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The brothers study one another for a long, long moment before Jericho finally turns to me, expression strained as he looks me over. Without a word he takes hold of my arm and walks me unceremoniously toward the chapel.
I wonder about my brother’s visit. His ability to cause so much disruption, wreak such havoc. That was his intention, wasn’t it? He knows how to get under Jericho’s skin. Just get near his family. His daughter. She is his weakness. Carlton wouldn’t hurt her to punish him, would he? No. I can’t believe that. But what about the disappeared Bishop girls? And the comment about not being safe even if you are family? And mostly, what of Jericho’s rage? I think he could have murdered my brother today and that terrifies me.
But before I can consider any of that, Ezekiel opens the chapel door and Jericho marches me to the altar. No walk down the aisle for me. No soft music. Nothing but the once comforting smell of incense overwhelming my senses as I’m pushed once again to my knees before the altar, this time a cushion softening the impact as I speak the words that will bind me to Jericho St. James forever.
However long my forever will be.
27
Jericho
I watch her throughout the brief ceremony. I have Hildebrand to thank for the brief part. Father John wanted a full mass said. Good for the soul, I believe was his argument. He can go fuck himself. And so can Hildebrand and so can every other man out there who witnessed the spectacle Carlton Bishop orchestrated so perfectly. Even recruiting my brother and myself as unlikely actors.
Fucking asshole.
And what the hell did he mean mentioning Zoë and my father. I should have broken his nose just for speaking my sister’s name.
As far as my father’s accident, it wasn’t one. I’m sure of it. Bishop had a hand in killing him. I know he did. Even if Santiago De La Rosa finds no evidence, I know it in my gut. My father was murdered. His car skidding off the edge of a mountain road like it did? It’s too fucking convenient. All evidence lost. Car and man burnt to a fucking crisp.
No. I don’t buy it. He was murdered. And the whole thing stinks of Carlton Bishop.
Isabelle’s low voice murmuring the Lord’s prayer along with Father John brings me back to the here and now.
I glance at her. My beautiful, innocent bride. She’s simply dressed in the gown my mother wore for her wedding to our father. The gown is a white silk that is designed with the marking ceremony in mind with the single button closure on the neck holding the silk in place.
That brings me to thoughts of my mother. Did she know what my father would do? Did she know he meant to open the dress and brand her publicly? Did she then bow her head of her own accord, tears drowning her as she touched her lips to his shoe to say the words required of her? To make her pledge and bestow upon him the power of lord and god.
Isabelle glances at me, her lips ceasing their mutterings. The prayer has ended. In her eyes I read her questions but there is a stillness to her. A quiet. She had it that first night too, when she sought shelter in this very chapel before those men entered. Before I stepped out of the shadows where I’d been sitting watching her. Was it a stroke of fate that carried her in here that night? That let me observe her before she even knew of my existence.
Beauty and her devil. She, innocent in that feather dress. Me, cloaked and masked, horns curling to high heaven. A terror to behold.
She watches me and finally blinks, lowers her gaze. She makes the sign of the cross as Father John brings the crucifix to her lips.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Will she be so calm in the moments that will follow this ceremony to the next one?
The priest clears his throat and we both look up at him. Time for the vows to be said. The promise to love, honor and obey. It’s a sacrilege, this sham.
Love. Useless.
Honor. I could give a fuck.
It’s only her obedience I’m interested in, and I listen to her repeat the words. Do they have any meaning to her? Her eyes give nothing away.
When it’s my turn, I say my part, then take her hand and slip a simple gold band onto her finger. She looks down at it as if surprised. Did she expect diamonds? A big, fat ring?
I hold the band she’ll slide onto my finger out to her.
She glances at the ring of gold on my palm then at the small gathering of people she doesn’t know. None will help her out of this one.
I wait for her to look back at me and gesture for her to go on.
She takes the ring and pushes it onto my finger and a few moments later, the priest declares us husband and wife and gives me permission to kiss my bride.
I close my hand over the back of her bare neck to pull her to me and, eyes open, I kiss my bride. A symbolic gesture. And then it’s over.
I rise to my feet, thank Father John, and help my bride stand. I keep hold of her hand as we turn to the company gathered, the only women my mother and daughter. Even they shouldn’t be here according to custom.
Angelique slips her hand free of my mother’s and runs toward us. She’s the only one in this whole room who is smiling. I scoop her up with one arm to hold her and think about how her life depends on mine. Of how much she needs me.
