Thief by Linda Windsor

Author:Linda Windsor
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Celtic, Man-Woman Relationships, Christian, redemption, Kidnapping Victims, Scotland, Saxons, Fiction, Christian Fiction, Alba, Sorcha, Historical, Historical Fiction, Caden, Missing Persons, General, Religious, 6th century, Love Stories
ISBN: 9781434764775
Publisher: David C Cook
Published: 2011-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Sorcha fought a gag reflex as the witan slit the throat of a bleating goat at the altar. Its blood spattered his robe and drained into a ceremonial bowl as Sorcha’s drained from her face. After yesterday, she’d seen enough blood for a lifetime. And from the pallor of Eavlyn’s face, so had the princess. Sorcha tore her attention from the grisly sight of the still-twitching animal. Between that and the heat of the crowd surrounding her, she felt faint.

Or maybe it was due to the fact that she’d spent yet another night trying to muster the courage and words to tell Elford she could not marry him. Eavlyn and Sorcha retired early from last night’s feast without censure, given their harrowing experience yesterday. Lunid informed them that it was rumored Father Martin had used magic to turn the boar, but Sorcha was more intrigued by the tall, golden warrior Eavlyn swore had killed the beast with his bare hands.

Sorcha wondered if Eavlyn had seen God Himself.

Lunid, of course, crossed herself. “No one has seen God except Moses!” That launched a story of how the Christian God had allowed His people to become slaves because of bad choices they’d made. Sorcha thought a father who’d do that wasn’t much better than Ebyn’s folks and said so. The last count Sorcha had, Lunid had crossed herself over fifty-six times.

A growing murmur of awe and approval drew Sorcha to the present, where the gifts between the father of the bride and the groom were exchanged. Never had she seen the like of chests filled with torques of gold and silver, Roman hand mirrors, flasks of Roman glass, piles of jewels, necklaces, brooches, ewers, pins, and clasps.

Sorcha fingered one of the three strands of amber resting against her neck. She’d have to give her jewels back, of course. And the dresses, no matter how she reveled in the feel of the fine linen against her skin and the elegant flow of the russet wool about her form. This was as close to being a noblewoman as she would ever get.

Yet, for all the riches, reality struck when the bride’s father handed over her shoe to Hering, who tapped her gently on the head, passing full authority over Eavlyn from father to husband. The princess’s life was no longer her own, even if she would live in the lap of luxury. The elegant slipper would later be placed at the head of the nuptial bed as a symbol of Hering’s authority. Not a partnership, as Sorcha’s parents had shared.

Sorcha wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. If the ceremony did not end soon, she’d swoon or be sick from this smother of people. Hering exchanged the keys to his household, establishing Eavlyn as its lady, for the magnificent sword that showed she recognized him as her lord and protector.

Then the Christian priest wrapped their hands in his mantel and prompted them with vows made till death took them. Mercifully, he was not as long-winded as he’d been yesterday at the service.

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