The Outlaw Takes A Bride: A Historical Western Romance (Bernstein Sisters Historical Cowboy Romance Series Book 5)

by Amy Field

  “I am known as Mrs. Parker, sir,” she replied politely.

  “Henry Pendleton, at your service,” he said in turn. She swallowed.

  “As in the Pendletons of Heatherly?” She squeaked.

  “One and the same,” he said with a smile.

  “I apologize if I have caused you any inconvenience with my presence. I was only out for a short walk to enjoy the fresh air, but I am returning now to my cottage,” she said hurriedly.

  “No, no not all, Mrs. Parker. Please, enjoy your walk. I saw you in the distance, quite alone, and only wanted to inquire if you were in need of assistance,” he explained.

  “That is quite kind of you, sir. I ask only that you say nothing of my presence here,” she told him.

  “As you wish. However, one must ask . . . why are you out here so far from the roads all alone?”

  She sighed and figured it would hurt no less to be perfectly honest. “I am in deep mourning. I should not be out at all, but I cannot stand the confines of my cottage for days and days upon end.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, but I do understand needing to get out a bit. I suppose you have little in the way of conversation and social stimulation.”

  “My maid, Clara, is my only companion. Seeing as I was only married for two, brief months, and though I cared greatly for Charles, we hardly knew each other, and this widowhood has become most trying for me,” she confided.

  “Might I walk with you a bit? I shall keep you company and it will be our little secret,” he said with a friendly smile. She smiled at him in return.

  “That would be quite lovely,” she admitted, taking his offered arm as they strolled along.

  “Your husband, God rest his soul, what happened, if I might ask?”

  “Charles left with his infantry regime barely a month after our wedding day. It was the last time I saw him. He caught a case of influenza in his encampment and passed away within a week of taking to his bed,” she recounted sadly.

  “How terrible. I offer my deepest condolences.”

  “I have been widowed now three months—a month longer than the entirety of my marriage.” She abruptly changed the subject, tiring of her lament when nothing could truly be done. “You know, it is quite inappropriate for me to be talking, much less walking, with you right now.”

  “Ahh, but I’ve never been one to care much for societal rules,” he said, leaning in close to confide to her.

  “Truly? Neither have I,” she admitted with the same conspiratorial tone. “Hence, my daily walks whilst my faint heart should be resting indoors. I do believe Clara knows what I am about, but keeps the knowledge to herself as she knows I might very well go stir crazy being confined. I do respect the memory of my Charles, but he would hate to see me like this, I know.”

  “I like how freely you speak, Mrs. Parker.”

  “And I you, Lord Pendleton.”

  “Perhaps I might accompany you again tomorrow?” He ventured.

  Jane paused, and turned to look up at him, nodding resolutely. “Yes, I think that should be lovely,” she told him, “though no one must know of our keeping company. I should not like my reputation in tatters, despite my lack of care for nonsensical rules, I still must appear to follow them.”

  Henry chuckled. “As you wish.”

  “I must return home now before I am missed,” she said reluctantly as she let go of his arm. She offered up a curtsey before turning to head back toward her cottage. “Thank you, Mr. Pendleton. I quite enjoyed our conversation this afternoon,” she stopped and said, before continuing on once more.

  “You are most welcome, Mrs. Parker,” he called out and bowed gallantly when she turned to acknowledge him.

  Jane hurried home, not looking back again for fear she would return to her new handsome friend and spend the rest of the day walking by his side. That simply wouldn’t do. What she’d done so far was scandalous enough.

  When she arrived at the small stone house with its bright red door, surrounded by a well-tended garden patch and flowering rose bushes, she slipped around to the back and through the window she’d left open in her locked bedroom. Everything was just as she left it.

  Quickly shedding her pelisse and bonnet, she loosened the ribbon tie at her waist and sank into the armchair by the now cooled grate of the fireplace. Picking up the book of poems she’d been reading earlier, she settled in to unwind from her brisk walk before venturing from the privacy of her room to make her presence known to Clara.

