Page 107 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Isobel,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “I never wanted to hurt you. But you must see that?—”
“I do not see anything,” she interrupted. “Only that ye do not seemeas an equal. So, I ask again, Adrian. What will it be? A marriage, or a separation? Because I will not live being dismissed by the man I—” For the first time, she choked on her words. “The man I married.”
He had no choice. He knew that. Even so, a pain lingered in his chest. Even after everything, she was offering him this chance. Could he be foolish enough to throw it away in order to keep her safe?
Perhaps.
“My darling,” he said. “If I promise you I won’t send you away again, will you return to the carriage?”
“No, Adrian. I came here to protect ye, and I will do so.”
“Stubborn, infuriating woman,” he muttered, and pulled her to him for a searing kiss.
They had only just separated when a noise roused him from his attention to his wife. Immediately, his awareness returned, and he twisted, scanning the mist-laden area. The lapping of the water still sounded through the air.
He glanced at Isobel, whose head was tilted up, and whose eyes were narrowed.
“I heard it too,” she whispered in answer to his silent question. “Let’s go.”
Adrian knew it would be pointless to hope that she would return to the carriage, so he prowled across the cobbles ahead of her, one hand on his swordstick. Everything seemed silent, but when he turned a corner around a building, he saw a darkened bundle on the floor.
A body.
He knew what it must be immediately, and he held out a hand for Isobel to stop.
“Pistol out,” he commanded. “Don’t come any closer.”
To his relief, she must have also sensed the danger, because she remained where she was, looking about her nervously as he approached the bundle of dark clothes.
Tipping the body over with his foot, he peered into the familiar, craggy face of Briggs. There was a darkened patch in his chest, and blood seeped across the ground, black in the gloom.
Adrian inhaled, but all he could smell was the water from the river, and the slight salty sourness from the freshly spilled blood.
After a second’s hesitation, he bent and pressed two fingers against the man’s neck.
Nothing.
He was dead.
“Isobel.” Adrian kept his voice low.
Still, she turned, the pistol held high. He prayed she wouldn’t take fright and accidentally shoot him.
“We need to leave and call a constable,” he told her.
“A constable?”
“Probably the Runners.”
“Adrian, I?—”
“Quiet now.” He crossed to her side and clamped a hand over her mouth.
Fear rampaged in his veins—not for him, but for the danger Isobel might be in. The danger he might have put her in. If he had not come here the way he had, she would never have joined him.
Damn Joseph for giving her his location. Did the man not know better?
“Is he dead?” she whispered against his fingers.
