Bound To You: Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Blanche

I’m shoved forward like a prisoner en route to the gallows.

            The hand doesn’t budge from my mouth and the arms don’t loosen their hold around my waist. I’m choking on wool and drowning in the scent of pine, and this—this is why I should have played the part of dutiful wife and stayed in my room until John dropped by with the understanding that our relationship is nothing more than my legs parting on his demand.

            I’m going to die.

            Or be raped.

            Either way, the woman I’ve always been will never again leave this ruined abbey. I don’t know whether it’s more fitting to laugh at the loss of innocence or cry for all that I never achieved. No doubt the epitaph on my tomb will read: Here lies the body of a princess. She died as she lived—unmemorable and a pawn to all men.

            A spark of fury ignites in my blood and I drive my elbow back, hard, into my captor’s gut.

            He doesn’t grunt.

            No, worse.

            Husky laughter wafts against the back of my neck. “Feisty, aren’t you? We’ll see how long that attitude of yours lasts.”

            I’m acutely aware of the sob that would shatter the stillness of the night if it weren’t for the fact that his hand has yet to move away from my mouth. Shame rises from within. Shame and something far darker, an emotion that tastes suspiciously like grim acceptance. The hollow halls of Holyrood Abbey provide no measure of relief as we enter through an arched frame that probably boasted, eons ago, grand wooden doors.

            Intact stone pillars line either side of the old nave, stretching up toward the black sky. Down the center of the rectangular abbey stand two isolated columns, both carved of rugged stone; neither, however, are anywhere tall enough to match the exterior pillars. Like my spirit, they’ve been beaten and battered by worldly expectations.

            And, like my spirit, they’re exposed to the natural elements.

            An unyielding forearm shoves me forward.

            Unable to catch my balance, I fall to my hands and knees. Smooth pebbles press into my naked palms and the length of my hair swings like a curtain around my face. I hold still, long enough to dig deep and find my inner reserve, and then I’m scrabbling to my feet and throwing up my hands—like I have a real chance of fending off an attack.

            The dark-haired stranger ambles closer, his fingers tucked casually into the front pockets of his trousers.

            John, where are you?

            He’s disappeared, yet again.

            I kick up my chin, all bravado. “Whatever you have in mind, I promise that it won’t end well.”

            “On the contrary,” comes a different voice, this one behind me, “tonight will end exactly as it should.”

            With my heart thudding against my ribcage, I whip around.

            A brown-skinned man steps out from the shadows. While his accent is posh, the knife he holds in his right hand is anything but luxurious. The sharp point curves with sinister delight, the image of it forever imprinting itself on my retina. I will sleep and know the exact length of the steel, and I will die, no doubt feeling the full weight of its power as it carves me open and sends my blood spattering onto these ancient stones.

            “You see,” murmurs the first man, who blocks the archway leading back to Holyroodhouse, “we know exactly who you are. It’s unfortunate, really, that you can’t say the same for us.”

            Desperate, I turn to where the Narthex once stood. Sparse moonlight seeps through empty windows, revealing a lone figure leaning against the crumbling outer wall. Metal reflects the glow of the moon, and it’s with a sinking sensation that I realize he’s cleaning the barrel of a pistol with his shirtsleeve.

            All the better to shoot me dead.

            Terror builds at the base of my spine. Slowly, I turn around to face the man who hauled me in here. “What do you want from me? Money?” Digging into my pockets, I pull at the cloth to reveal that they’re empty of coin. “Jewelry?” I tug on my collar, pulling at the wool to show that I’m completely unadorned. My wedding band sits on the bedside table in my room, ready to be put back on in the morning when I continue this sham of a marriage. “I have nothing, do you hear me? If you hurt me, you’ll be attacking the Crown and—”

            “But you aren’t the Crown.”

            I blink at the softly uttered words, feeling them land like a punch to the gut.

            “You’re a woman wandering the grounds of a palace in the middle of the night,” the dark-haired man continues, tone purposely casual. “You are alone, Blanche, with nothing to mark you as a princess worthy of our respect.”

            “I’m a person,” I growl, “and therefore worthy of every kindness you possess in your tiny little brain.”

            Sharp laughter cracks across the abandoned abbey. “Is she not feisty, Matthews?”

            Behind me, the knife wielder gives a low chuckle. “Perhaps feistier than she ought to be, all things considered.”

            “The future king will come for you if you do this,” I warn, backing up and angling my head to keep both men in my line of sight. The one with the gun . . . Well, it’s best not to think about him. “My body might not be found until morning but my husband—”

            “Will what?” Matthews demands, his voice dropping to a low rasp. “Will he save you, Lady Blanche? Will he put his own life on the line for a woman he’s known for only a matter of weeks?”

            “I’m his wife.”

            “Is wife not synonymous with ball and chain?” The dark-haired stranger levels me with a sardonic onceover, the corner of his mouth visibly hitching with ill-placed humor. “Your vows are nothing more than a contract bound by laws and—”

            “The Archbishop of Canterbury married us!”

            “And yet, you stand in an abbey that has long since seen its golden years.” Matthews steps forward, the knife gleaming with devious intent as he scrapes the tip along the back of his forearm. It’s a threat, a warning, and I’d be a complete fool to mistake the gesture for anything else. “Here, on this hallowed ground, there are no priests to offer you sanctuary. We are its lords.”

            “You’re mad,” I whisper, darting my panicked gaze from man to man. “All of you are mad.”

            “And you, my lady,” the dark-haired stranger says blithely, “are an unsanctioned bride.”

            “Grab her.”

            The order comes from Matthews, and I twist around on my next breath. Pebbles kick up under my trainers as I run for the old, dilapidated apse. All around me, the stone pillars seem to move—and it’s only when a hand reaches out from the dark pits of the aisle that I realize the shifting shadows are men.

