by Allegra Gray
“Love, ye made me feel everything you felt and more. You are more than a man could dream of.”
She turned her head into his right arm and he could feel her smile. “I think you flatter me.”
“Not a whit. How did I get so lucky? To think, I almost didn’t attend Lord Madrigal’s costume ball.”
She gave a muffled laugh. “I was not exactly supposed to be there, either, if you recall. So it was really I who am the lucky one, for you were the one good thing that came of my rash decision.”
He hugged her tighter. “Then ‘twas fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
She absentmindedly tugged at a lock of golden hair. “I don’t know.”
He bent his head to whisper in her ear. “Wait until the wedding. Wait until I can take you to bed and make love to you, join our bodies as one, the way a man was meant to love a woman. I daresay I can convince you to believe in fate.”
Chapter 9:
In which Charity dares, as all brides should, to hope.
Three and a half days later, Charity was not looking her best. They’d stopped occasionally to change horses, to eat, and to stretch their legs, but that was it. They’d passed long hours kissing until her lips were swollen, her breasts aching, her body straining for more. He’d pushed her over the brink of pleasure more than once, and yet she’d wanted more. Wanted him.
But he wouldn’t make love to her. Yet. “When ye marry me, I will take you to bed and make love to you,” he’d promised. “And I will do it again the night after, and every night after that.” He’d whispered naughty descriptions of what they would do in that bed, how they would luxuriate in each other’s touch, until she was half senseless with desire.
By day three, though, the wait for a bed had become torture in more ways than one. Charity had caught snatches of sleep in the coach, wrapped in Graeme’s arms or with her head on his lap. He’d done his best to make her comfortable. She knew his muscles had to be stiffer than hers, his exhaustion warring with the restlessness of having been cooped up for so long.
Yet she wasn’t so very tired as to not care about the fact that she was arriving for her wedding in a gown—theater attire, no less—she’d been wearing for three days straight, with her hair unwashed and unkempt.
The only saving grace had been that the interrupted nature of her slumber meant she’d never had a chance to fall deep into dreams. No night terrors. No paralyzing fear. No shrieks of despair, sure to frighten her new fiancé more than anyone.
As every mile that passed, she’d fallen harder for him, become more and more certain that this crazed rush to Scotland was the right thing to do. She couldn’t lose him now. Somehow, she would find a way to keep the nightmares at bay.
Finally, the coach rolled to a stop in the yard of a little inn bearing a sign that proclaimed it “The Dog and Anvil.” Graeme stepped down, then turned to help her. Charity stumbled out, blinking in the bright sun. The air smelled clean, the ground still damp from a spatter of rain the night before. Lord only knew what the innkeeper must think. She surely looked a fright. Probably smelled one, too.
Graeme looked back down the road, as he’d done each time they’d stopped. This time, he looked at her curiously. “We’ve arrived. It does not appear we’ve been followed.”
Charity had thought of this already. By the time Lord Maxwell’s message had been delivered to her mother, they’d have had at least twelve hours’ head start. But a single rider on horseback could have traveled faster than their coach, making up the time. So Graeme was right. They hadn’t been followed.
Which meant…what? That her family supported their elopement? Well, of course they did. They had all encouraged Lord Maxwell’s suit. Even though Charity had asked them not to pressure him, they were unlikely to protest if the Scot was the one doing the pressuring.
Charity gazed around the inn yard again. The unobtrusive but ever-present guards she’d grown accustomed to were also absent. The duke would not have overlooked this detail. If Alex hadn’t sent them to follow her, he must think her safe enough under Graeme’s protection.
She was free.
It was an odd feeling.
The door of the inn opened, and a bearded man of indeterminable age came toward them, arms open in a welcoming gesture, a broad smile cracking through his beard. The innkeeper.
Graeme smiled back in acknowledgement, but held up one finger.
