Elizabeth was not sure how her story would end. She knew only that her words, this time, flowed with hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
When Milton arrived at the Winthrop residence, no footman greeted his knock. In fact, the front door was slightly ajar, which set his hackles up and his hand to his hip, where he always kept a blade. He slipped this to his palm and pushed the door in with a faint groan, his senses on high alert.
The house was eerily silent, enough to prickle his skin. He should return with more men, yet return to what? If trouble had come, his servant Marty would have sent word. Unless Marty were in trouble, in which case Milton would not leave his loyal footman here alone. Or Ginny.Christ.
She’d be in Annabelle’s room, upstairs.
He trod the carpeted staircase light as a cat, steps faintly creaking under his weight. He scanned the empty hallway on the landing, his nerves increasingly on edge. No house should be this quiet so close to midday’s chime. He should turn back; he was no fool. Or had he grown soft in wealth?
He’d faced worse with less; he’d not leave now.
Methodically, Milton pushed open each door he passed, knife drawn as he peered inside for signs of life. Door after door he opened in slow succession, revealing nothing but empty rooms, until the last one opened to Ginny, bound and gagged in the bed,shaking her wide-eyed head in a warning that came two seconds too late.
The ceremony at Gretna passed: Annabelle had become Mrs. Arthur Harris with hammer to anvil,bang. Her new husband left her standing before the forge, staring blankly into the hot coals, as he signed the blacksmith’s book, then bid her do the same.
She did so in a daze, whereas Mr. Harris looked altogether relieved. He declared her now safe and announced he would find them lodgings for the night, trade their team for fresh horseflesh.
She blankly followed him from stable to inn, where she finally took note of her surroundings, of how pleased Arthur seemed, arms crossed, as he surveyed the room he had just procured them for the night.
Her wedding night.
Annabelle gulped, the boisterous, bawdy noises filtering up from the downstairs tavern dragging her back to the dilemma she now faced. Though she was too exhausted to care where she slept. She dismissed the room’s solitary bed frame with barely a blink and greedily eyed the bath being filled instead.
While maids continued to haul in buckets of steaming water, their driver appeared, handing Mr. Harris something.
“Come, wife, I’ve a gift for you.” Arthur played groom and Annabelle played along, though her situation was no game. She was good and truly married, she realized with shock, her shock greater still when Mr. Harris slipped a gold band onto her ring finger.
“A goldsmith melted me coin t’ forge this.” He cocked her a smile, an errant blond lock falling over one eye. “I hope it’ll do.”
Annabelle’s heart inexplicably ached. “I—thank you.” She hiccoughed back tears.Ridiculous.
“Sit with me a moment, luv. It’s been a rough journey, I know.” He led her to the room’s bed and pulled her to his lap, where tears suddenly streamed unbidden down her cheeks.
“Better, miss?”
“Yes.” She gulped. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
His thumb traced soothing circles at the back of her neck. “Yer nerves’re wrought, no shame admittin’ that.”
She loved his drawling accent, so different from her own, the vowels more melodic, the consonants dropped. “You are kind to indulge me, Mr. Harris.”
***
“’Tis but common courtesy.” Harris buried his nose in Bella’s neck, not caring he took that liberty now she was, in name at least, his wife. The minx snuggled closer on his lap, making one part of his anatomy painfully aware of the lady’s plump posterior.
She adjusted her seat and looked down in dismay. “Have I hurt you, Arthur?”
“No.” He winced. “’Tis not hurt, exactly.”
“You mean I—” She shifted again.“Oh!”
Harris braced himself. “Don’t move.” He was desperate to keep her from brushing his poor rod more.
She pursed her lips. “Arthur Harris, as I am now your wife, I wish to know.”
“Know what?” He refused her any more wiggle room on his lap—for her own good.
