Chapter Seventeen
Aaran was proud of the confidence both Thompson and Miss Whitchurch had in him.
Both had asked him to keep his brothers and their wives in order.
Though Aaran had assured the bride and the groom that he knew nothing of planned pranks, the happy couple did not seem to believe him.
Then he understood, Benjamin and Victoria meant to keep him interested in the ceremony by having him stand guard against the others.
Such was not necessary, for a look of authority by the clergyman when he entered from the back of the church had everyone sitting straighter in their pews. Aaran stepped into place beside Thompson. “Breathe,” he warned Benjamin.
“Easier said than done,” his brother whispered back.
Lady Emma scampered to take her place beside her husband, and then Miss Whitchurch appeared in the arched opening.
The lady was on her father’s arm and quite beautiful in a blue-tinted dress.
Now that she was out of mourning for her sister, the black and gray hues had been abandoned.
She was quite beautiful, but Aaran’s eyes slid to where Lady Freya had been seated beside Beaufort, as Lady Annalise was part of the wedding party also.
Lady Freya studied the church, those rushing to their seats, and the wedding party, minus him.
Beaufort had been chatting with her earlier, but now Navan watched his wife with such yearning in his eyes for Lady Annalise that it made Aaran sadder at the prospect of never seeing Lady Freya again.
She had come to be quite essential to his well-being.
The vicar presented those gathered for the ceremony a knowing look and all within silenced immediately, all except Thompson who sighed heavily and whispered, “Finally.”
“Just a bit longer, my lord,” the vicar explained with a knowing smile.
After Miss Whitchurch paused first to kiss her father’s cheek and then hand off the spray of lilacs she carried, thanks to Thompson’s greenhouse, to Lady Annalise, they all turned to face the clergyman.
With a clearing of his throat, Mr. Deven began, “Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate instituted of God in paradise…” As the man continued to recite the opening speech of the wedding ceremony from the Book of Common Prayer, Aaran wondered if he would ever know such happiness.
The man continued, “Into which holy estate these two persons present: come now to be joined. Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined so together: Let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
The majority of Thompson’s guests had departed, though a few overstayed their welcome, even after Benjamin and the new Lady Thompson retired to the dower house. Therefore, Duncan diplomatically ushered the last of the villagers on their way.
Aaran waited another respectable quarter hour before he rose from his chair in the corner, where he had nursed his brandy, along with his misery.
Lady Freya had departed three-quarters of an hour earlier.
His brothers’ wives and Mrs. Thompson had all stepped outside to bid Cunningham’s daughter a farewell.
Lady Annalise and Lady Emma shed their tears, but Aaran had barely moved a muscle, fearing he would bend to the temptation of snatching the woman into his embrace and never permitting her to leave him again.
“I need to stretch my legs,” he said to no one in particular.
“Go with him,” Lady Annalise instructed her husband.
“Graham is not one to welcome my intrusion into his life any more than I would welcome his into mine,” Beaufort protested.
“If it were not for Lord Graham’s so-called intrusion into our lives, we would still be waiting to marry rather than preparing to welcome our first child,” Her Ladyship countered.
Beaufort shrugged in defeat and stood. “Just know, my lady, I shan’t permit you to win all our contestations once our child makes an appearance in this world.”
“I look forward to our conversations, my lord,” Her Ladyship said with a smile for both of them.
Beaufort turned to him. “Where to, Graham?”
Aaran had a place in his mind, but he would not announce his thoughts to the room. “Just need to move this cramped leg of mine. But no gardens. Do not treat me as a man with a bum leg. If you do, Beaufort, I swear I will challenge you to a duel, and you know I am the better shot.”
“Grumpy, thy name is Graham,” Beaufort said with a chuckle. To Aaran, the conversation was reminiscent of his early days in Duncan’s household. Boys teasing one another. Learning to trust each other.
“Which way?” Beaufort asked when they exited the rear of the house.
“The stables,” Aaran responded without looking at his brother. He pressed himself to stay in the lead, knowing that Beaufort would attempt to talk him out of his mission if Navan knew what Aaran had planned.
“Riding instead of walking?” Beaufort asked.