The man raised his eyebrows, but a quick glance at the luxurious traveling coach must have told him all he needed to know about his newly-arrived guest, for he retreated just as quickly.
Graeme Ramsey Maxwell saw the confusion on his bride-to-be’s pretty features. But there was one thing he needed to tell her before they took their vows.
He placed his hands on her shoulders.
“If we’re going to do this, there is one thing you ought to know. I should have told you earlier.”
Charity gave him a questioning look.
“I have a little boy.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “A…a natural child?” she stammered. “I hadn’t considered…”
Graeme mentally cursed himself. Lord. She thought he meant he had a by-blow, a child born of a union outside of marriage. And she was wondering why on earth he’d been so indelicate as to mention it, let alone doing so moments before their wedding.
He’d approached this all wrong. He shook his head, held up a hand. “No, no. Nathan is not my own…though he is mine, now. My sister’s son. She and her husband have both passed on, leaving the lad an orphan. He came to live with me when they died.”
Understanding lit her expression, and she visibly relaxed. “Poor soul,” Charity said softly, and he saw in the tilt of her eyes that the sentiment was genuine.
He gave a rueful chuckle. “That boy has had to deal with more than anyone his age ought to. He loves me, but he won’t say it. He’s afraid. Everyone he’s loved, he’s lost.”
“He had no siblings?”
“No. I’ve come to think of him as a son, though Nathan would only become heir if I had no sons of my own. But I want him to know, always, that he is loved and welcome. That I raise him out of love, not just duty. I need to know my wife will feel the same.”
“Of course. How could I feel any other way? He is lucky to have you for an uncle,” she said. “When my father died, my uncle also came to help my mother. But I am quite certain he did not feel the same way about the responsibility.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shuddered. “You have no idea. If it hadn’t been for Alex…”
“Don’t tell me the lofty duke has won your affections in addition to those of your sister,” he teased.
She laughed. “My undying gratitude, yes. But my affections…seem to have settled elsewhere. Though on no less worthy a target.”
“Ach. That is a great relief. I shouldn’t enjoy having to compete with the duke.” There was a kernel of truth behind his teasing tone—not because he doubted his fiancé’s loyalty, but because everyone she was related to seemed to have an opinion about her every action. Though Charity’s sister and the duke seemed nice enough, Graeme couldn’t help but be glad they all lived a considerable distance from his primary home.
She looked at him through her lashes, clearly enjoying their flirtation. “I do imagine you would hold your own in such a competition, my lord.”
“I shall have to sharpen my skills, just in case His Grace comes for a prolonged visit.” He was clearly joking now.
Not to be bested, she leaned forward, blushing madly, and whispered to him, “I believe the skill of your tongue will serve you better than the skill of your lance, when it comes to maintaining my, ah, affection.”
“You have yet to experience the skill of my lance,” he returned, loving it when her eyes sparkled and she let out a burst of shocked laughter. It was all he could do not to snatch her up right then and there and carry her into the inn. But they ha
dn’t raced all this way just to put the wedding night before the wedding.
“I think,” he suggested, “we had best go inside and satisfy the innkeeper’s curiosity before he falls through that window.”
She turned quickly, laughing as the innkeeper’s form ducked out of sight.
She nodded. “Indeed, we should. But why did you wait until now to tell me of your nephew?”
Guilt twinged him. “I should have told you earlier, but I wanted to be certain you were completely convinced that we would suit. Convinced of the wisdom of marrying me, before adding extra responsibility into the equation.”
“You thought I would reject you because you took in your sister’s poor little boy?” She sounded incredulous. “Who could be so cold-hearted?”
He could think of a few women, but that was neither here nor there. “Not really. But I wanted to be sure your choice was about me. Call it selfish if you will, but when a Maxwell marries, that marriage is forever. Long after Nate is grown, and any other children who come our way, you and I will still be together. I want us both to be happy with that choice.”