  Despite numerous attempts to read the flowery words that tended to stir her heart with a wealth of emotion, her betraying thoughts continued to sneak back to the country lane she’d left and the distinguished gentleman she’d met there by happenstance.

  Sitting the book back on the table by her side, she rose and unlocked the bedchamber’s door. She crept softly down the hall to the parlor and took a seat on the settee, ringing the bell for Clara.

  “Yes, Mrs. Parker?” Clara asked, appearing in the parlor’s door almost instantly.

  “I am ready for afternoon tea,” Jane told her. The young woman nodded and curtseyed before hurrying away to prepare the tea.

  Jane stared listlessly out the window as she waited. Her life had become stalled, frozen in time. Other than her elicit walks, she spent her time reading, embroidering and moving from room to room just to break up the monotony of her day. No one visited her, out of respect for her mourning, and she hardly knew anyone in the village as it was. She and Charles had moved to the cottage two days journey from Manchester, where she’d been raised, as it was closer to his regiment’s outpost, and the Pendleton family were known to be generous, kind landlords, especially suited for officers in the army.

  But now, she was here in their lovely little cottage all alone. His pension and income left to her were enough to cover the expenses of the cottage, but little else. She would need to find some sort of work once her period of mourning was over.

  “Here you are, madam. A small pitcher of cream and two sugar cubes for your tea, just like you like, and a plate of lemon cakes for you, as well,” Clara announced as she bustled in with the tea, placing it on the table.

  “Thank you, Clara, but my gown is growing tighter by the day. I believe I have been enjoying your cakes a wee bit too much as of late,” Jane told Clara as she prepared her tea.

  “Will you be needing me for anything else, madam?” Clara asked as she stood by the wall.

  “No, thank you. Take your leisure until supper time,” Jane replied, sipping at the steaming cup of tea, thoughts of tomorrow’s walk the only matter occupying her mind.

  Chapter Two

  Jane rose from her bed, the sky outside her window still dark gray, and scrambled to the chamber pot, retching violently. After depositing all of the contents in her stomach. She slumped to the ground, weak and nauseous. She’d never been so ill in all of her life.

  Groaning, she slunk back into bed, her head heavy against the pillow. She worried that she would vomit again, but the sickening feeling slowly dissipated and she fell back asleep, waking at last when the sun was shining brightly outdoors.

  “Clara?” She called out when she finally rose.

  “Yes, madam?” Clara inquired, appearing in the doorway of her room.

  “I cannot believe I slept so late—why, it has to nearly be noon!” Jane cried, peering out the window.

  “Not quite. Would you like me to help you dress, and then see about getting you some breakfast?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, please,” Jane replied, still puzzled by her short, strange bout of sickness and the overwhelming fatigue still coursing through her. “I believe I shall take it easy today. I am not feeling all that well.” She prayed silently that she would feel well enough to still slip away for a clandestine stroll soon after lunch.

  Clara helped her dress in a black crepe gown and styled her hair, though for all intents and purpose, she had nowhere to go or visit, nor would anyone come to call upon her. After dressing, she went to sit
at the dining table alone, and Clara brought her a plate of poached eggs and slices of melon along with a cup of strong tea. Famished, the food disappeared from her plate much faster than usual. She usually tended to draw out her mealtimes, as they were part of the few distractions she could amuse herself with daily.

  After eating, she rose and settled in the small parlor, picking up a piece of embroidery she’d been working on for quite some time. Looking out the window, she sighed wistfully. It was hard to believe she had at least another nine months of this staid, lonely life. At least, she had her afternoon strolls to brighten her day—especially now that she had company planning to attend her on her walk.

  When the clock at last struck three, she bolted from her seat. “I shall retire to my room now for my afternoon respite,” she announced, her voice clear and loud, so that Clara heard her from wherever she was in the small cottage.

