by Gina Conkle
His mouth quirked. Would she come to his bed if they were lawfully wed?
Samuel crossed his arms, straining his blue coat. “I know what you’re thinking. Let it go.”
“What am I thinking?”
Samuel shook his head. “She’s a fine young woman with more spirit than most. Don’t think to use her for sex and cast her aside.”
“Coming to her aid all of a sudden?” Marcus taunted.
Samuel stalked to the fireplace, his voice low as he faced Marcus. “She’s a lowborn woman. Don’t use her for sex. We both know you’ll leave someday and find a woman of your station.” A mischievous smile flashed. “Why not let her swan about as Lady Marcus Bowles? Then she could cry impotence to the courts as reason for leaving you.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious.” The smile faded, and Samuel’s eyes were keen. “Impotence is another option. You want to help Miss Turner, don’t you? How far will you go to protect her?”
Marcus rubbed his breastbone with the heel of his hand. Allow ravaging testimony about his manhood in court? He hoped his brother had a bride ready and would wed her soon…before damaging gossip drifted south.
“The noble thing would be to give her the protection of my name and deliver her to her grandmother. It’s why she came north in the first place.”
Samuel slapped his shoulder. “Now you’re thinking.”
A parched sensation clawed at Marcus’s throat. His sight line wandered to the lone cabinet in the parlor, empty save a few books. Those tomes sat in place of whiskey bottles. His vices. He’d exiled himself to become a changed man, but he’d never expected to pay such personal costs.
How far should a man go to rescue a woman in need, a woman he harbored deep affection for?
Miss Turner appeared in the doorway, her face washed, her gloves on, and her red hood framing her pretty visage. Big dark eyes shined with depth. However absurd this marriage idea was, she was ready to take charge of her life.
Marcus pasted a smile on his face. Samuel thought he wanted her for convenient sex. It was his own fault that Samuel saw him that way. He couldn’t deny Genevieve Turner’s ripe curves appealed to him. Pushing off the mantel, a deeper question gnawed at him.
What if he never let her go?
Eighteen
How did a woman go about winning the man she was about to wed? The question bounced around Genevieve’s head with no answers forthcoming. Still, she was in heaven, arms wrapped around Lord Bowles with her body flush to his. They were crossing the River Tweed on the way to Coldstream, Khan’s hooves clip-clopping on the empty bridge.
The day’s fright—being caught by Reinhard—drove home a truth. She cared deeply for Lord Bowles. He held some affection for her, but how deep, she couldn’t be sure. Resting her cheek against his wool-covered back, she hoped for more than a winter with him.
Odds were stacked against her. That wasn’t new.
She had a short time to be wed to him. A fortnight? The winter? Much of their wedded bliss would be spent apart—all in the name of keeping the Wolf at bay. Lord Bowles was determined to deliver her to her grandmother, a plan she couldn’t argue against. He’d made a fine point. Marriage and hiding her in another village would defeat Herr Wolf.
Had Lord Bowles been as single-minded with other women he’d entangled himself with? Or was this something reserved for her alone?
The full moon glowed a gentle light on their slow ride from Pallinsburn. Khan’s hindquarters lumbered beneath her. With her skirts hiked, her legs fit neatly against Lord Bowles’s legs, her body mashing against his.
She set her chin on his back. “Is this how you win the hearts of women, milord? Take them on moonlit rides?”
“I confess to doing many things late at night.” His head turned, showing his fine profile. “But you’d be the first to ride Khan with me at any hour, day or night.”
“And the first you’ll wed and leave on another’s doorstep.”
Moonlight glimmered on his breath, the air crisp and cold. “I confess I have my doubts as to the wisdom of leaving you behind.”
“Are you saying you don’t want me to stay in Coldstream? Or are you admitting you’ll miss your housekeeper?”
He chuckled, the rumble vibrating from his body to hers. “I forgot about that. Now I can hire a proper housekeeper. One who cleans chamber pots.”
