The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 29

29

H arry was not offered a seat, nor was Andrew, while the Duke of Dunscaby moved behind an ornately carved mahogany writing table at the far end of the library. Atop were the usual writing implements—a lavish silver ink well, a quill neatly resting in a matching holder, as well as a pounce pot for sanding missives. But what drew Harry’s eye was the well-oiled, seemingly new musket resting across the center of the desk. The barrel and hardware glistened, the walnut stock was inlaid with gold and embellished with intricate engraving. Beside it were a powder flask, and two neatly placed linen patches beneath perfectly round lead balls.

Evidently, His Grace intended to make good on his threat, and if his first shot failed to hit its mark, he had a backup.

The duke sank into a velvet upholstered chair, his gaze falling to the musket, then shifting to Andrew. “I received your missive on the day my son was born.” The man’s ice-blue eyes met Harry’s as he tapped the powder horn. “Otherwise, I would have met you on the road and had this wee conversation before you arrived.”

“I did everything I could to intercede,” Andrew explained, while a bead of sweat streamed from his brow. “I even went so far as to gain introductions to American heiresses—anything to prevent this fortune seeker from sullying our sister.”

“Fortune seeker?” Harry bellowed, keeping one eye on the musket. If the duke reached for it, Harry planned to upend the table and he’d be out the door before the weapon was charged. “When have I ever once said that I wanted to marry so that I could take advantage of a woman’s dowry?”

“Let us see…” Andrew thrust his finger into Harry’s shoulder. “On the day when you accepted my invitation to attend the recital given by three American heiresses.”

“Because you repeatedly told me I needed to find an heiress and that your sister was bred for better matches—one to make this outrageously wealthy dukedom wealthier.”

His Grace picked up a lead ball between his pincers and examined it. “My opinion is that you have been fortune-seeking all along.”

“Oh really?” Harry asked, never so affronted in all his days. “Let me tell you here and now—since the age of five, I have worked to earn a living. I’ve never once asked for anything, and I most definitely did not ask to become an earl.”

Rage shot through his blood as Harry grabbed the musket by the barrel and slammed the butt onto the floor. “Do you have any idea the squalor I was forced to endure in London just so that I could attend the Prince Regent’s bloody Parliament sessions? Not only that, in order to pay for a damned room with one mattress shared by five men, as well as dress in a style expected of an earl, I accepted the fight with Harvey Coombes?—”

Martin leaned forward. “You fought Coombes?”

“He bloody annihilated him,” said Andrew.

“Impressive—though that does not absolve you of trying to ravage my sister and abscond with her dowry.”

Good God, could these two men be any farther from the truth?

“I did not ravage your sister.” Harry may have married her in the Highland way, but that was only after she had insisted he do so. “I love Lady Charity and regardless of if she is entitled to dower funds or not, I will support her and do everything in my power to make her happy.”

“You would allow my sister to live in squalor?” asked the damned duke.

“Of course not. She will live with me in…” Harry couldn’t imagine Charity being happy above the butcher shop, but he had taken this too far. They were in love and he would find a way to make her happy. There was a bit of land out the back of the shop, perhaps he could build another room or two. “Brixham.”

At least Brixham was nondescript enough not to specify the rooms above a butcher’s shop.

“Halt!” commanded the Dowager Duchess of Dunscaby, sweeping into the library in a flurry of lavender tulle. “I have just spoken to Charity, and I am wholeheartedly convinced that this is a love match.”

Martin and Andrew exchanged glances while Harry tightened his grip around the musket’s barrel. At least he was in control of the weapon—though he had no idea for how long. “That is exactly what I’ve been trying to say, Your Grace. I love Charity with my whole heart, and if I have to fight a hundred scrappers like Harvey Coombes in order to provide her with a home befitting her station, I will do so.”

“Listen to that,” said Her Grace, striking Harry on the arm with her fan. “Though I firmly consider boxing to be vulgar, I do believe that facing one’s foe in order to support the woman a man loves is extraordinarily romantic.”

“There is one more thing,” said Andrew, rather quietly. “Our dear sister did insist that if we—you, brother—were to deny Brixham’s suit, that she would tell all of London she was ruined.”

A dark shadow crossed Martin’s face. “Your letter mentioned a Highland marriage.”

Andrew’s lips disappeared as he heaved a sigh. “Aye.”

Harry straightened and squared his shoulders. “I am not ashamed of anything.”

