Miranda’s legs were pumping to keep up, and she feared her bonnet would be askew once again. It didn’t take long for them to run up the road and take a left since there was no right.
At last, they headed toward the long, low building with large open doors and a thatched roof at the crossroads. It had to be the entrance to the blacksmith’s.
A spotted hound was lying outside, looking content. It lifted its head as they approached.
“Hail,” Philip called out while they were yards away.
A man stepped out, a tankard of ale in one hand, wearing a stained leather apron. They came to a halt in front of him, both breathing hard. Miranda thought her heart would pound out of her chest, as she bent over gasping and noticing how filthy her shoes had become.
“Will you marry us?” Philip asked without preamble.
At first the man said nothing. Then he lifted his ale. “Finished for the day,” he said.
“If it’s a question of cost, I shall pay double your normal rate,” Philip added.
The man’s eyes flicked over him and then over Miranda.
“Suppose I can do one more. Need two witnesses though.”
Philip exclaimed in frustration.
“We’ve got the dog for one,” he said, only half-joking.
The blacksmith shook his head. “That’ll never do, Lord Mercer.”
Miranda gasped while Philip cocked his head. “How do you know my name?”
“BecauseItold him,” said a second, all-too familiar voice.
With disbelieving eyes, Miranda watched her father come out from the dark interior of the blacksmith’s shop.
“Greetings, dear daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Papa!” she exclaimed.
Philip’s blood chilled as if he’d been plunged into the sea. The magistrate must have raced like the devil himself to beat them, and he couldn’t have slept a wink in the past two days.
Surprisingly, as if she had no fear of recrimination, Miranda ran into her father’s arms.
Sir William encircled his daughter in a bear hug. Looking over her head at Philip, he said, “A mangy dog as witness? Truly?”
Philip shrugged. “Improvising, sir, as I would on the field of battle.”
The magistrate shook his head. Then he pried his daughter from him, holding her by her forearms so he could look into her eyes.
“Do you want to marry this blasted prig?”
“I say, I have never cheated anyone in my life,” Philip protested the insult.
Sir William glared at him.
“Tell me, Miranda, is this sorry cur, this slippery, niffy-naffy rascal the person to whom you wish to be joined in wedlock?”
Philip was only pleased the magistrate hadn’t called him something worse. It would be a difficult start if his father-in-law thought him a shoddy fellow. All three men awaited Miranda’s answer, no one more eagerly than Philip.
“It seems to be the wisest course of action, Papa, given the terrible mistake I’ve made. You see, I wrote a—”