A bitter pang hit her. Another woman would tend him. “Think of all the bath-time conversation you’ll miss,” she said, trying to keep the mood light. “No proper housekeeper will bring a cheroot to you in your bath.”
“Very true. I’ve grown accustomed to your impertinent negotiations. I may have a difficult time adjusting.”
She twirled his queue hanging over his collar. “Life will be dull at Pallinsburn without me.”
“It will indeed,” he said, a touch sad.
Coldstream village lay ahead. A night bird circled overhead, its soft evening song the only sound, save Khan’s hooves clip-clopping and the River Tweed’s gentle flow.
“What?” she teased. “You’ve no retort? I expect you’ll chase the laundress.”
“Certainly not. I’ll be a married man.”
“You won’t have your wife underfoot.”
“A perfect marital arrangement,” he said lightly, but his voice lost its usual liveliness.
“Which means you’ll be free to go about gentling women.”
“No gentling of the ladies unless they’re the four-legged variety.” He spoke over his shoulder, his cocked hat shadowing his features.
Brightness swelled inside her, leaving her light and happy. “Dare I believe you’ll be faithful to me?”
“Or you to me?” he shot back.
She nestled her cheek against him. “You’ll be the only gentleman for me.”
She stilled, her eyes flaring wide in the dark. Her confession dripped with contentment and deeper affections. She braced herself for a kindly setdown or a jest. None came. It was difficult to know what Lord Bowles was thinking. This was all very awkward yet strangely natural, like putting on a favorite comfortable gown. Being with Lord Bowles fit. Yet she couldn’t lose herself here. He was doing her a great favor by marrying her; she couldn’t let romantic ideas gallop out of control.
Lord Bowles steered Khan toward a cottage behind a copse of trees. Beyond the cottage, an anvil-shaped sign hung over large double doors, the name McTavish painted in white on the anvil.
“Here we are. The blacksmith’s home.”
His lordship dismounted. Genevieve couldn’t take her eyes off those doors. They’d get married in there.
“Miss Turner.” Lord Bowles reached for her, his gloved hands taking her by the waist.
She slid off Khan, but Lord Bowles kept both hands on her waist. “It’s not so bad. We pay a few shillings. Say a few words, and we’re done.” His breath puffed crystalline clouds. “Unless you plan to jilt me.”
“Tonight…it’s like walking through a dream, yet I’m awake.” A few inches separated his body from hers. “This goes beyond any requirement of friendship, milord. I don’t know how to thank you.”
They stood close together, bathed in night, silence a slow-moving current. His collar framed a sensual, kissable mouth. This decision changed what went on between them. Did it wedge them apart? Or draw them closer? For there was no doubt his lordship was about to make a great sacrifice on her behalf.
Lord Bowles kissed her forehead and held her hand. “Come. Let’s hope the blacksmith isn’t already abed.”
She needed his steadying hand when a surly, fair-haired woman of middling years answered the knock at the door, wiping work-rough hands on her apron.
The woman sized them up. “Angus,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got a couple on our doorstep.” She held out her palm. “Two shillings.”
&nbs
p; Lord Bowles set the coins in her hand.
She checked the tarnished pieces and nodded at the outbuilding. “Wait at the smithy.”
Angus McTavish met them at the smithy door, his full mouth splitting with a friendly smile in his bushy beard. They gave their greetings as he pushed open the wide, double doors. Embers glowed orange inside a brick forge. Hard scents of coal dust and iron hit Genevieve’s nose. She’d remember this, cherish this irregular night forever.
Mrs. McTavish joined them with a young woman about Genevieve’s age. The matron nodded at her husband. “They paid, Angus. Let’s get on with this.”
The young woman ogled Lord Bowles, stopping when Mrs. McTavish shot her a scolding glare.
“We have our witnesses. Now we can begin.” Eyes twinkling, Mr. McTavish tapped his anvil. “You’ll want to join your hands here.” When they placed their gloved hands together, he added, “Gloves off.”
