Chapter Thirteen
HAVING REALIZED SLEEP WAS NOT TO COME, ALEXANDER ROSE BEFORE sunrise and dressed.
He gave instructions to a maid to wake Harriet in an hour.
It was less than a half day’s ride to the border; the sooner they got there and were married the better.
The rain continued, but it was light enough to ride out.
He rode ahead to Gretna Green, informing his driver where to meet upon arrival. He had an errand to run.
Gretna Green was a small town, the first over the border to Scotland, and thus the most common destination for eloping couples.
An enterprising man, understanding his town’s function, had opened a jewelry store only a few doors down from the blacksmith’s shop.
Alexander entered to find an older gentleman puttering about, polishing the many rings on display.
Heaven forbid someone in this town want a coral necklace for his wife or a simple bracelet for his daughter, Alexander mused.
“Good mornin’ to ye,” the man said, warmly. His burr wasn’t as thick as some of the Scottish people Alexander had known, no doubt the result of living so close to the border. “After a ring?”
“I am.”
“What sort?” At Alexander’s pause, the man smiled and then shuffled over to a large case. “What cooler ur ’er eyes?”
“Gray.” That Alexander knew the answer to.
“Och. Dinnae ken if I hev a gray stone.”
“Need it match her eyes?” Was that some kind of wedding-ring rule?
“Nae, just tha sort of poetic shite toffs like ye normally go fer.” Alexander let out a huff of laughter.
“I’ll just take the nicest ring you have.”
“Hold an a moment noo. Caitriona. Iona. Finella!” the man shouted, not even bothering to turn his head toward the back of the store.
From a small door came, in short order, three young women, all with the same fair skin and generous splash of freckles.
The first woman had deep, dark-brown hair, followed by a redhead holding a bucket of water who looked aggrieved to be there, and finally a younger girl with light brown, almost blonde hair who was reading a book.
“Ma dochters,” the jeweler explained. “Any of them favor yer gal?”
Despite little resemblance—Harriet’s hair was darker, richer, warmer, her skin wasn’t as pale and was absent of freckles, and her eyes were lighter—Alexander nodded at the last girl, the one with the book. “What ring would you choose?”
“Me?” the girl asked, startled at being addressed directly.
“Yes. If you were to have a ring, any ring here, what would it be?” The girl glanced over at her father, who shrugged and nodded.
The redhead sighed and headed through the door, back to whatever work she’d been doing.
The other sister crossed her arms and waited.
The bookish girl rounded the counter and walked right over to a small display.
“That un,” she said, pointing to a simple emerald ring. It wasn’t the largest stone in the store, but it was undeniably beautiful.
“I’ll take it.”
All told, there was nothing extraordinary about their wedding.
Thousands of couples had married across the border in a blacksmith’s shop and thousands more would after them.
Perhaps the only thing of note was the slightly rumpled evening gown worn by the bride.
Of course, the blacksmith took little notice of what couples wore, or what they were running from.
That was their business. They were married within minutes with no fanfare.
The groom gave the bride a kiss and a ring and the blacksmith struck the anvil, and they were on their way.
Both the kiss and the ring shocked the living daylights out of Harriet. Yes, they were part of the ceremony, she knew as much, even if she’d never attended a wedding before. But some part of her had assumed those customs wouldn’t apply to Lord Alexander Stirling.
She felt inclined to apologize to him, as if she were the one who had asked for their inclusion in the ceremony.
“Oh, sir, you don’t understand, we aren’t having a real marriage.
He needn’t kiss me, and he surely doesn’t have a ring,” she imagined replying when the blacksmith directed Alexander.
Only he did have a ring. And he didn’t hesitate to kiss her at all.
True, it was her third kiss in her entire life and likely his thirty thousandth; no doubt, he was beyond the point in life where a kiss could mean something.
Still, it didn’t feel perfunctory to Harriet. Or perhaps that was the very skill of a rake—to make each woman feel she was, if not the first, the only.
After they were pronounced husband and wife, Harriet tried to discern if she felt any different than she had before.
