Freedom Forever by Lexy Timms Page A

much to bear. She felt lightheaded, and held tight to Abraham’s hand to stay upright.
    “And you’re very pale,” he observed, whirling her around so that she swayed against him; she felt his hand splay on the small of her back, drawing her closer.
    “I’ve been ill,” Cecelia said, with as much grace as she could muster. “You know that.”
    “That’s your own fault,” he said tightly.
    She looked up, and saw that although his smile was still in place, all traces of warmth in his blue eyes had vanished. But now she was defiant. She did not care if Abraham objected to her being with child. He had been happy enough about the circumstances that led them here, he had what he wanted now: her as his bride to be, the woman he would marry one week from tomorrow. If he did not care that the thought made her almost sick with nerves, then she resolved not to care that he thought ill of her for her condition.
    “You’re right, of course,” she said, as calmly as she could.
    “Are you going to look that way all night?” he demanded of her.
    “Pale? Sick? I suppose so.” She gave what she hoped was a withering smile on par with Clara’s. Oh, how she wished she were Clara now. Clara truly wouldn’t care what Abraham thought. Clara would have been clever enough to find a way out of this, and damn the consequences—perhaps she would simply have lashed Abraham with her wit and fire, and intimidated him into giving her her own way. By contrast, Cecelia’s defiance, weak as it was, only stoked Abraham’s anger.
    “This way,” he snapped, and he led her away from the party with her hand clasped tightly in his, hardly seeming to care that the bones were pressed together painfully. When they rounded the corner of the barn, he drew her close to hiss in her ear. “I’ll not have you shaming me. You’re my betrothed.”
    “That’s your own fault,” Cecelia threw back in his face.
    For a moment, she thought he would hit her. She saw it in his eyes. But he steadied himself with a deep breath.
    “I only asked,” he said, smiling at her. “And you said yes.”
    “You only asked ?” Cecelia said incredulously.
    “You said yes.”
    “You hardly gave me a choice.”
    “Oh, there was most certainly a choice.” But his smile was chilling. He knew she could not say no and she, for her part, knew he would never let her. Abraham had been determined, for months, to have her as his wife.
    “Well, if you don’t want me to shame you, perhaps we should sit and watch the dancing,” Cecelia said finally. She could not bear to keep speaking of what could be. She would start crying again, as she had too many times since the betrothal. As she did, now, every night, pressing her face into the pillow so no one could hear her.
    “And have people trade gossip about you not feeling well?”
    “They’re more likely to do that if you make me dance until I collapse,” Cecelia hissed back.
    “I’ll not have people saying my fiancée carries a bastard.”
    “Why not?” Cecelia whispered. “It’s true.”
    What he was planning to say to that, she never knew, for the sound of footsteps carried clearly through the night air, and both of them froze.
    “There you are!” Clara’s voice said. It was delighted, still carrying half a giggle with it. She smiled at them both, and even Abraham smiled back instinctively. “My dear, might I borrow your betrothed for just a moment? I need her to help me with my gown.”
    “Of course,” Abraham said, bowing slightly. His manners were perfect and his smile easy. He might never have been angry at all.  He kissed Cecelia’s hand, once more the perfect husband-to-be, and disappeared around the side of the barn with a backwards glance and a smile to them both.
    Everyone, Cecelia reflected bitterly, did what Clara wanted. Why had she never managed to learn that trick? She was just as pretty, surely, even if her hair was not golden. She was just as sweet.
    Perhaps she was too sweet.
    “Thank