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

by Amy Field

  But now, Henry’s shock, his expression, made a little more sense. He had caught wind of the rumors. How could he think her capable of such indecency? She needed him to know the truth, but figuring out a way to explain her situation would not be easy. She had no one, and seemingly all eyes in the village were upon her.

  Several hours later, Jane awoke in her pitch black bedroom, still dressed and atop the bedlinens. Her eyes stung from crying herself to sleep and her head pounded. She drug herself off of the bed and stumbled through the house to light a taper from the coals simmering in the kitchen’s hearth.

  Once she had a wee bit of light, she set about pouring herself a cup of water to ease her parched throat. Though she’d only had a single servant, she now felt how very alone she was in the still, darkened cottage, and she did not like it whatsoever. As soon as the sun rose, she would certainly see about hiring a new maid. Hopefully, some poor soul would be desperate enough for work that they would not turn down a position because of her sullied reputation.

  Fumbling about in the kitchen, she found a bit of cheese and a hard roll to sate her hunger. Even in the throes of sorrow, her stomach had still rumbled. Perhaps, it was the baby within her that made her famished despite her circumstances. As she stood in the shadows of the kitchen eating her late supper, her heart sank. How had she gotten to such a dark place?

  First, the death of her husband of mere months, the stifling months of widowhood, the impending birth of her child and subsequent certainty of raising a child all alone, falling in love with Henry only to have her heart broken—pain had decided to become her constant companion as of late, and the end appeared to be nowhere in sight.

  Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin, she begrudgingly trudged back to her bedchamber, taper in hand. Shrugging out of her gown, which was no easy feat to manage on her own, she slipped on a nightgown and sat the candle on her bedside table before sliding between the sheets. Sleep did not come easy to her that night. Instead, she spent most of the night tossing and turning, until restlessly rising just before dawn.

  Henry couldn’t sleep. Throughout the long night, his mind was flooded with thoughts of Jane. How could she have played him for a fool? He felt so betrayed—he’d never once doubted Jane’s true feelings for him. Until now. How could she have done this to him? Who was her secret lover?

  His mother had been waiting to speak to him when he had returned late yesterday afternoon, but he had went straight to his bedchamber, refusing her admittance. His father, away with Uncle Wes in London on family business, would have barged right in, intent on determining the heart of the matter, but his mother somewhat respected his privacy regarding personal affairs.

  As the sun rose, he shrugged into his dressing gown. He couldn’t avoid his mother forever. His eyes widened and he rushed to his wardrobe, hurrying to change in a shirt and buckskin breeches. Melanie Pendleton wasn’t known to rise early. He could sneak from the mains and be on his horse and in the far pastures before she stirred from her bed.

  Henry loved his mother. Very much. But when it came to matters of his heart and future marriage, the normally sweet-tempered, graceful woman was awfully opinionated. Though her concerns for matters regarding Jane came from a truly genuine place that only wanted to protect him, Henry knew that she would not be pleased with his choice of future bride, impending birth of a child or not.

  Once he was dressed and had seen to his ablutions, Henry tiptoed down the grand staircase, slipped through the back of the house nearest to the kitchen, but not before grabbing an apple and one of Cook’s scones fresh from the oven, and headed for the stables.

  He wasn’t sure where he would go or how he would spend his day—his only requirement being that it not be at Heatherly, nor in the village. Too much gossip about he and Jane was being spread, and he had no desire to hear more of it, nor would he welcome curious stares. Never before had he been in the middle of such a muck.

  As he rode into the forest, he considered spending the day fishing in a lake he’d discovered on one of his rides, or perhaps he could ride east through the Hampshire countryside until he reached his Uncle Wes’ grand estate, Pelham House. Though his uncle, the earl of Winchester, was away in London with his own father for the next fortnight, perhaps his cousins would be there to entertain him. They were all of a good sort.

  However, he promptly decided against a visit to see his relatives. His female cousins would know something was wrong and spend far too much time and energy trying to wheedle his concerns out of him. He had enough of that at home, truly he did.

  After weighing his options, Henry spent most of the morning wandering about the wooded forests near his home, his thoughts his only companion. With much on his mind, he welcomed the quiet woodlands, only an occasional bird’s song to break the silence. By noon, he had subconsciously meandered to a very familiar country lane. A particular stretch that he had once looked forward to visiting nearly every day. He sighed sadly, knowing those days were over.

  Needing to rest his horse anyway, he dismounted and tied the beast to a tree where he could easily reach and graze among the sweet grasses growing in abundance along the fence. Resting his arms on the whitewashed posts closing in Heatherly’s land, he gazed absentmindedly into the fields full of lavender flowers. A memory of picking a bouquet of those very flowers just three days ago with Jane popped unbidden into his mind.

  Pushing away from the fence in anger, he started to turn, but that’s when a flash of blue caught his eye. A folded paper with his name in delicate scrawl written across the front, was tied to the fence post with a bright blue satin ribbon, near to where he and Jane met for their daily walks. He took two steps and retrieved the missive, intrigued. Quickly breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

  My Dearest Henry,

  I beg you—please read this letter in its entirety so that you may know the events surrounding my unfortunate circumstance. First and foremost, I am so very sorry for keeping my delicate condition a secret, but I did not know how to break the news to you. I love you so very much, and I knew you would leave me, just as you did, once you knew.

