Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(25)

I resisted the urge to unsheathe my Balisarda as the Archbishop opened the doors. My legs locked up, and my skin felt somehow hot and cold at the same time—and too small. Much too small. It itched and pricked as every eye on the street turned toward us. A small, warm hand rested on my arm.

Calloused palms. Slender fingers—two bandaged. I glanced down. Broken.

I didn’t allow my eyes to follow her fingers up her arm. Because her arm would lead to her shoulder, and her shoulder would lead to her face. And I knew what I’d find there. Two bruised eyes, and a fresh welt forming on her cheek. A scar above her eyebrow. Another across her throat. It still peeked below the black ribbon, despite her attempt to hide it.

Célie’s face rose in my mind. Unblemished and pure.

Oh, God. Célie.

The Archbishop stepped forward, and the crowd immediately quieted. With a frown, he pulled me in front of him. The woman—the heathen—didn’t relinquish her grip. I still didn’t look at her.

“Brothers!” The Archbishop’s voice rang out across the now silent street, attracting even more attention. Every head turned in our direction, and she cringed into me. I glanced down at her then, frowning. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Frightened.

I turned away.

You cannot give me your heart, Reid. I cannot have it on my conscience.

Célie, please—

Those monsters who murdered Pip are still out there. They must be punished. I will not distract you from your purpose. If you must give away your heart, give it to your brotherhood. Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

Despair nearly knocked me to my knees. She would never forgive me.

“Your concern for this woman has been seen and is appreciated by God.” The Archbishop spread his arms wide. Beseeching. “But do not be deceived. After attempting to rob an aristocrat such as yourselves last night, she had the ill grace to flee her husband as he attempted to discipline her this morning. Do not pity her, friends. Pray for her.”

A woman at the front of the crowd glared at the Archbishop with unabashed loathing. Slim. Pale hair. Upturned nose. I tensed, recognizing the woman from backstage.

You disgusting pig!

As if she sensed my gaze, her eyes flicked to me and narrowed. I stared back at her, trying and failing to forget her whispered condemnation. Hopefully they throw him in prison. Who knows what could have happened?

I swallowed hard and looked away. Of course that was what it’d looked like. The little heathen knew her tricks, and I’d made it laughably easy. Fallen right into her trap. I cursed myself, longing to jerk my arm from her grasp. But that wouldn’t do. Too many people watched us, and the Archbishop had been clear in his orders.

“We must confess our duplicity as soon as we return home,” he’d said, frowning as he paced. “The people must believe you are already married.” He’d turned toward her abruptly then. “Am I correct in assuming your soul is unsaved?” When she hadn’t responded, he’d scowled. “As I thought. We shall remedy both situations immediately and journey straight to the Doleur for baptism. You must act as her husband until we formalize the union, Reid. Take that ring from her right hand and move it to her left. Walk beside her. The charade may end the second the crowd disperses. And—for goodness’ sake, recover her cloak.”

The heathen twisted the ring in question now. Shifted her feet. Reached up to touch a piece of hair by her face. She’d pinned the rest into a snarled knot at her nape, wild and untamed. Just like her. I loathed it.

“I implore you to see God’s teaching in this woman.” The Archbishop’s voice rose. “Learn from her wickedness! Wives, obey your husbands. Repent your sinful natures. Only then can you be truly united with God!”

Several members of the crowd nodded, murmuring their agreement.

It’s true. I’ve always said as much.

Womenfolk are as bad as witches these days.

What they all need is wood—the rod or the stake.

The pale-haired woman from backstage looked as if she’d like to inflict bodily harm on the Archbishop. She bared her teeth, fists clenched, before turning away.

The heathen tensed beside me, her grip tightening painfully on my arm. I glared down at her, but she didn’t let go. That’s when I smelled it—faint, subtle, almost too light to detect. But still there, lingering on the breeze. Magic.

The Archbishop groaned.

I turned just as he doubled over and clutched his stomach. “Sir, are you—”

I stopped abruptly as he broke shockingly loud wind. His eyes flew open, and his cheeks flamed red. Mutters broke out in the crowd. Shocked. Disgusted. He stood hastily, attempting to straighten his robes, but bent double again at the last second. Another bout wracked his system. I placed a hand on his back, uncertain.

“Sir—”

“Leave me,” he snarled.

I backed away quickly and glared at the heathen, who shook with silent laughter. “Stop laughing.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” She clutched a hand to her side, shaking, and a snort escaped her lips. I eyed her in growing distaste, bending down to inhale her scent. Cinnamon. Not magic. I leaned away quickly, and she laughed harder.

“This right here—this exact moment—it just might be worth marrying you, Chass. I’m going to cherish it forever.”