You are now married to Lord Alexander. You are now Lady Alexander Stirling, she repeated to herself.
But she felt nothing. She sneaked glances down at the exquisite ring he’d given her.
She didn’t want him to think her a silly woman, captivated with jewels like a crow.
It was the nicest gift anyone had ever given her.
Climbing back in the carriage after the hasty ceremony, Harriet was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion.
Alexander was silent, which was usual, and Harriet joined him, which was unusual; however, every time she tried to think of something, anything to say, the words died quickly in her throat.
Alexander looked as weary as she felt. They’d stayed up late last night, but it was as if the wedding itself had dispirited both of them.
The purpose of their journey was complete.
They were married.
What came next? And did last night signify? Was their marriage to be a nonce? The idea of asking him, of bringing up any topic at all, felt like carrying a trunk of cannonballs up four flights of stairs.
Instead, she leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes.
Unbidden, her mind returned to the kiss at the altar.
And the ones the night before. Everything from the night before.
Surely it meant very little to him, another in a long line of romantic evenings.
He probably had more singular memories of tying neckties than he did of being in bed with a woman.
But Harriet could privately cherish it, even if he never gave it another thought.
He regretted that kiss. He regretted all their kisses, for entirely different reasons.
This one had been far too chaste but alas.
The blacksmith was no vicar; regardless, one could not ravish one’s wife at the altar.
Or at the anvil. Alexander wished the kiss had lasted longer, that he’d tasted her more, that he’d lingered.
He wasn’t certain when he’d kiss her again.
If at all. There was no reason to kiss her again after this.
A knot of feeling low in his stomach protested: Of course there is reason to kiss her again. Simply because if he didn’t, he would spend eternity dreaming about it. Although he supposed he’d probably do that either way.
He was quite obviously going daft.
He watched Harriet, her head tilted back against the squab, her eyes closed.
He was certain she wasn’t sleeping. Her arms were crossed, her spine rigid, her breath shallow, her lips pursed in annoyance.
Perhaps at him. The thought made his mouth twitch with pleasure.
Would he ever stop delighting in bedeviling her?
His smile was tossed over quickly as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He watched as the long, bare column of her throat swallowed. She let out a small sigh and shifted in her seat.
She seemed … No.
Alexander shook off the notion. The woman was not sitting across the carriage fantasizing about anything. Other than perhaps gerunds.
At the next stop he’d hire another horse; he needed to ride out again.
This was unbearable. He cleared his throat, hoping to wake her from her spurious slumber.
His plan worked in that her eyes fluttered open, but her dazed, glassy look was just as bad, if not worse, than when she’d been pretending to sleep.
She didn’t take the opportunity to talk, which was stunningly out of character. He missed her chatter. Even her circling things in her book. It was bizarre to see her so relatively idle.
The only part of her that moved was her thumb, spinning the emerald ring on her hand around and around. Some tiny, jealous part of him liked her having it on. A ring that signified that she was his. The thought was so foolish as to be embarrassing.
Harriet glanced up and then followed his eyes down to the ring. Her hand stilled immediately; the spinning stopped.
“It’s lovely, by the way. I don’t know if I said that already. But it’s … it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. Not that I own it. You do. Of course … You understand me.”
Alexander was gladder to have her rambling again than he could say.
“It’s yours. You own it.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
“The eyes of the law see the Duke of Belhaven as my father. I’m not certain you can trust their vision.”
She laughed, a softer, kinder laugh than he’d heard before. He was cataloging a woman’s laughter?! God help him. The monotony of riding in a carriage for this many days in a row was obviously getting to him. He was restless and desperate.
He knocked abruptly on the roof of the carriage, rolling it to a stop.
By way of explanation he simply said, “Please excuse me for being indecorous, but I fear the carriage is making me rather unwell. I will ride out again today.” Then he tipped his hat and climbed up front with his driver.
At the next stop, he’d saddle a horse. Anything to be out of this blasted carriage with her blasted sighs.
And her blasted lips. And that blasted wedding ring.
On her blasted gorgeous hands that just last night had been …
Air. He needed air.