  Heading to her room, she slipped inside and locked the door behind her. Glancing about the neat and tidy room, she moved her novel to the small table, stoked the fire in the grate. She shrugged into her pelisse, buttoning up the black silk before donning her bonnet and tying the black satin ribbons beneath her chin. Easing up the window sash, she none too gracefully lifted a leg and climbed out, landing gingerly against the back wall of the cottage. Glancing around to make sure Clara wasn’t about, she dashed into the cluster of woods behind the house, praying, as she did every day, that no one saw her escape.

  When she burst through the grove and into the picturesque lane, to her surprise, Lord Pendleton was already there, waiting for her to arrive.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker,” he greeted, bowing low as he walked toward her from where he stood by his horse, which he had tied to the fence and the animal was happily grazing at the tall, sweet grasses poking through the wooden posts.

  “Likewise, Lord Pendleton,” she curtseyed, suddenly turning shy. Unlike their chance meeting the day before, today’s exercise had been planned, and she found herself unsure of what to say or do.

  “Shall we?” He grinned at her and offered her his arm.

  “Yes, please,” she smiled back at him as she hooked her arm lightly through his.

  “I trust your day has been pleasant?” He asked.

  “As pleasant as can be managed for someone in my position.”

  “Your position?” He asked, his eyebrow raised.

  “As a widow, I am allowed to do little. But once my time of deep mourning is over, I suppose I shall find work in the village, or perhaps as a governess,” she mused.

  “That simply won’t do,” he replied.

  She glanced up at him in confusion.

  “Such a lovely beauty as yourself should not have to work her fingers to the bone to survive.”

  “Thankfully, I have sufficient income to afford my home, but after my year of imposed isolation, I will have to earn something of a living and make myself useful,” she explained.

  “Have you considered marrying again?”

  Her cheeks flushed at his forthright question. “I have considered it, but the market for acceptable husbands for impoverished widows is rather marginal.”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest.

  “I cannot imagine what you could possibly find humorous regarding my circumstances,” she remarked.

  “Mrs. Parker, you are young yet, and quite fetching. I think it preposterous that you should lump yourself into the category of typical widows.”

  “Most eligible bachelors do not wish for previously married brides or those with little to line their pockets. That is most common knowledge, and fortunately, I do not have to remarry, given my circumstances, though it would certainly ease my worries.”

  “Perhaps, you shall find love, Mrs. Parker. At the tender age of . . . I can’t imagine more than nineteen or twenty, you are young yet and the possibility is there.”

  She gazed at her gloved hand resting on his sleeve. “Yes, I suppose it is. I shall simply have to hope for such a wondrous thing.”

  “Yes, you shall.”

  “And what of you? Are you not of the Pendletons of Pelham House? Surely, bevies of girls adorned with ribbons and roses throw themselves into your path, vying for your attentions and the ultimate prize of becoming your bride?”

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, you speak the truth, though I wish it weren’t so. I feel as though the balls and parties are excuses for mothers and fathers to parade their wares before me, hoping I’ll select one and purchase. The whole business is rather cold and I despise it. Were I to take a turn about the gardens with any number of them, surely they would rattle on about their merits as a potential wife or on and on nonsensically about my esteemed relations.”

  “You do not know for sure. They could not all be as you say. Surely, there is a rose among the thorns,” she countered.

  “I do believe you are right, Mrs. Parker, as the rose is before me now.”

  Her cheeks bloomed pink and she turned away, eyeing the fields of lavender as they walked. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “I only speak the truth,” he told her, stopping as they neared the edge of the forest.

  “The truth can be dangerous,” she replied, her heart thudding in her chest.

  “I know the hour is beginning to grow late. May I accompany you on your stroll again tomorrow?” He asked.

  She nodded, smiling. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

  When they parted ways, he placed a lingering kiss on her wrist and the entire, short walk back to her cottage, it felt as though she walked on clouds, instead of rocks, brush and fallen branches.