Her Grace fanned her face. “I do think dear Charity has exercised a great deal of shrewdness in this matter—far more than I ever expected of her.”

“I fear we have not only misjudged her, we have misjudged Brixham as well,” said Martin. “It is decided. There will be a wedding on the morrow.”

“The morrow?” asked Her Grace. “I cannot possibly send out invitations and bring dozens of members of the ton up here by the morrow.”

“There will be no large wedding. We will spread the word that Charity wanted to keep it a quiet affair among family.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am truly ecstatic.” Harry bowed and began to back out of the library, taking the musket along. “If someone could be so kind to tell me where in five hundred and twenty-one rooms might I find my wife.”

Martin pushed to his feet. “Highland marriages ceased to be recognized by the crown after the ’45. At best my sister is your intended , and you will not place a single finger on her until you have spoken your vows.”

Harry gave a nod, but he needed to find Charity. It was time to make a confession which must be done before he faced her in a house of God.

“Come with me, dear boy,” said Her Grace, taking him by the elbow and removing the weapon from his grasp. She passed it to Andrew before continuing toward the door. “We are in luck. Not only is my second eldest son here, Andrew’s twin has come to pay a visit as well. Charity is certain to join us in the drawing room as soon as she has finished showering her new nephew with adoration.”

A knock resounded from the doorway of Julia’s bedchamber. Seeing her brother, Charity immediately hopped to her feet. “Where is His Lordship?”

The corner of Marty’s mouth ticked up. “Is that how you greet your eldest brother?”

“Och, you threatened to shoot the man I love. What do you expect me to do? Dip into a reverent curtsy and kiss your feet?”

“Foot-kissing might be appropriate given you have a wedding to prepare for on the morrow.”

“Oh my!” Julia cried from the bed.

Charity clapped a hand over her mouth while tears stung her eyes. “The morrow?” she squeaked. “Truly?”

Martin pulled her into his embrace and kissed the top of her head. “Och, Sister, I owe you an apology. I asked Andrew to strike up a friendship with Brixham to determine the sincerity of his feelings for you.”

“But I cocked it up,” said Andrew moving into view. “I first convinced him he wasna worthy of you—which if you ask me, no man is. I just didna find out if he loved you first.”

Andrew wrapped his arms around them both. “Will you forgive me?”

Tears dribbled from Charity’s eyes. “You bastard, you treated him so poorly all the way from the south of England.”

“That part was awfully fun,” Andrew winked. “But in all seriousness, I do believe a man who would face a duke with a charged musket on his writing table has the backbone to marry you.”

“You charged it?” Julia asked from the bed.

Martin gave a sheepish nod. “I was awfully angry, as you are well aware.”

“Oh merciful saints, then it was a good thing Brixham didna point it at you!” Charity wiped her face and took a step toward the door. “Where is he? I must speak to him at once.”

“Mama absconded with him to the drawing room,” said Martin. “Gibb just returned after delivering a cargo load of cotton to the mill, and Philip traveled up with him for a wee bit of hunting.”

“And a fair bit of planning,” Andrew added. “We have more orders for cloth than we can manage.”

By the time her brother finished his sentence, Charity was already out the door. She didn’t walk to the drawing room. She ran.

She opened the doors wide, her gaze instantly homing in on Harry. For once in her life, Charity was completely speechless as she gasped, trying to catch her breath, while all heads turned her way. What should she say? “My lord, I am ever so glad we are to be married on the morrow,” sounded ever so trite. Yet, running across the floor and wrapping him in her arms, which is what she truly wanted to do, was completely out of the question with both mothers present, not to mention Modesty, Kitty, Gibb, and Philip, and now Andrew and Martin had moved in on either side of her.

“Might we be allowed a moment alone?” asked Harry, looking directly at Martin.

“I will allow a moment, but all of us will be waiting in the corridor and believe me when I say the halls of this fortress amplify sound remarkably.”

Together they waited while everyone crept away, Mama giving Charity a kiss on the cheek and Harry glancing between Andrew and Philip while shaking his head. Her two brothers were identical twins and it was nearly impossible for anyone outside the family to tell them apart.

Harry closed the doors and turned. As soon as she saw the grin on his face she acted on her desires and flung her arms around him. “We are to be married on the morrow!”

It felt so entirely wonderful to finally be able to hold Charity in his arms and know that she was to be his—as long as she could forgive him.

Harry looked to the doors and imagined his mother, sister, and those of Charity’s family members with their ears pressed to the other side. And though his mother knew the truth, what he had to say was for his betrothed ears only.