With their gloves away, Genevieve set her work-rough hand on the iron. Lord Bowles stole her breath when he twined his fingers with hers. Dirt creased his lordship’s knuckles the same as hers. They could be two rustics in a rush to wed. When she looked into his eyes, at his smile, her insides tottered to the soles of her feet. This smile was not one she’d seen before, and she’d mindfully cataloged her share of them. The lips were gently parted, and the edges curved as though he would utter words about a rare treasure seen for the first time. And she was that treasure.
Mr. McTavish spoke on the other side of the anvil, his voice registering in her ear. Words were said. Vows given, but most of the ceremony was lost on her. The place, the people blurred. Until…
“Do you, Genevieve Turner, take Lord Marcus Andrew James Bowles to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Warmth flushed her. She smiled at the Andrew James. He’d always be Lord Marcus Honor Bowles, gentleman rescuer to a woman in need.
“I do,” she said.
Lord Bowles grinned as if he guessed her thoughts.
Mr. McTavish repeated the question for Lord Bowles, and his hazel eyes glinted as he echoed, “I do.”
The blacksmith called for an exchange of rings, but his lordship shook his head. “Sorry. I was in such a rush to marry her. I have none.”
“Humph.” Mrs. McTavish snorted her disapproval.
“Then I’ll get to the business of announcing you as man and wife,” the blacksmith said, winking. “So you can kiss your bride, milord.” Mr. McTavish cleared his throat. “I now pronounce you…”
Words faded. So did the smithy. Her skirts brushed his lordship’s legs. Hazel eyes lit over a straight nose and well-formed mouth, a mouth smiling at her with a dimple in the right corner. In the dim orange light, she’d swear his lordship was flushed with excitement.
They were married.
Lord Bowles cupped her chin and bent close. Their first kiss as man and wife was slow and thoughtful and sweetly chaste. Warmth poured its honey through her veins, settling in less chaste places.
He finished the kiss and whispered in her ear, “You have another first on me. The only woman other than my mother to know about the Andrew James.”
“I’ll carry your secret to my grave,” she whispered back.
Mr. McTavish’s hearty laugh reminded her they weren’t alone. There were papers to sign, and before they left, Lord Bowles asked for the whereabouts of the vicarage.
“You’ll be looking for Vicar Pemberton.” The blacksmith walked them to his doorway and pointed to a simple stone cottage beside a somber, dark-gray church.
They strolled into moonlight, her ungloved hand wrapped around her new husband’s arm. In his other hand, he raised a rolled-up document. Their marriage license.
“Now you’re free.”
Three words said on an unlit village road. Was there sadness in his voice? Lord Bowles untethered Khan, choosing to walk to the vicarage. It wasn’t far to get there. Her new husband slipped the single sheet of paper inside his coat pocket. A marriage license. The binding document shackled some and set others on a path to a lifetime of happiness.
What would be her fate?
Lord Bowles wrapped Khan’s reins around a post in front of the vicarage. Fingertips touching her mouth, she faced the stone cottage. Her journey was over. She was free, yet her feet refused to take the narrow pathway leading to the front door. Candlelight twinkled from windows trimmed with frilly, white lace. Giggling children and a warm, matronly voice sounded from the front walk.
A family.
Was her grandmother happy here? Would she be happy here?
“Your grandmother must’ve married a vicar,” Lord Bowles said, standing beside her.
A vicar. Would they accept her?
She stared at the lace-trimmed windows. Her stomach lurched. “Happy to be rid of me?”
“Happy to see you at last finding what you came north for.” He paused, following her sight line to those windows. “But you won’t know what’s in store for you until you knock on the door.”
Genevieve’s muscles tensed. Her skin was cold, and she started to shake. “I can’t make myself go.”
“You’ve come this far,” he said gently. “You can do this.”
Lord Bowles took her hand and wrapped it over his forearm. In an instant, staring at the sweet stone cottage, she was a young girl again, shunned by the milliner’s daughter on Lumley Court. The memory stung her eyes. She sniffed, the wetness gathering in her nose, and stood taller. The family inside the vicarage might slam the door in her face. She’d never erase the taint of her birth and her mother’s choices.
