Page 17 of Captive Bride

Isobel

Governor Cornwall’s announcement is with met with roaring applause. It echoes around the room, reverberating through my skull. I wonder if they know I’m a prisoner here.

Some certainly must. They’d have to be delusional to think I’d ever willingly marry this man. Still, they cheer, clothed in finery, faces hidden behind masks.

It occurs to me that the real masks are their smiles.

His arm draped around me feels like a manacle.

Heavy, burdensome, impossible to escape from.

His laugh sends ice running through my veins. I hold my breath without thinking. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke makes me feel sick to my stomach.

It seems to waft off him in waves. The smell of my soon-to-be husband.

The man is easily old enough to be my father, his face creased with hard lines already.

Standing next to him, I feel like a child, small, and helpless.

He finally leaves my side, and I can breath again. I feel an enormous weight being lifted as he turns away, both figuratively and literally.

Thelma is there in the next instant, winding her arm through mine.

She leads me from the stage like I’m incapable of finding my own way. Frankly, I probably am. My legs are struggling to make their way through my mental fog.

I glance back at the Governor, already making his rounds. He shakes hands and slaps backs, his mood celebratory.

I can only thank God that he’s distracted, that I don’t have to continue breathing him in.

How am I supposed to live with this man, with his aura of smoke and liquor and insidiousness?

“Are you okay?” Thelma asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Hmm? Oh, sure.”

She looks at me. She looks through me in that way only she can.

There’s no fooling her.

“Well, I know something that might interest you.” she offers, sly smile stretching across her face.

I raise an eyebrow in question.

“There are some very hot mystery men wandering around here, very hot.”

I have to admit, I’m intrigued. I guess I’m not yet over my fantasies of love.

“Where?” I ask.

She sweeps her eyes around the room before turning back to me. I miss her answer, the words buried under a swarm of voices. The guests come to offer me their congratulations.

I feel my hand being gripped and shaken, smiles flash at me from all around.

“Well done!” someone offers.

“Congratulations!” says another mask.

I can’t tell who’s even speaking, their voices blending together.

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