He took her hand and led her to the far corner of the drawing room. “What is behind that door?”

She opened it, revealing a circular chamber filled with shelves of silver and china. “The china closet.”

“It will do,” he said, pulling her inside. “Afore we are married in a church of God, I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

He glanced out the window, wishing they were outside or anywhere except in this cramped space. “It concerns my father.”

“My heavens,” she said, taking both of his hands in hers. “I dunna recall either you or your mother mentioning him during the entire journey northward.”

“That is because he was a tyrant.”

“I see.”

“No, you cannot possibly see.” Harry raised her hands and gripped them over his heart. “My father drank, and drinking turned him into an ogre. Every night he’d come home from the tavern, and…”

God save him, the memories came rushing back, making sweat pour from his forehead.

“Was he cruel to you?” she asked, her voice ever so sweet and caring.

“Not only me. I could take a beating, but he struck my mother once too often.”

“Merciful saints, the poor woman! I canna imagine being married to someone who would strike me. What happened?”

“I was twelve at the time, and Mama had just discovered she was with child—pregnant with Kitty. Papa came home later than usual, but my mother sat up and waited, whilst I pretended to be asleep on my pallet in the kitchen.

“She was so happy to share the news, but as soon as the words left her lips, my father erupted in a rage. He slapped her hard, but didn’t stop there. He threw a fist into her stomach, shouting like a deranged man. He pushed her to the floor and attacked with his boot. Over and over Mama begged him to stop, but he was in a rage and with her every cry, he grew more and more vicious. And I could take no more.”

Shaking, Harry pressed his face into his hands, the night as fresh in his mind as it had been on that gruesome day.

Charity’s gentle hand smoothed across his back. “You dunna have to say more.”

“I do. I must confess.” He straightened and looked her in the eye. “I grabbed the fire poker and bludgeoned him with it until he lay unmoving on the floor.” He showed her his palms—the palms of a man capable of murder. “With these hands I took my own father’s life, proving I am no better than he.”

“Nay, nay, nay! You are not your father! The only time I’ve ever seen you drink is when you consumed the wine, and that was because you thought I didna love you. And you’ve never lifted a hand against me. I remember when we were practicing in the arbor and you said you would never raise a hand against a woman.”

“I did say that, and I have been true to my word, but there is more to my story.”

“Then do not delay, I must know it all.”

“You’ve met my friend, Ricky Thompson, who is running the shop in my absence.”

“Aye.”

“That night, he and his father helped me carry Papa’s body to the bottom of the stairs. They helped me stage an accident. Ricky and Mama are the only people still living who know the truth.”

“And now me,” she whispered.

Harry brushed a whisp of auburn hair away from her face. “I could not marry a woman as fine as you without owning up to the truth. And I will understand if you walk out this door right now and tell your brother to fetch his musket.”

Charity didn’t respond right away. It was as if she tried to speak a couple of times, then let out a breath, and rethought. His heart had sunk to the pit of his gut by the time she took a step toward him and pulled his hands beneath her chin. “You…” She kissed his knuckles. “…are the kindest, gentlest man I have every had to privilege of meeting. Ye ken you are my hero. You rescued Modesty, you repaired our roof, and when you believed I no longer loved you and my family would not accept you, you still rescued me from those vile miscreants in London.”

She turned his hands over and applied four consecutive kisses to his palms. “And then you tolerated Andrew’s contempt throughout the entire journey up here. You are not your father. You were but a child when you had to take on a man’s mantle and do what needed to be done.” Closing her eyes, she kissed his palms again. “You are your mother’s hero as well as mine, and I will marry you on the morrow.”

The relief that flooded through him was akin to the opening of a dam’s gates. “God save me, I love you.”

Harry pulled her into his arms and sealed his lips over hers, and kissed her, their bodies molding together into familiar territory, while he savored a delightful wildness in her taste.

“I want to make love to you,” she said breathlessly while he trailed kisses down her neck.

“Soon, my love.”

“Now!” Her lithe fingers clamped on his face and she kissed him again, her mouth demanding, the swell of her breasts bringing a wealth of temptation.

The closet door swung open with a whoosh of warm air.

“What did I say, Brixham?” asked the Duke of Dunscaby, grasping his sister’s arm and pulling her away. “There will be no more of this until you are wed.”

“Ten o’clock,” chimed the dowager. “I’ve just received word that the vicar will be here and perform the ceremony in the family chapel.”