For all her courage journeying north, this was the hardest step.
She leaned close, needing her new husband’s strength. “Yes. I can do this, but I’m grateful to have you at my side.”
Together, they put one foot in front of the other, taking the short path to the green door, the sounds of laughter growing louder in the cottage.
Grinning, he knocked thrice. “The irony of me delivering you to a vicarage isn’t lost on me.”
She wanted to laugh. He was trying to lighten the moment, but standing there, waiting, her chin dropped to her chest. Her ripped hems swayed from the toe of one shoe to the other, the silent tic telling.
Would her grandmother want her?
Muffled footsteps came, and the door opened.
“Good evening. May I help you?” Light bathed a slender man of middling years in a gray coat. He looked to Lord Bowles and then Genevieve, his chipped-tooth smile friendly.
Could he be an uncle, perhaps? Throat tight, her mouth dry, she opened up her mouth to say something, but no words came out.
Lord Bowles covered her hand with his, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Vicar Pemberton, pardon me for disturbing you at this late hour, but my wife and I are looking for a long-lost relative. We were told she’s here.”
The vicar’s pale-eyed assessment flitted over them.
“This is highly unusual,” Lord Bowles went on. “But we are Lord and Lady Bowles. We’ve just come from across the river to seek your help.”
“Of course.” The vicar stepped back, opening the door wide. “Please enter.”
A row of coats hung from hooks on a high-backed settle. Seven of them. Genevieve’s heart thudded. A sizable family. Despite the cold, her palms dampened. Lord Bowles removed his hat and cast a sidelong glance at her. Her jaws refused to work. She implored him with her eyes to take over. Her new husband stroked his thumb across her fingers still resting on his arm. The small, solicitous touch could be a promise. I’m here.
Lord Bowles was shod in well-worn hip boots, but his manner and posture spoke of excellent breeding. She was glad to have him at her side.
“We’re looking for Maude Turner,” he explained. “We heard this was her home.”
Vicar Pemberton’s breath caught before he sighed. “In a
manner of speaking, yes.”
“May we see her?” Genevieve asked, voice cracking.
The vicar held up a finger when footsteps approached. “A moment.”
“Whoever has come at this late hour?” A plump woman, a mobcap perched on graying brown hair, poked her head around the corner. She shooed back a girl in dark-blue skirts.
“My dear, we have the honor of hosting Lord and Lady Bowles,” the vicar said.
He made quick introductions, to the squeals of more childish laughter from the other room.
Mrs. Pemberton stepped into the entry hall and bobbed a curtsy. “Please come in, come in. We’re late getting the children to bed, but I’ve some tea and biscuits I can offer you.”
“We don’t want to trouble you,” Lord Bowles said. “If you could tell us where to find Maude Turner, we’ll be on our way.”
“Oh.” The older woman fretted with her fingerless gloves, nodding gravely at her husband. “You’ll take them to her now, won’t you, dear?”
“Yes, dear.” The vicar reached for a black coat and round hat.
Genevieve tugged her hood forward. Her burgeoning courage faltered under Mrs. Pemberton’s probing stare. The older woman looked askance at her while the vicar buttoned up his coat. Genevieve coaxed herself to breathe. This journey was almost over. Vicar Pemberton led the way out the door, and they followed him across winter-yellow grass, their breath visible in the moonlight. The romantic ride across the bridge was lost in a sea of uncertainty.
The vicar cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. “Mrs. Turner came to us last winter. There’d been a fire at her cottage”—he peered at them, his brows arching—“though ‘cottage’ is too kind a word. ‘Hovel’ would be more accurate.”
“She’s a doll maker, isn’t she?” Lord Bowles asked.
“Of sorts.”
Vicar Pemberton opened a gate, motioning for them to go ahead. Moonlight sparkled on the church’s gray edifice. Patchy moss climbed the cornerstones of a dark, lonely church.
“She lives inside the church?” Genevieve broke her silence.
