Marianne's Marriage Of Convenience. Lynna Banning

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      “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll meet you at the church tomorrow, Marianne. Three o’clock, right?”

      “Yes, three o’clock. Good night, Lance.”

      Before he could reply, she disappeared inside and closed the door. He stood stock still for a long minute, shaking his head. Was he imagining it, or did Marianne now not seem anxious or scared or even the least bit ruffled, as if getting married was something she did every day, like washing up the dishes? Well it sure wasn’t something he did every day! His nerves were strung up tight as a new barbed wire fence.

      Still shaking his head he moved down the hall to Number Seven and unlocked the door to his room.

      * * *

      At half past two the next afternoon Lance slowly made his way toward the small white-painted church that sat on top of the hill at the far end of town. Puffs of frothy white mayweed and swaths of golden buttercups carpeted the ground, and three large maple trees shaded the building. It looked like a picture in a storybook. His pulse sped up.

      Tall, gray-haired Reverend Pollock stood on the church steps, a black leather-bound Bible in his hands, and surveyed Lance with sympathetic brown eyes. Lance’s already tight chest got tighter. Why would the minister be feeling sorry for a man on his wedding day? There must be a whole lot of things about marriage that nobody was telling him.

      The warm summer air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle. As he reached the bottom step of the sanctuary, he tried to breathe normally, but for some reason he felt like he was drowning.

      The minister stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. Burnside, welcome. This is an important day.”

      Lance returned the reverend’s firm grip, then found he couldn’t utter a word.

      “Nervous?” the reverend asked.

      “Yeah. Didn’t expect to be, either.”

      The minister grinned. “Most men are terrified when they get married. Or they should be.”

      Lance stared at the man. “Dammit, Reverend, you tryin’ to scare me off?”

      Pollock shook his head. “Certainly not, son. You look like a man who doesn’t scare easy.”

      Lance groaned quietly. “Up until this morning I’d have agreed with you. Right now I’m not so sure.”

      “Come on inside, Mr. Burnside. Your two witnesses are already here.”

      He stopped short. “What two witnesses?”

      “The waitress at the Smoke River Restaurant, Rita Sheltonburg. And Verena Forester, the town dressmaker.”

      He had forgotten that they would need witnesses. Marianne must have organized them. Actually he was so tightly strung all he could remember was the gold wedding band he’d slipped into his inside pocket.

      He hadn’t seen Marianne yet today. Maybe that was just as well. He hadn’t been able to eat a single forkful of his scrambled eggs, and his breakfast toast had tasted like a buttered pot holder. At the moment he figured he wasn’t the best of company.

      He followed the minister into the small church, and the two middle-aged women sitting in the first pew twisted their heads to stare at him. He nodded at the waitress, Rita, and she sent him an encouraging smile. The other woman pinned him with hard blue eyes and a sour look.

      Reverend Pollock guided him to the front of the church and turned to him. “Your bride seems to be a little late,” he intoned.

      Lance groaned inwardly. Had Marianne chickened out at the last minute? Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to stay in a pokey little town like Smoke River. Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to marry him after all. Maybe...

      He closed his fists convulsively, then concentrated on slowly opening his fingers one by one. Before he was aware of it he’d tightened his hands into fists again.

      The two women bent their heads together and began talking in low tones. Their voices sounded like a hive full of honeybees. Lance closed his eyes involuntarily, then opened them when Reverend Pollock jostled his arm. He pointed to the pew across the aisle from the witnesses. “Sit.”

      “Can’t,” he murmured. “I’m scared I won’t be able to stand up again.” To his credit the minister nodded, then took up a position beside him. It seemed like hours crept by while Lance sweated and tried not to think.

      “Want to change your mind about this, son?”

      He jerked. No, he didn’t. That thought had never occurred to him. He shook his head, and the minister smiled and ran his pale hands over the Bible.

      Lance watched him for a few minutes, then began to pace back and forth in front of the wooden altar. The two witnesses followed him with their eyes, moving their heads from left to right and back again. At one point he thought he saw the waitress, Rita, smile, but when she caught him looking at her, her face went carefully blank.

      He established a route from Reverend Pollock on one side to Rita and the dressmaker on the other, and every time he made a turn he glanced toward the back of the church. Where is Marianne?

      He thought only brides got left standing at the altar, not grooms. Well, here he was, standing at the altar feeling like a lost puppy.

       Where is she?

      He made one more circuit and had just started another when suddenly he saw a movement. Marianne.

      At the sight of her his eyes widened. She wore a simple yellow dress, the hem just brushing the tops of her shoes, and the late afternoon light bathed her in a warm golden glow. She looked like a shaft of summer sunshine.

      His mouth went dry. Both witnesses stood up, and Reverend Pollock drew him into position in front of the altar. Marianne started down the aisle toward him, hesitated and then resolutely stepped forward. All at once Verena Forester moved into her path and held out a bouquet of yellow roses.

      Marianne paused to accept the flowers, then watched Verena’s gaze run over the yellow gingham wedding dress she had cobbled together in such a hurry. The woman’s narrow face beamed.

      At the altar, Lance was staring at her as if he’d never laid eyes on her before. She gripped her bouquet of roses and continued on down the aisle toward him. Dear God, was she really doing this? Marrying a man she had blackmailed into taking her as his wife? She should feel a huge measure of guilty shame, but for some strange reason she didn’t. Instead she felt as if she had just swallowed a bolt of lightning.

      She caught Lance’s gaze and her heart stopped. Goodness, he looked so serious! Not a hint of a smile touched his mouth. His usually unruly dark hair was neatly combed, and as she watched, his smoky blue eyes went wide.

      Was he as scared as she was? Worse, did he regret agreeing to marry her?

      Her heart thumped erratically. Why was she so frightened? This man, Lance Burnside, meant nothing to her, wasn’t that true? She was simply using him for her own ends, wasn’t she? Why should she be frightened?

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