  I am sorry for not being honest, but I was at an utmost loss as to what I should do. As a widow, my child shall have no father, and as I alone am all the baby shall have in the world, the severity of the situation I find myself is rather overwhelming.

  But you, my sweet Henry, you were my escape from the drudgeries of widowhood and the fright of becoming a mother. In your eyes, I saw love and happiness, and I foolishly believed that I could share that with you, but I know now how wrong I was in thinking such a thing.

  I do apologize for any scandal the knowledge of my condition may have caused you or your family. I have yet to understand why common, good people would assume my child’s father to be you, when I was married but only a few months ago. I do not enjoy even writing such scandalous words, but it is, for some reason, our town’s opinion on the matter, and that is what hurts me the most—that they would think such a thing of you!

  I hope you get this letter so that you know how sorry I am for any trouble I may have caused you. I will not bother you again.

  With all my love now and forever,

  Jane

  Henry stared at the hastily scrawled words on the parchment. He read them over and over, until the words started to run together. Guilt seeped into his veins and overtook his heart. He hung his head in defeat.

  He had been guilty of the same traitorous act as that of the village. Though he knew the child was not his, he had believed Jane to have found a lover. Not once, much to his dismay, did he believe the child to be her late husband’s. How could he have been so blind?

  Poor Jane, she had truly suffered. Life had dealt her a particularly rough hand, and he, who had professed his undying love for her, sealed with the promise to take her as his wife, had turned and fled at the first sightings of trouble. He was ashamed.

  The summer breeze ruffled the single page still clutched in his ha
nds. One thing was clear. He had to see Jane and explain to her how foolish he had been, and apologize for hurting her posthaste.

  Chapter Eight

  The morning had proved a waste of effort for Jane. After she’d returned from her early morning task of delivering her letter to Henry at their meeting place, she’d ventured into town with the hopes of securing help once again. However, all and sundry promptly turned up their noses to her. She was shunned, considered a fallen woman.

  Tearfully, she returned back to her cottage where the grates were cold and not a scrap of food had been prepared. Having no other choice, she changed into her oldest gown, tied the large apron Clara had always worn about her waist, grabbed a basket and headed for the neatly tended vegetable garden.

  Jane took her time, never truly spending all that much time in the garden before, pulling weeds, picking ripe tomatoes from the vine, and digging up a few potatoes and radishes ready for harvest. Once she had done all she knew to do in the garden, she picked blueberries from the bushes and a few peaches and plums from the trees that lined the back of her yard.

  Taking her bounty inside, she wasn’t at all sure what to do with them. She ate a handful of blueberries and a plum to stave off her rumbling stomach before setting about to get a fire going in the kitchen’s hearth.

  Just as the fire roared to life, she heard a knock at the door. Hopping up from where she crouched by the hearth, she hurried to see who was calling at her door. Perhaps, some blessed soul needed work bad enough that they cared not for her reputation after all.

  She froze when she opened the door and saw who stood pensively, a bouquet of her favorite lavender wildflowers in his hands, at her threshold. “H-Henry?” She questioned, her hands subconsciously smoothing her braided hair and old, rumpled gown.

  “Jane, might I speak with you?” He offered her the flowers.

  “Of course, come in. Though I must warn you, I have nothing much to offer. I suppose I could make us a spot of tea.” She took the flowers from him and stepped out of his path, allowing him entrance into her home.

  “No, please do not worry yourself with offering me refreshments,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped into the parlor and she placed the flowers on a small table. She’d find a vase for them later.

  “Very well,” she replied, standing tall. Though he had brought her low, she was determined not to play the desperate victim—with him or anyone else.

  “Jane, I read the letter you left me, and I came straight here to apologize to you. I am ashamed of my reaction to your news. It was so easy for me to forget that you were once married, and not all that long ago. I assumed you had affection for another man—even saying it aloud, I am most embarrassed.” He hung his head, shamefully.

  “Henry, my heart is yours and no one else’s. I would never do such a thing, and it hurts me to believe you would think of me so lowly.”

  “And for that, I cannot beg enough for your forgiveness. I am so very sorry, Jane. I cannot say it enough.”

  “I forgive you, Henry. I will not hold your slip in judgment against you, and I understand why you would not want to marry me now. I am sorry for allowing our tryst to continue as I did, once I was aware of my circumstance.”

  Henry took several steps and closed the distance between them, taking her hands in his. “No, Jane, believe me when I say that I love you. I want you as my wife. No one else could ever do. I shall gladly adopt this baby as my own, and we shall raise it together in love.”

  “You cannot be serious,” she stammered, searching his face for some cruel twist that he was jesting. “What will people say? What will your mother say?”

  “Like I once told you, I care little for what people say.” His mind ventured to thoughts of avoiding the village. Maybe he did care, but he cared for Jane much more.