            And they’re everywhere.

            Swarming like bees.

            Humming like a choir.

            Striding closer and blocking off every possible exit until I’m spinning in a circle, out of breath, and on the cusp of true tears. Tears like I once shed in the dark of night, hours after Mum kissed my forehead and whispered a goodbye that we both knew would mean forever. The sort of tears I’ve never allowed myself again.

            The darkness pervades all light, killing my hope and crushing my soul.

            I married a prince and will die surrounded by monsters, and I did this to myself—left my gilded cage with such purpose and kept my silence when John suspected someone of following him. I chose danger over safety, risk over the mundane, and now—

            Someone takes hold of my arm.

            Balling my fist, I torque my waist and let fly.

            Cartilage breaks under my knuckles, blood spurting from the man’s nose. But he doesn’t let me go and he doesn’t give me the opportunity to attack him again. My arms are yanked behind my back, wrists shackled by big hands at the base of my spine. The stranger marches me forward, back into the center of the nave, where the others have gathered to witness my fall from grace.

            I’m shoved down to my knees.

            Matthews and the dark-haired man step before me, the two sharing a silent exchange before nodding to someone over my right shoulder. There’s the shuffle of shoes over pebbles, but it’s silenced a moment later when my voice crackles through the abbey, solemn and furious: “I won’t die silent, not for you, not for anyone.”

            “But would you die for him?”

            At Matthews’ nod, the group parts and my soul . . . a part of my soul withers and dies. For it’s not another stranger walking into the center of the abbey but the man I pledged my life to, the man I took within my body and whose name I cried when I came hard enough to see stars. The same man who has avoided me for days.

            I whisper his name.

            There is no missing the way my voice breaks on the single syllable.

            John’s blue eyes sweep over me, the depth of them inscrutable as he turns to the dark-haired man. “Do it, Guthram.”

            Do it.

            Kill me.

            I scramble backward on my knees, a hiccupped cry lodging itself in my throat. “I will never forgive you for this. Do you hear me, John? I will never forgive you.”

            Shadows splice across his handsome face but there’s just enough moonlight to see the way he closes his eyes, as if the threat has anchored him. Or demolished him. When he opens them again, they zero in on my face and he lowers, slowly, to rest one knee on the pebbled ground. “I bend this knee to you, wife,” comes his velvet voice, the sound of it like silk against my skin, “and before Holyrood, I vow that you are my own. The blood that is not mine, the bones carved by another’s hand, the life force which belongs to you alone. All that is you, is mine, and all that is mine will be forever yours.”

            Inside my chest, my heart beats a furious rhythm.

            Thud-thud, thud-thud, thudthudthudthud.

            Matthews steps forward and I watch in horror as John holds out his hand, palm leveled up to the sky. With a near-silent hiss, my husband accepts the bite of Matthews’ blade slicing across his palm. The sharp point has barely left his flesh before the ruined abbey erupts with guttural chanting.

            “What have you done?” I breathe, my gaze locked on John. “What is this?”

            “We are Holyrood.” Matthews nods toward the dozens of men gathered around us, then edges closer to me. “And we have our own traditions for those who become royal through marriage. Hold out your hand, my lady.”

            “I don’t—”

            “You will.”

            My eyes snap to John, who has yet to move. Inclining his head, he dips his chin and meets my gaze. “I was born into this world, little wolf, and I’ve inherited everything that comes with the title. But you . . .” He clears his throat. “You, my wife, have none of their loyalty—none of their protection—until you pledge their troth to me. So you will give Dr. Matthews your hand and you will let him continue. And, after, when it’s only us, I’ll answer all of your questions. Yes?”

            “And if I say no?” I ask with gritted teeth.

            “No is not an option.”

            I hear the steel in his voice, feel the weight of his words upon me. Whoever these men are—whatever this Holyrood is—I’ve now entered their domain . . . and I’m at the mercy of their prerogative.

            Feeling dread inch down my spine, I hold out my hand as instructed.

            “Repeat after me,” Matthews says, his touch warm around my wrist as he flips my hand over and touches the blade to the fat of my palm. “I bend this knee to you, husband.”

            “I . . .” Swallowing, I look to John. “I bend this knee to you, husband.”

            “And before Holyrood, I vow that you are my own.”

            A whimper scratches at my throat as the blade begins its journey across my flesh. “And before Holyrood,” I pant, feeling lightheaded at the sight of beading blood, “I vow that you are my own.”

            “The blood that is not mine,” Matthews continues, “the bones carved by another’s hand.”

            “The blood that is not mine, the bones carved by another’s hand.”

            The knife turns sharply at the center of my palm, wrenching a gasp from my lips. “The life force which belongs to you alone. All that is you, is mine, and all that is mine will be forever yours.”

            Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I want to scream at the injustice of taking a vow that rings of hollow truths but the look in John’s stare . . . it halts all protest from jumping off my tongue. He watches me with a possessiveness that I don’t understand, a tick in his jaw thumping like he despises the pain wrought on my body. But still, he kneels before me, a prince before his princess, as if he isn’t lying at all—and that this tradition, spilled blood and all, is one that precedes him by generations.

            An exchange of vows that’s as old as the abbey itself.

            Matthews presses his thumb gently against my inner wrist, prompting me to speak. And I do not look away from my husband as I recite the rest of the troth. “The life force which belongs to you alone. All that is you, is mine, and all that is mine will be forever yours.”

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Ahhh, I am FREAKING out over these last two chapters. Like, tension? High. Action? OH GOD. Also, Dr. Matthews!!! Oh, how I love him.

I can’t wait to share Chapter Seventeen with you because ALL of the things are going to happen. Until then, feel free to leave a comment below or drop a line in BBA with spoiler alert added. I am here for you!