Chapter Thirty
Gretna Green, five days later…
They were married.
Charlene couldn’t believe it.
Even now, with the ring warm on her finger and Adam’s coat draped around her shoulders, it still felt like a dream.
A beautiful, foolish, miraculous dream she hadn’t dared to wish for.
She pressed her palm over her chest, as if she could steady her racing heart.
But how could anything feel steady when the world had shifted so utterly?
She was his wife.
His duchess.
She’d crossed a country with him, fled propriety, scandal, and all the whispered rules that had once bound her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.
Now, five days later, she woke beside him each morning in the tiny chamber tangled in linen sheets and the deep quiet of happiness.
There were no carriages here, no prying eyes, no parlors full of watchers. Just them.
And it was bliss.
The decisive words from the modest ceremony echoed still in her ears: “By the laws of Scotland, and witnessed by those present, I declare you husband and wife.” So plain. So final. And somehow, more powerful than any ballgown, any diamond, any royal decree.
She remembered the press of Adam’s lips to her knuckles after he slid the ring into place. The slight tremble in his hands as he’d held hers, and the way his gaze had locked onto hers like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
It had been quick. Simple. Imperfect.
And utterly theirs.
Now, seated beside him at a humble table set with a warm meal and wholehearted joy, Charlene let her eyes drift across the glow of the firelight on his face.
Her husband. The man who had once stepped between her and shame, who had asked her father for her hand like a knight from the books she used to devour in secret. She would never be the same again.
And she didn’t want to be.
The fire crackled in the modest hearth, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with warm spices and roasted vegetables.
Shadows flickered on the rough-hewn walls of the cottage, and Adam couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he looked around.
The family who’d taken them in had welcomed them with open arms, their sheer joy so pure and untainted it humbled him.
They didn’t know who he was. To them, he wasn’t a duke.
Charlene wasn’t a newly-minted duchess. They were simply two people in love, and in this tiny home in Gretna Green, labels and titles disappeared like mist burned off by the sun.
The mother, her dark hair streaked with silver, set a steaming dish on the table before motioning for them to sit.
With a lean build and weathered hands from years of hard labor, the father folded his palms together and gave a short blessing in Spanish.
Adam might not have understood every word, but the sentiment was clear. Gratitude. Unity. Love.
“This is a feast,” the father declared with pride, motioning to the simple yet lovingly prepared meal on the table: fresh-baked bread, a hearty stew of potatoes and herbs, and a modest chicken roasted to golden perfection.
Adam and Charlene exchanged a glance, their smiles touching with shared understanding.
Modesty offered with such generosity had transformed into grandeur in this little home.
Charlene reached for Adam’s hand under the table, and the warmth of her fingers curled into his made his heart beat a little faster.
Their host family chattered in a mix of Spanish and broken English, laughter punctuating their words.
Adam could only taste gratitude on his tongue, sprinkled with the wonder of being here, in this place, with her.
The meal itself was exquisite—not for its culinary perfection, but for the laughter shared between mouthfuls, for the way Charlene’s eyes danced when she tried to mimic the little son’s mixed Spanish and English.
Would their children be this happy?
Adam hoped so. With Charlene, how could they not be?
When the dishes were cleared away, Adam leaned back in his chair, cradling a cup of mulled wine.
The children darted across the room, bright bursts of energy, unconcerned with decorum, while Charlene sat beside him, her hair tumbling over one shoulder.
She was beautiful. He could stare at her forever and never get used to the way she took his breath away.
Then the father rose, disappearing into another room only to return with a guitar.
His weathered hands picked expertly at the strings, filling the air with lively, soulful music.
The boy, who couldn’t have been older than nine, joined with a small drum, his hands beating a rhythm that had every fiber in the room vibrating.
The mother’s laughter carried through the music as she tossed her apron aside and grabbed a pair of castanets, clicking out a cheerful, staccato rhythm that flowed with the music.
Adam straightened in surprise as the woman suddenly burst into song, her voice rich, low, filled with stories he had no words for but could feel in the marrow of his bones.
The music poured effortlessly into the room, filling every empty corner.
Charlene started to clap, completely captivated, her soft palms finding the beat instantly.
Finally, the little girl, no older than six, tugged on Adam’s sleeve with an insistent grin.
“Bailamos! Dance! Together!” she exclaimed, her determination leaving no room for argument.
Adam laughed before looking helplessly at Charlene, who was already bursting with mirth. Rising, he allowed the little girl to lead him to the center of the room. He followed her lead as best he could, keeping time to the rhythm as she twirled in carefree abandon.
Then the boy approached Charlene. “Senorita, dance with me?” he asked with an exaggerated bow.
Charlene’s face lit up, and with an air of mock regal dignity, she offered her hand to the lad. Adam folded his arms and watched as his wife whirled in the arms of a boy barely tall enough to reach her waist. Laughter bubbled from her lips, the radiant sound brightening the room in an instant.
Soon, the father and the mother joined, and the tiny space turned into a blur of clapping hands, spinning skirts, and stamping shoes.
Adam couldn’t help but clap along until the mother pulled Charlene toward him, her castanets clicking as she laughed. “Your bride, senor. Dance with her!”
Their eyes met. Charlene’s cheeks blossomed pink from the exertion, her hair wild, her lips curved in a wide, breathless smile. Adam stepped forward and took her hand, sliding his arm around her waist with a confidence that turned the playful claps of those watching into cheers.
He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not really, but Charlene didn’t hesitate.
She moved in perfect sync with him as if their bodies spoke a language beyond words.
Her skirt swirled around her legs, brushing his trousers as they spun in rhythm.
The beat coursed up from the floor, into his blood, and through his limbs.
He moved more freely than he had in years, the rigidity shed like a second skin.
The rhythm wasn’t just in the music; it was in her. She was his rhythm. His anchor. His compass. She laughed as he spun her, her eyes alight, and in that moment, Adam felt something he could only call perfection.
She stumbled slightly on a turn but fell into his arms with a gasp and another laugh. He held her close, ignoring everything else, as cheers mixed with the music around them. Her hands rested lightly on his chest, and he dipped his head close.
The music softened, slowing to something tender as the guitar strings hummed a gentle melody. Adam’s hand moved to her cheek, his thumb brushing over her delicate skin.
“How did I get so lucky?” he murmured, his voice low but rich with meaning.
Charlene’s lips curved into a soft smile, and she reached up to brush her thumb over his jawline. “Maybe I should be the one asking that,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on his.
He shook his head slightly, his voice thick with emotion. “No. It’s me. You’re my rhythm, my clarity, my dance partner.”
She started to reply, but he kissed her, gently at first, then deeply, uncaring of their audience. The cheers rose around them again as the music swelled into jubilant energy, the room bursting at its seams with love, laughter, and joy.
And as Adam looked at her, his bride, his love, he didn’t care who he was or wasn’t to the world outside. He had all he needed right here—with her.