was young— younger than Stuart even. Ethan Moorleigh didn’t look old enough to have had three wives already.

Nor old enough to cope with their loss.

Her heart softened, and instead of fear, she felt compassion for the man beside her who had suffered so much. What was it that Stuart had said at the abbey?
You’re the only one who can heal him. He needs another tender heart.

How easily she’d dismissed that— the man she was to marry. Her thoughts had been all for his child. Amelia felt her face flush with guilt, and a second later, when she realized the priest had addressed her and she hadn’t responded, she felt even more abashed.

She gave her answer, acknowledging her name and the purpose for which she was here.

I am marrying Ethan Moorleigh.
According to Stuart, he’d loved at least Mary dearly. Her brief glimpse into his eyes had confirmed that he was a man who
could
care. Minutes ago, she’d hoped he’d ignore her completely. But now, with her hand nestled in his warm one, her shoulder brushing his arm, she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to be ignored.

Her heart beat faster, but this time it wasn’t from fear. Warmth seemed to radiate from Lord Moorleigh’s hand to her own, up her arm and into her heart. Feelings she hadn’t at all anticipated took root.

There may be more to be gained from this arrangement than the opportunity to love a child. Perhaps— someday— he may care for me as well
.

Her face had to be flaming now. She silently rebuked herself for such unholy thoughts about her marriage. How had she gone in a matter of days from preparing to take a vow that would keep her chaste forever, to giving herself to a man with something akin to eagerness?

The priest droned on. He seemed to be coming to the important part, so she refocused her attention. When she was called upon to speak her vows, her voice was loud and clear, so all the gossips in the pews could hear.

Three wives.
Fear still nagged at her, but she pushed it away and faced her future squarely. When Lord Moorleigh’s turn came to answer, his voice was rich and melodic— and soothing, as his touch had been.

At last their vows were accomplished. They turned to face each other. He slipped a weighty band on her finger and gave another gentle squeeze to her fingertips. Then he released her and reached for her veil.

She stood perfectly still as the gauzy fabric lifted. Their eyes met, and she’d started to smile when he gasped. His eyes widened in shock, and his face drained of color. She might have reached out to steady him but for the spark of anger she glimpsed in the depths of his blue eyes. The veil fell back, and he turned away.

Amelia stood frozen in place, listening to the horrified whispers of the congregation as Ethan Moorleigh— her husband— rushed out the front doors of the church. Bells pealed wildly, signaling what was supposed to be a celebratory departure. To her they signaled disaster. Somehow, she’d ruined things already.

Chapter Four