Page 20 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer
Her lips parted in a smile.
‘Yes,’ she answered. But she did not hold her fingers out for him to put the ring on. ‘I love you, Paul. I wish to be your comfort and your sanctuary. I pledge my life to you. I will be your wife. Will you be my husband? Will you marry me?’
A smile touched his lips. ‘Yes. I will. Give me your hand.’
He held her hand steady and slid the ring on her finger. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.
Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy, he pressed a kiss on her lips.
A loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.
‘I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.’ They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.
‘Congratulations,’ the blacksmith’s wife said.
‘Thank you,’ Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink. He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence. To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.
‘I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,’ the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.
Ellen’s hand reached for Paul’s. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. He prayed her faith would be honoured.Please, let all be well.
‘Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I ’ave signed it.’
The blacksmith took the document from the woman’s hand and held it out to Paul. ‘Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.’
The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the paper. Paul signed the document on a rough wooden table. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too. Then the blacksmith signed it with a smutty hand, marking the paper with a scrawled, unrecognisable name. It did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.
Paul lifted the paper and blew on the ink, as outside they heard horses. He handed the document to Ellen.
The blacksmith looked at him, a dark eyebrow lifting. ‘An angry papa? Or another couple come?’
Paul’s heartbeat stilled for a moment, then pounded.Damn. He had hoped to save Ellen from a scene with her father. He turned and followed the blacksmith outside. Ellen followed them.
An unmarked carriage raced along the road towards them. Not her father. If it had been her father, the Pembroke coat of arms would be emblazoned on the door. Yet it looked like a privately owned vehicle; fresh polish glowed in the moonlight that breached the layer of light clouds and reflected back from the snow.
The postilion rider, who sat astride the right-hand lead horse, pulled on the reins as the carriage drew closer, slowing the horses and therefore slowing the carriage. Paul took a breath and held it for a moment, an uncomfortable feeling running up his spine.
Ellen joined him on the road outside the forge, her gloves were now pulled on and her bonnet tied, ready to progress their journey.
Her hand embraced his elbow. ‘They are my father’s men.’ Her other hand contained the confirmation of their marriage.
Paul watched the carriage slide on the snow-covered ground as it slowed. He straightened, feeling the lack of his sword and pistol. Both were in the carriage. Not that Pembroke would fight. Paul was married to Ellen and any thought of annulment would be foolish, it could not be undone; she had been on the road alone with him for days. She was ruined regardless.
Whoever was within waited for one of the men to climb down from the box.
Accustomed to charging into battle, Paul’s arm slipped from Ellen’s grip as he walked forward. He reached the carriage at the moment the man opened the door. Another stepped out. Not Ellen’s father. Though this man had blue eyes very like Ellen’s.
‘It is Mr Wareham, my father’s steward,’ Ellen whispered.
Paul glanced into the carriage and saw no one else within. Her father had sent someone for her, not come himself.
The man stared at Paul. ‘Captain Harding, I presume.’
‘Mr Wareham,’ Ellen said.
‘Lady Eleanor.’ The man’s gaze passed to Ellen, his expression stiff. ‘I have come to prevent this nonsense?—’
‘You are too late to stop us,’ Paul answered.
