The Accidental Abduction (14 page)

“But you don't even know this Mr. Rayburn!” cried Uncle Clarence.

Leannah met her uncle's distressed gaze. “But I do.” These words came to her as easily as anything she'd told him yet, and they were just as true. “He is a good man, and I want to be with him.” She did not say the word “love.” That one word would not come to her. She tried to tell herself it did not matter. If it was to come at all, it would come when the time was right. But that was too close to what she'd believed of her first marriage, the one that truly had been for money.

That is not what I'm doing this time. I will not think it. I will think about Harry, think about his hands on my body, about his kisses and his promises. I will think about enjoying his company and his banter and his smiles, openly, freely, and without fear. I will think about not having to be so alone, for a little while at least.

“Please, Uncle,” said Leannah. “I am not asking you to do this only for Genevieve or Father or even Jeremy. This once, I'm asking something for myself.”

Uncle Clarence met her gaze for a long time. When he did turn toward the hearth, he bowed his head and Leannah heard the faint breath of whispered words. She guessed he must be praying, and she made herself be still and quiet.

At the same time she could not help wishing she could run to the door. What was happening out there? Was Harry pacing? Was he even still there? Had he repented his hasty, heated proposal? No. He would not do that. He was not Mr. Dickenson. He would not leave her without a word.

But how do I know that? I want to believe I know him, but I don't. I only know I want him and I am trying to convince myself I am right to want him.

The thought had a bitter sting to it, and she tried to push it away. She wished Harry were standing here beside her. She wished a thousand things, torn between desire, doubt, and this reckless, dizzy sensation that was like too much champagne in her blood.

At last, Uncle Clarence turned to face her. There was resolution on his face, and Leannah's heart plummeted.

“Leannah,” he said. “Because it is you, because I know the trust and care all our family places in you, I will do what you ask.”

*   *   *

With the arrival of the mail coach, the inn's public room had become very loud and very crowded. Mr. and Mrs. Jessop, not to mention young Martin, the girl Mary, and four or five other servants, who had apparently arrived with the dawn, were everywhere at once, answering dozens of calls, for food, for beer, and for all manner of fetching and carrying.

Despite this, Harry managed to catch the landlord's arm and shout his own request for paper, pen, and ink. There were letters to be written, even if he had to elbow three or four local goodmen and farmers out of the way to keep one corner of the bar clear.

He couldn't very well bring Leannah to his parents' house for their wedding night, so other arrangements must be made. Then, a note had to go to Father, explaining he was well, only delayed and would be back home (and at work) shortly, and that he could reassure mother and Fiona that all was well. These had to be pressed into the landlord's hand along with enough coinage to make sure that they were given into the hands of the nearest available reliable messenger, and that Martin was set immediately to work on reshoeing Gossip. It was a good thing he'd remembered both purse and wallet when he'd left the house.

Harry glanced at the parlor door, which remained fast shut. He didn't want to be writing letters. He wanted to burst in there, throw Leannah over his shoulder, and show her what a proper abduction looked like.

Could he really be doing this? Could he be about to marry a woman he'd met only a few hours before? Apparently, he could. But only such a woman as Leannah. The memory of her heated kiss, the eager press of her body, the warm fullness of her breasts in his hands seized him. Harry felt his groin tighten. But it wasn't just the desire she aroused in him that drove him to this impulsive action. Her spirit, her courage called to him. He did not want to let her go, and if, for her own reasons, she would not let him court her in the conventional manner, then this was the way to have and keep her.

But why?
he asked himself again.
Why is it the way?
A slender thread of doubt crept into his thoughts, but he let it go. Whatever her reason might be, they would face it when the time came.

A hand grabbed his elbow and turned him abruptly around. Harry saw at once that it was Miss Genevieve Morehouse and stifled the curse he'd been about to level. She fixed him with a surprisingly steely gaze and then, keeping tight hold of his elbow, marched him out into the inn yard.

As soon as they reached a distance where they were not likely to be overheard, she spun him around once more to face her.

“What have you done to my sister?”

Years of dealing with Fiona had taught Harry that when presented with such a look, and such a question, nothing could be worse than evasion. “I helped bring her here ahead of you.”

“What else?”

“If there's any other information you require on the subject, you can apply to your sister.”

“Huh. As if she'd tell me anything. I suppose she's told you I'm quite the irresponsible child.”

“Actually, she's told me you are a most determined young lady who cares a great deal for your family.”

“She did not.”

“Only because she hadn't gotten around to it yet. It was rather a busy night.”

“Then you're a shameless flatterer.”

“When I have to be. Right now, I'm simply remarking on what I've observed. You could have started this conversation by taking me to task for Mr. Dickenson's departure. You didn't. You asked about your sister. That proves it is your family you truly care about.”

Harry watched with satisfaction as Miss Morehouse subsided. She was not quite willing to concede the bout, but she clearly felt he'd scored a point. He had to work at not smiling. Whatever tiny doubts he might have about the headlong course he currently pursued, there could be none whatsoever on one particular point. Miss Morehouse and Fiona were going to get along famously.

“Do you know what she's talking to my uncle about in there?” Miss Morehouse nodded toward the parlor window.

