Page 59 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
This time the window lifted. An insect whizzed past them, and the late afternoon breeze brought the smell of mown hay. In fact, someone was farming near here. He wondered how many tenants there were.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I have upset you. I’m sorry, but you must tell me. Will you marry me or not? Or will you only keep your promise and see me safely to London? Whether I am Miss Heardwyn or Mrs. Gibson, I still must go there and see what is what.”
He slid an arm around her waist, trying to collect himself, like some silly lass.
“I know it is not done,” she said, and her voice was tiny, “I know you are wanting to do your own proposing, to choose your own wife, someone more to your liking. I just—”
He kissed her fiercely then, for long minutes, to stop her, to reassure her she was to his liking.
Voices in the hall made him break off. He straightened her bonnet and smiled at her dazed look. “Yes, I will marry you,” he said, panting. “Yes, we will go to Scotland, and then to London.” He lifted her onto the table and held her gaze. “But there’s to be no talk of divorce.”
“All right.”
“And the marriage will be consummated.”
She nodded, and this timeshekissedhim.
The next morning at dawn, Hackwell met up with him in the front hall.
“Take this.” He slipped a purse to Bink, and when Bink tried to give it back, he held up his hands. “Take it. You may have need of it, and either way, you may consider it a wedding gift.” He clapped a hand on Bink’s shoulder. “Remember, avoid the roads around Manchester.”
Fears of an uprising had been the topic at every aristocratic table, and Hackwell’s frown reflected his own worry. If the government was called back, he would want to be there, and if he went, Lady Hackwell would insist on accompanying him with all of the children, which would probably be safer than staying in a great country house alone.
And of course, there was the matter of Agruen’s valet, still sequestered in a shed.
He gripped Hackwell’s hand. “Thank you. Call on Little Norwick’s caretaker if you need help. Otherwise, the staff will hold the household together. Grey can help with correspondence. We’ll be back, five days at the most.” And then they needed to leave for London, but how was he to explain that to Hackwell?
He would fix that battle plan later.
Hackwell led him out and stopped on the front step. A sly grin creased his face. “Don’t cut short your wedding night, man.”
The Hackwell coach waited, the horses restless in their traces. Johnny stood holding two mounts, and Ewan was tying a case to the coach roof, chatting with Kincaid, seated next to the coachman.
“Some honeymoon, with this lot along.” In addition to Paulette’s maid, Mabel, and Shaldon’s three men, Paulette had insisted they bring Jenny.
Hackwell clapped him on the back. “Five more minutes alone in the Little Norwick nursery, and you’d have had the honeymoon done, and been on your way to filling one of those nursery cots.”
Bink couldn’t help smiling. Paulette’s enthusiasm had matched his own, and they were fortunate the throat-clearing interruption had been Hackwell’s. Once they’d returned to Greencastle, they’d endured a tense dinner with the assembled guests, including an unapologetic Agruen, before making known their plans to Hackwell and his lady, and then in the hustle of secret preparations, he’d not seen her again until the morning’s hurried breakfast.
The coach door opened and the lady in question poked her head out. “Shall we leave soon?”
She was cross, tired, lacking sleep. He forced back a laugh and shook Hackwell’s hand again. “I have my orders.”
Hackwell waved to her. “He’s coming right along.”
He leaned in close and whispered. “Get used to it. And I’d heartily suggest you put the two maids on the roof for a bit and ride inside.”
Bink laughed and went to mount his horse.
Mr. Gibson changedhorses so often and so quickly they were almost flying along the Great Northern Road.
“I’m about jostled to death,” Mabel muttered.
“It could be worse,” Jenny whispered.
The poor girl peered out through two blackened eyes, and her voice had not yet had a chance to recover.
“We could be riding on Mr. Cummings’s dog cart.” Paulette rearranged herself on the cushioned seat for the hundredth time. “This carriage is actually rather well-sprung.”
