“Did you truly?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And this cur didn’t touch you?”
“No, Papa.”
The magistrate turned to Philip again. Stepping forward, he reached out, and Philip flinched ever so slightly, feeling foolish when all the man did was slap his shoulder.
“I never thought I would say thank you to a rake for his honorable actions,” Sir William said, “but I’m sure her mother, bless her soul, would be pleased.”
Before Philip could digest this compliment, the closing of one half of the shop doors indicated the blacksmith was about to end his day.
“I suppose we don’t have to hurry now that we know you are not trying to stop us,” Philip said.
Did his bride want to delay for a nicer venue?
“Now we don’t have to rush if you wish to wait for Mr. Elliot tomorrow at the inn or even try the vicar at the local parish church,” Philip offered.
Miranda opened her mouth, but her father spoke first.
“She’ll marry now and not a minute later. Just because you didn’t sin last night does not forgive the rest. Remember, I have read the book.”
With that, he turned and went inside, leaving them alone.
“If you’re ready, Miss Bright.” Philip wished he could say he would be honored or some such flowery nonsense, but they both knew this was a marriage of rescue and redemption. It was exactly what he had always striven to avoid, with the undesirable feeling of being forced, snared like a weak rabbit in a hunter’s trap.
“Yes,” she said, somewhat stoically. “I am ready.”
They followed her father into the blacksmith’s shop, dimly lit as there was no fire in the doused forge. Philip and Miranda approached the anvil where the blacksmith and her father awaited.
“We still need another witness,” her father said, as if that made this truly legitimate. “And I would know the name of the man performing my daughter’s wedding.”
“Lang. David Lang,” the blacksmith stated. “I’m the nephew to old Paisley.”
Philip looked at the other two, equally baffled by the pronouncement.
“Why,” the man exclaimed. “Don’t say you never heard of my uncle? He was doing weddings in this very spot since 1754, or some such date. Died a couple years back.”
“I had a London wedding,” the magistrate said firmly, “as did my eldest daughter.”
The blacksmith looked at Philip, who shrugged, having never heard of Paisley either.
With a sigh, the man whistled loudly, and for a moment, Philip thought they were actually going to use the dog as their second witness, but footsteps in the rafters brought a young man scrambling down the ladder.
“My son, Simon,” Mr. Lang said. “Old enough to witness, never you mind.” Then he tugged a parson’s hat from a hook on the wall and shoved it upon his own head. It looked strange, indeed, combined with the blackened apron.
Seeing their stares, the man reminded them, “I am an anvilpriest.” He tapped his hat. “Some even call me Bishop Lang.” He grinned, his teeth looking surprisingly white in his grimy face. “Who is paying for this wedding?”
Sir William looked squarely at Philip. Swiftly, he drew out a purse from his pocket.
“How much?”
“Fifty pounds of the king’s coin,” Mr. Lang stated firmly.
“At the high end, then,” Philip said drolly, counting out the money.
“How can you put a price on love?” the blacksmith quipped.