“When a man speaks like that, how could a woman refuse?” The words could have been teasing, but for the way Charity looked up at him. What he saw in her eyes gave him hope. Dreaminess, yes, but also trust. Desire. Respect. It was a foundation on which a man could build.
Together, they turned toward the inn.
“Lord Maxwell! Welcome, welcome. When ye said ye were headin’ to London to find a wife, I did no’ expect to see ye again so soon.”
“I stayed here on my way down,” he explained to Charity. To the innkeeper, he said, “As luck would have it, I met the woman of my dreams almost the same night I arrived. This is Miss Charity Medford, who has done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife.”
“Did ye now?” the man chortled. “Ach, I do so love a good love story. But mayhap the story should wait. Do I take it right, that your arrival here means ye wish to be wed, my lord?”
“Indeed, we do, Mr. Partridge.”
“And ye, lass? I mean, Miss Medford?”
“Yes.”
He clasped his hands together, obviously proud that the Scottish lord had chosen his inn for the nuptials. “Well, then, welcome to Scotland, ye lucky lord and lady, where we hold that the only thing necessary to host a wedding is the willingness of the bride and groom.”
The ceremony was simple. All she and Graeme had to do, he explained, was speak a vow to one another, declaring themselves husband and wife, in the presence of witnesses, and the deed would be done.
In England, weddings were far more complicated. Parents had to give consent for a bride or groom under the age of twenty-one, banns had to be read for three weeks in a row, or a special license obtained, a clergyman arranged to officiate…and that was for even the most basic of weddings.
In Gretna Green, though, weddings were a business, with various establishments competing for the patronage of the runaway couples who came to be married there. Mr. Partridge, puffed up until he resembled the bird with whom he shared a name, did his best to make each and every wedding—but this one in particular—special.
“An honor, indeed, Lord Maxwell. Shall we proceed immediately?” He, too, glanced down the road, as though at any moment a rider might appear at breakneck speed, bent on stopping them. “Or shall I have your things brought up to your room, so that you may refresh yourselves?”
“There’s nothing to be brought up,” Graeme informed him.
“Ach. I see.” He seemed to take this as confirmation that resistance was, indeed, on the way. “Then, let us be about our business. Would you prefer to stand near the fireplace, or in the flower garden?”
“The flower garden,” they answered unanimously.
He nodded approvingly and escorted them to a small but cheery garden at the back side of the inn. He stopped near a trellis where climbing roses had just begun to bud.
“Have you rings?”
To Charity’s surprise, Graeme produced a small pouch and shook two golden rings into his large hand. The sun caught them, and the unmistakable green of an emerald winked at her from his palm.
“I did, after all, come to London in hopes of finding a wife,” he reminded her.
Her eyes grew misty. Their wedding might not be traditional, but he’d planned for the most important things. A lifetime together, he’d promised her, and the rings that symbolized that promise.
Graeme was an honorable man. She could have done far worse. “I don’t deserve you,” she told him, though she barely managed more than a whisper. “But I do want to marry you.”
“As I do you. And don’t be silly. You deserve everything your heart desires,” Graeme replied chivalrously. “Since fate was kind enough to place you in my path, I am honored to be the one who gets the chance to fulfill those desires.”
Mr. Partridge smiled widely. “There is little more that must be done. If ye will join hands, I’ll read the blessing.” He pulled a small book from his vest, opening it to a dog-eared page. The book was only for show—it was clear as he spoke the words, short and traditional, that he knew them by heart.
Graeme held her gaze through the prayer, sliding his ring onto her finger at the end. When it was her turn, her fingers trembled, but she managed to get the gold band over his knuckle and onto his ring finger, where it gleamed proudly.
“Lord Maxwell, Lady Charity, I now pronounce ye husband and wife.”
Never letting go of her hands, Graeme placed a soft kiss on her lips. Charity closed her eyes.
Maybe, just maybe, the nightmare of the past year had finally given way to a beautiful dream.