  “People will say much. Mostly terrible things, I am sure,” she warned. Henry shrugged as realization dawned on him.

  “But then, we shall be married and happy and no longer of any interest to them. Trust me, dear Jane, the Pendleton name carries much clout. Once you are my wife, many will think twice before besmirching your name, or mine anymore for that matter. All will be right and good.”

  “But what about your mother?”

  “My mother is truly a good woman. Her own marriage came about in an unusual circumstance. Once she knows you, and sees how lovely you are in countenance and character, she will love you just as I do. She is only a bit scary at first.”

  Jane nodded, taking in all that Henry had said. “So, we are to be married then?”

  “Yes, my love, but I must tell you, the sooner we are wed, the better. Though I know your child is legitimate, many do not, and will care not for facts, and I do not care to have you living here, struggling to take care of you and your home because no one will work for you,” he explained, growing angry at how ill she had been treated. “I could ring that Clara’s neck. She had to be the one who started the horrible rumors about us.”

  “Yes, I believe so, but that is no longer here nor there. People talk. If it hadn’t have been Clara, it would have been someone else.”

  “True. Now, my dear Jane,” Henry said with a gleam in his eye, “can you quickly ready yourself for a three day’s journey?”

  She eyed him quizzically.

  “Why, we must elope,” he explained, “to the Scottish borders. We shall be married with no interference. I am not sure if, given our circumstances and your widow status, if we could obtain the proper license from the church any time soon. However, over the border, there will be no impediments to our marriage. And in a twist that my parents will appreciate, they themselves eloped to Scotland many years ago.”

  Jane inhaled deeply. So much had changed in such a short amount of time. Hours earlier, she’d been determined to learn the ropes of handling the gritty details of managing her household, and now, her dearest Henry held her hands tenderly promising to love and protect her forever, starting as soon as possible.

  “You, you are too much, my dear,” she said softly, brushing back a stray lock of his dark hair that had fallen onto his forehead. “I shall gather my things right away,” she told him.

  “I will be back within the hour with a carriage to make the journey more comfortable for you,” he replied before leaning down and kissing her tenderly. She closed her eyes as sweet joy filled every inch of her being.

  Chapter Nine

  “Henry, what are you about, son?”

  Henry froze in the stables at the sound of his mother’s voice behind him. Turning slowly, he saw her standing there, formidable even with her delicate features. Her hands were folded in front of her.

  “I am seeing about my future, Mother. The one that I am choosing for myself.”

  “Oh? And what does that mean?” She asked, walking towards him.

  “I would rather not discuss this with you, Mother.”

  “I have not seen you all day, Henry. I’m worried about you.”

  “You’ve no need to worry about me. I am quite fine.”

  “Even as those terrible rumors about you have been spreading like wildfire? Tell me again, Henry. There is no truth to them, correct?”

  Henry waited a beat before answering her, considering what exactly he should say to best purport his cause of wedding Jane. “The rumors that Mrs. Parker is with child and that I am in love with her are true. I will wed her posthaste.”

  “Henry!” His mother shouted, aghast. “Truly, you do not have to wed her.”

  “Mother—I love her—that is why I have chosen her as my bride. Of course, you would jump to the worst of conclusions regarding our connection. What has happened to you as of late? You are better than this!”

  “No, YOU are better than this! She is a young widow! You had no place consorting with her. It is HIGHLY improper.”

  Henry placed both of his hands on her shoulders. “All I ask, Mother, is that you trust the son that you raised from birth. I am doing the right thing, and I pray that you will
understand. Nothing is as you see it.”

  Lady Pendleton’s face softened. She reached up and touched his cheek. “Even in your folly I would not risk losing you. I cannot give you my blessing, and I am sure I speak for your father, as well, but you are always welcome here, new bride and all,” she said, begrudgingly.

  “Thank you, Mother,” Henry replied, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “Now, I am away to handle a few important affairs. I will see you soon,” he said in farewell, stepping into one of the family’s carriages. He had determined his course, and no one, his mother included, would convince him to stray from it. Relief, however, did wash over him, to know that his mother loved him enough not to disown him when it came to the matter of his hasty marriage.

  Jane watched eagerly from the window, butterflies dancing in her stomach. Her valise sat by the door, ready to go as soon as Henry arrived. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined she would be setting out for Scotland with the Pendleton heir to marry. To say she was happy was an understatement. But beneath her joy, a layer of apprehension loomed.

  When she saw the carriage and four horses coming up the lane, however, her heart danced. She scurried to the door, opening it and waving wildly as he approached. The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the cottage and Henry stepped out, all smiles as he caught her eye.

  “Are you ready to accompany me on this journey, my love?” He asked, rushing to her, kissing her hand before taking her valise.

  “Yes, indeed, I am,” she replied cheerfully.

  Within a quarter of an hour, they were headed at a steady clip to the north. Jane idly watched from the window of the sumptuous carriage as the fields and forests passed swiftly by. The only other long journey she’d ever taken was when she and her late husband, Charles, had relocated to the cottage where she now lived.