  Chapter Three

  Her walks with Lord Pendleton continued for a fortnight. Each day, he would be waiting for her, leaving her to wonder what time he arrived at the country lane in hopes that she would be there. She strived to slip from the cottage each day at half past three, but occasionally Clara would offer her company, or tea and biscuits, and she couldn’t very well refuse. Also, on Sundays, they did not meet, as it was expected of him to attend services in the village and a late lunch with his mother and father.

  She hummed as she worked on her embroidery, sang when she tended her small herb garden. A sprout of hope had begun to grow in her heart, and though she knew not where it would lead, she thought of him constantly, knowing her feelings were growing more amorous with every afternoon that they shared together.

  However, once two weeks had passed since meeting Lord Pendleton and she was waking again to another bout of sickness, she slumped against the floor. Though she had little experience as a wife, her suspicions had grown as of late, and were now fully confirmed that she was with child. The sickness, the missing courses, the slight curve of her stomach—there were reasons enough to support her concern.

  In the first couple of months of widowhood, she’d been too shocked at her new position in life that she hadn’t noticed the subtle changes to her body, but now, according to her calculations, she must be close to approaching her fourth month, and the changes were evident, though hidden beneath swaths of heavy black fabric.

  What was she to do? Her mind immediately traveled to thoughts of her afternoon strolls and the handsome gentleman that accompanied her. She couldn’t very well tell him that she was with child. That simply couldn’t be done. But she also couldn’t encourage him in his gentle pursuit of her. Her heart sank. She cared greatly for him and the thought of discouraging him did not sit well.

  Later that day as she rushed to meet him, he closed the distance as soon as his eyes clapped on her, taking both of her hands in his.

  “I’ve missed you greatly, Mrs. Parker,” he said, kissing each of her hands.

  “And I you, my dear Lord Pendleton.”

  “Please, call me, Henry. No one is about to hear otherwise,” he told her.

  “Then you may call me Jane,” she replied in turn before realizing her folly.

  “Jane,” he whispered softly.

  She cleared her throat and turned away from him to begin
walking. “It certainly is warm today,” she remarked as he scurried to fall in line beside her.

  “That it is. How I should like to invite you to Heatherly for a glass of punch. Cook makes a delightfully tart and sweet batch each day of the summer.”

  Jane sighed. “That would be quite nice, though we know it isn’t a possibility.”

  “Let’s not think on such matters,” Henry replied, linking her arm about his.

  “But such matters must be considered. We cannot exist in this country lane forever,” she ventured.

  “And that I know. Jane, I must tell you how very much you mean to me,” he began.

  “Look, Henry! A turtle!” She cried to distract him. The small tortoiseshell stood out in the midst of the worn path. Henry reached down and picked it up, sitting the animal in the thicker grasses to protect it from predators.

  “As I was saying, sweet Jane, I think you know that my feelings for you are most sincere,” he continued on, taking the brief distraction in stride.

  “As mine are for you,” she admitted, “but it does not change anything, Henry. I am a widow. I cannot even retreat from my deep mourning for several more months, and after that it shall still be quite some time before I may accept callers or requests for courtship.”

  “You are worth the wait to me,” he replied simply.

  She sighed. How could she discourage him, this man that cared for her so easily?

  “Let’s speak more of this on the morrow,” he said, taking her hand and placing a tender kiss on her wrist. At his outright words and displays of affection, she grew overwhelmed and her heart fluttered. She grabbed onto his arm to steady herself as a wave of dizziness overtook her.

  “Are you alright?” He asked, taking firm hold of her waist, his voice riddled with concern.

  She nodded as she tried to right herself in his arms. “Yes, yes, just a bit dizzy, that is all.”

  “Then I shall accompany you home. I do not wish you to faint in the woods all alone.”

  “You cannot accompany me to my cottage!” She cried.

  “I shall walk with you through the woods and ensure that you make it safely indoors. I shall be discreet, I assure you.”