With the ceremony over, Charity was at a sudden loss for what to do. The urgency that had propelled their actions for the past several days had suddenly disappeared. She was married.
That is, until Mr. Partridge asked, “My lord, will ye be stayin’ here for the night?”
And her newlywed husband replied, “Aye.”
Then it hit her. She was married. She would share a bed with her husband. As much as she longed for the intimacy that would entail, she had not yet let go of her terror of what came after. To sleep, perchance to dream…
Charity sprang into action. “My good Mr. Partridge, could you tell me where we might find shops in Gretna Green?”
“You wish to shop? Now?” Graeme asked incredulously.
The innkeeper chuckled. “Never met a lady yet what didn’t love to shop.”
She batted her eyelashes at Graeme. “My lord, have you forgotten? Our trip here was rather…sudden. I find myself lacking certain amenities.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Certainly.”
She could tell from his expression that he had no idea what she meant, but feared it had something to do with womanly matters that were better not discussed in mixed company. Not exactly the truth, but it suited her purposes.
She turned the full force of her charm to the innkeeper. “An apothecary and a dressmaker—are those available?”
“Of course, my lady. But you must be exhausted from your travels. Perhaps you could tell my wife what you are after. She will gladly see to it that anything you require is promptly delivered.”
“Mr. Partridge, you are heaven sent. I definitely need a few things, but the idea of climbing back into the coach so soon was nearly enough to give me the vapors.”
“Me, too,” Graeme joked, making them all laugh.
The owner of The Dog and Anvil knew his business well. Within minutes, Charity had given her order to his wife, who had cheerfully suggested a couple items she hadn’t even considered. Obviously the good woman had seen more than one unprepared bride arrive at her doorstep.
With that settled, the innkeeper led them upstairs. “The finest room we have,” Mr. Partridge told them proudly, opening the door to a bedroom that boasted a large bed hung with burgundy. Matching drapes framed a large window. Charity barely took in the rest of the room, registering only that it was, indeed, quite nice
for an inn. Her eyes kept going to the bed. That is, until the proprietor strode forward and threw open the door to a small adjoining room and she saw the one thing she wanted even more: a bath.
“I’ll have the staff bring up hot water directly,” he promised when he heard her soft exclamation. “Then, after you’ve had a bit of a lie down, I do hope you’ll grace us with your presence for dinner, my lord and lady. The Dog and Anvil boasts the best chef in Gretna Green, we do.”
“’Tis no boast,” Graeme agreed. “Why do you think I stay here?”
The innkeeper’s chest swelled once more. “Right ye are, my lord. Blessings to the happy couple, then.”
Charity could have sworn he all but winked at Graeme as he shut the door behind him.
She stared at Graeme. Her husband. Why was it that after nearly four days in a carriage, he still managed to look so tempting?
“Should we—should I—that is, I mean, do you wish to—” she stammered. How did one properly ask one’s newlywed husband whether he wished to exercise his marital rights?
Would he wish to get to it, right away, or wait until bed time? Was there a correct time of day for marital relations? They hadn’t worried about such things while pleasuring one another on the journey here, but then again, they’d stopped short of the marital act. She’d gleaned certain key elements from her sister, and her faster set of friends had a number of ideas on improper relations, but obviously, her education in such matters had been incomplete.
A tap on the door signaled the arrival of a pair of footmen bearing large buckets of steaming water. Charity’s gaze followed them longingly to the tub.
Graeme laughed. “Don’t worry, my sweet. Have your bath, before the water cools. We’ve all the time in the world now.”
She glanced at him doubtfully, but was unable to resist the steamy tendrils that curled so beckoningly through the air.
The servants trooped up the stairs twice more, and the tub was filled.
Charity moved toward it as though in a trance. Graeme came up behind her. His arms closed around her and he bent to whisper in her ear. “I have only one condition. Let me play at lady’s maid and assist you. I have a pretty good idea how that gown fastens."