“I want to know Lady Freya is safely on her way back to London,” Aaran said without looking to his brother.
“I know it is foolish, but I want her safe. The coaching routes twist and turn to reach various villages. If I go across the river road, I can see them when Mr. Jamison reaches the main toll road.”
“You will hear no complaints from me. I placed myself as Annalise’s protector long before I rescued her from the fire at Amgen House.”
They ordered the stable hands to saddle their horses.
“Marksman’s denials of your courting his sister are minor to Cunningham’s dislike of my person,” Aaran said. This was not a conversation he wished to have with anyone, not even his most trusted brother.
“Do you have an inkling of the reason for Cunningham’s true dislike of your person?” Beaufort asked.
“Not with any accuracy,” Aaran admitted, “but I assume it has something to do with the clans, perhaps several centuries old. Scotland is archaic in that manner. There is a notation of a payment from Cunningham in one of my father’s estate books, but there is no explanation as to what the payment was meant to resolve. ”
Following Aaran’s admitting his ignorance of Cunningham’s dislike, he and Beaufort stood in companionable silence until two young stable hands brought out a pair of horses, one for each of them. Without speaking, they mounted, kicked their horses’ flanks, and set out across the Kent countryside.
Freya stared mindlessly out the coach’s small window.
She had made herself say her farewell to her new friends, making the necessary promises to keep in touch, though they all knew this farewell was the end of their relationship.
Once she returned to her father’s house and married Sir Patrick, she would be forbidden to acknowledge any of the women she had come to adore even if they passed each other on a shadowy lane in a London park or in a well-lit ballroom.
That was sadness enough, but the loss of Lord Graham’s affections was nearly more than Freya could bear.
“Affections,” she whispered into the stillness of the coach.
“Yes, though it would sound foolish to speak of how much Lord Graham claims not to affect me, he does. His kiss said the words he will not permit himself to believe. We could have a wonderful life, and, yes, we would, upon occasion, encounter rejection, but we would be together. For me, that would be enough.”
Her gaze settled on the line of bare-leafed trees, though she knew they each held buds waiting to open once spring arrived within the next month. “The world shall come alive again, just as the death of hope claims me,” she murmured.
Freya smiled to herself. “I now understand what Lady Emma and Lady Annalise meant. Lord Graham is definitely a take charge kind of man. He takes charge of the future of others, but not his own.”
She had been lost in her thoughts when Mr. Jamison pulled hard on the horses’ reins, and she was tossed forward, slamming into the opposing seat. She heard someone call, “Stand and deliver!” But she saw nothing, for her bonnet had tilted forward to cover her eyes.
“Dear God!” Aaran gasped as they crested the hill to look down on where the main road to London connected with the smaller country roads leading to Thom Manor and the village of Pavian.
He did not wait for Beaufort to respond.
Instead, Aaran kicked his horse’s sides and tugged on the reins so he might reach where Mr. Jamison held the coach in place, while looking down the barrel of a rifle.
The danger in which his servant and Lady Freya found themselves was surely his fault.
How? He did not know, but Aaran’s gut said it was him that had brought all the violence into their lives.
The person holding Jamison and Lady Freya at a standstill was dressed all in black, just as had been Duncan’s shooter, as well as every other attack on Aaran’s family over the past year.
“It is not Duncan!” he growled as he leaned forward over the horse’s neck. “It is me the killer wants!”
Freya managed to right herself and tug both her bonnet and her gown into place, before someone called, “Stand and deliver!”
“This is not a typical time nor place for a robbery of this sort,” she reasoned as she managed to see a bit out of the side window. “This is a busy road to England’s capital,” she told herself as she craned her neck in an attempt to view what was happening.
“Nothing to deliver,” Mr. Jamison stated with more calm than she expected. “Just returning my mistress to London. Attended a wedding of a friend.”
“No jewels?” the stranger demanded.
“Nothing of that sort. Just the marriage of the son of a local vicar and the daughter of another man of the cloth. Simple folks. A simple carriage,” Mr. Jamison explained.
“Tell your mistress to step down,” the stranger ordered.
She felt Mr. Jamison shift on the seat. He opened the trap. “Are you well, mistress?”
“Yes,” she assured him.