Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn

grizzled old seaman and tossed him a pouch that jingled as he caught it. “Did ye tell
    ’im th’ conditions, Uncle?”
    “I did.” Ella’s uncle, Billy Rye, folded his arms in a parody of his niece’s stance.
    “What’s this all about?” the bridegroom demanded of Brien, studying her with such intensity that her face reddened. “Who are you?”
    “I-I don’ understand,” the vicar declared, rubbing his face and blinking. “You mean, you don’ know ’er name?”
    “Just a moment, Vicar,” Brien declared, jolted to life by the vicar’s alarming question. “I must have a word with my bridegroom.” She strode up the center aisle, ordering him to follow with the wave of a hand. When the man settled in front of her, she found herself overwhelmed by the height and heat of him and engulfed by the smell of whiskey coming from him. He’d been drinking. She steeled herself and looked up.

    “You’ve no need to know more than my name.” She found her voice. “You need only know that you are being paid a thousand pounds to wed me.”
    “There”—he raised a finger of exception—“we may have a problem. You see, I require four thousand.”
    “ Four thou— Don’t be absurd.” She lowered her voice and tossed a nervous glance up the aisle toward the feverish vicar, who was swilling from his flask again. If they didn’t conclude this business soon, the man might collapse altogether on them!
    “In truth, I’m being quite reasonable. Four thousand is my price.
    You’re obviously a lady and in trouble of some sort . . . perhaps in a family way . . .”
    “I am not pregnant.”
    “No? Well, something has made you seek out a disposable husband. A man willing to speak marriage vows and then just walk away from them. A man willing to sell his matrimonial future for a pittance.” All trace of taunting drained from his face and tone. “A man willing to forfeit all chance of ever having legitimate offspring.” He studied her for a long moment, seeming sobered by his summary of the requirements of his role here. She caught a flicker of unsettlement in his eyes before he straightened and rolled his shoulders. When he met her gaze again, all hint of misgivings was gone.
    “It would seem, my lady, that at this moment and in this place, I’m the best that’s available. And I’ll cost you four thousand pounds.”
    He had her. And he knew it.
    Brien jerked back and for a moment it was all she could do to resist the urge to slap him. The smug look on his face was bad enough, but there was something else, something alarmingly personal in the insistent, physical curiosity he displayed toward her. She felt exposed . . . as if he might see through not only her cloak and her clothing but her predicament as well.
    Four thousand. She called for Ella, whispered frantic instructions, and sent the maid and her uncle back to the town house for the money she had stowed in her trunk. Then while she waited for them to return, she drew her cloak closer about her and took a seat on a front pew. He stared at her; she could feel him visually probing the folds of her cloak, analyzing her features, examining her hands as they lay in her lap.
    Aaron sat on the pew opposite the one where his bride sat and wished he were a great deal drunker. Half a quart of fine Irish would have made this whole thing more bearable. As it was, with this interminable delay, he had time to think about what he was doing and consider just how much he might come to regret it.
    Stop mewling, he told himself. Say whatever you have to say, take the money, and run.
    Four thousand. It would probably pay for the rest of his materials. It was an unbelievable stroke of fortune. Just when he needed it. A godsend, really. He glanced at the young woman who would soon be his bride. Did that make her an angel? She certainly had the eyes for it. He stared at her slightly rounded shoulders and tried to dismiss his curiosity about what lay beneath that cloak. But every