Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(26)

The Archbishop insisted the heathen and I walk to the Doleur for her baptism. He rode in his carriage.

She scoffed as he disappeared down the street, kicking a rock at a nearby trash can. “That man’s head is so far up his own ass, he could wear it as a hat.”

My jaw clenched. Don’t rise. Remain calm. “You will not disrespect him.”

She grinned, tilting her head up to examine me. Then—incredibly—she rose to her toes and flicked me square on the nose. I staggered back, startled. My face flushed. She grinned wider and started walking. “I will do what I please, Chass.”

“You’re to be my wife.” Catching up to her in two strides, I reached out to grab her arm, but stopped short of touching her. “That means you’ll obey me.”

“Does it?” She raised her brows, still grinning. “I suppose that means you’ll honor and protect me, then? If we’re adhering to the dusty old roles of your patriarchy?”

I shortened my pace to match hers. “Yes.”

She clapped her hands together. “Excellent. At least this will be entertaining. I have many enemies.”

I couldn’t help it. I glanced at the deep bruises coloring her eyes. “Imagine that.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Her tone was conversational. Light. As if we were discussing the weather. “You’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

Questions burned up my throat, but I refused to voice them. She seemed content in the silence. Her eyes moved everywhere at once. To the dresses and hats lining shop windows. To the apricots and hazelnuts filling merchants’ carts. To the dirty windows of a small pub, the soot-stained faces of children chasing pigeons in the street. At every turn, a new emotion flitted across her face. Appreciation. Longing. Delight.

Watching her was strangely exhausting.

After a few minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I cleared my throat. “Did one of them give you those bruises?”

“Who?”

“Your enemies.”

“Oh,” she said brightly. “Yes. Well—two, actually.”

Two? I stared at her, incredulous. Tried to imagine the tiny creature before me battling two people at once—then remembered her trapping me backstage, tricking the audience into believing I’d assaulted her. I scowled. She was more than capable.

The streets widened as we reached the outskirts of East End. The Doleur soon glinted in the bright afternoon sun ahead of us. The Archbishop waited beside his carriage. To my surprise, so did Jean Luc.

Of course. He would be the witness.

The reality of the situation crashed over me like a bag of bricks upon seeing my friend. I was actually going to marry this woman. This—this creature. This heathen who scaled rooftops and robbed aristocrats, who brawled and dressed like a man and had a name to match.

She wasn’t Célie. She was the furthest thing from Célie God could’ve possibly created. Célie was gentle and well mannered. Polite. Proper. Kind. She would’ve never embarrassed me, never presented herself as such a spectacle.

I glared at the woman who was to be my wife. Torn and blood-spattered dress. Bruised face and broken fingers. Scarred throat. And a smirk that left little doubt as to how she’d come to receive each injury.

She arched a brow. “See something you like?”

I looked away. Célie would be heartbroken when she learned what I’d done. She deserved better than this. Better than me.

“Come now.” The Archbishop motioned us to the deserted riverbank. A dead fish was our only audience—and the flock of pigeons feasting on it. Its skeleton protruded through rotted flesh, and a single eye gaped up at the clear November sky. “Let us be done with this. The heathen must first be baptized at our Lord God’s command. For ye shall not be unequally yoked. Light hath no communion with darkness.”

My feet were leaden, each step an incredible effort in the sand and mud. Jean Luc followed closely behind. I could feel his grin on my neck. I didn’t want to imagine what he now thought of me—of this.

The Archbishop hesitated before striding into the gray water. He glanced back at the heathen, the first hint of uncertainty on his face. As if unsure she would follow. Please change your mind, I prayed. Please forget this madness and send her to prison where she belongs.

But then I would lose my Balisarda. My life. My vows. My purpose.

A small, ugly voice at the back of my mind scoffed. He could pardon you, if he wanted. No one would question his judgment. You could remain a Chasseur without marrying a criminal.

So why didn’t he?

Chagrin washed through me at the very thought. Of course he couldn’t pardon me. The people believed I’d accosted her. It didn’t matter I hadn’t. They thought I had. Even if the Archbishop explained—even if she confessed—people would still whisper. They would doubt. They would question the Chasseurs’ integrity. Worse still—they might question the Archbishop himself. His motivations.

We’d already ensnared ourselves in the lie. The people believed she was my wife. If word spread otherwise, the Archbishop would be branded a liar. That couldn’t happen.

Like it or not, this heathen would become my wife.

She stomped out after the Archbishop as if to reaffirm the fact. He scowled, wiping away the flecks of water she splashed on his face.