“I do.”

“What is it then?”

Harry folded his arms and turned his own attention to the window. He wondered what progress Leannah was making. What would she do if her properly concerned uncle said no? What would he do?

“Well you're her match for stubbornness, I'll give you that.” Genevieve's tone was more thoughtful than he'd heard it yet. “Where did you meet her?”

“On the road last night. She abducted me.”

While Genevieve was still gaping at this pronouncement, the inn door opened to reveal Leannah, with her uncle at her side. Her eyes met Harry's, and she gave him a nod. A shock ran through him, from his boots to the crown of his head. She was smiling, and with that smile, the promise of her delightful companionship, as well as that luscious body in his arms, tumbled over him.

Miss Morehouse stomped over to her sister. “Leannah, this, this,
man
says you abducted him!”

Leannah was still smiling, and her gold and emerald gaze did not waver from his. She was beautiful. She was perfect.

“I did abduct him, Genny, and now I'm going to marry him.”

I
cannot possibly be doing this.

But she was. In the yard, there had been an entirely predictable interval of explaining, and arguing, with Genevieve. This had given Uncle Clarence time to put on his surplice and stole and find the appropriate page in his prayer book. He now stood in the parlor with his back to the fire, striving mightily to keep from appearing worried as Harry took Leannah's hand in his.

Uncle Clarence coughed. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together Leannah Marie Morehouse Wakefield and Harold Syverson Rayburn in holy matrimony . . .”

Mr. Jessop, feeling the sense of occasion, had managed to find Harry a fresh cravat and brushed down his coat. Mrs. Jessop supplied Leannah with a little bouquet of snowdrops and one early daffodil, tied with a bit of white lace. The landlady now stood beside Genevieve, as mismatched a pair of bridesmaids as Leannah could have ever imagined. But she didn't care. Harry was looking down on her, his bright blue eyes alive with merriment, although he'd schooled his face into an admirably solemn expression. She did like his face—his clear brow, the wide expressive mouth, and of course his eyes. Those eyes told the truth about him and at the moment, that truth was he was glad to be here, with her, and glad for what they were doing.

As for his whiskers, well, they were part of him, and they made her smile. He made her smile.

“. . . not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly . . .”

If Genny makes that noise again, I will throttle her.

Harry's wide mouth twitched as he fought to hold back a laugh. His hand closed gently about hers. She was glad she had no gloves. She liked the feeling of his skin against hers, even in this strictly limited way. It warmed her and sent a thrum of anticipation through her veins, sensations entirely different from those that accompanied her first marriage.

Leannah's wedding to Elias Wakefield had been a grand affair. Elias had insisted on it. “Every girl dreams of this day,” he'd said. “I mean for you to have that dream. Spend whatever you need to have everything just as you wish.”

The command had been dizzying. It had felt like freedom come at last. Leannah and her friends had spent months in shops and warehouses assembling her trousseau. Elias kept sending presents—a fan, gloves, a coral bracelet, and at the last, a pearl and garnet necklace that had been in his family for generations.

All had been well as she walked up the aisle. Father had been so proud and sure of himself as he gave her hands into Elias's. She faced her bridegroom with the thought that her family's worries were over. She held her smile in place as he lifted back her veil, and gazed soberly down on her, candlelight glinting in his gray hair.

Elias had been dead for over a year and her trousseau had all been sold or packed away, except the garnets. The garnets she'd kept.

“. . . I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

The pause stretched out. It occurred to Leannah that Uncle Clarence was waiting for her to speak and call a halt to this.
I should. I should not tie this man to me, to us.

But Harry's gaze remained steady, and his bare hands closed around her injured ones. She remembered his arms around her and his body pressed shamelessly against hers. Heat blossomed at the very center of her as she remembered the kisses he'd already given her, and how much more delight there was for them to discover. She had known duty and kindness and so many other things, but until Harry Rayburn had tumbled into her life, she had not known passion.

Uncle Clarence was speaking again.

“Wilt thou, Harold, have this woman, Leannah, to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

The merriment was gone from Harry's eyes. His gaze had turned inward. Leannah imagined him searching his own heart, but for what, she could not tell.

“I will.” He spoke the words clearly, seriously. Leannah felt them as surely and deeply as she had felt the press of his hand.

Her own heart trembled beneath the weight of all the things she had not said. She'd told him the truth, but was it enough of the truth? How much could be enough for such a deed and such a moment?

What am I doing, Harry? To you and to myself?

“Wilt thou, Leannah, have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

When she'd stood before the altar at St. George's with Elias, his gloved hand had felt light as air. Leannah remembered how firmly she'd told herself she would come to love this man. He was, after all, a good man. Things were exactly as they should be—a good marriage, a comfortable home for herself and, eventually, her children, security and prosperity for her family. It was everything she could hope for.

She had not been sold to an old man so she could be bred off him. Father had not urged her into this union because Mr. Wakefield had agreed to give over his fortune for him to invest and manage. That was not at all what had happened.

And today? What do I tell myself today? Not that I love you, Harry. I won't say that again without being sure. But I want you, so very much. Is it enough? Please, dear Lord, if You are watching, let it be enough.

Harry's hand squeezed hers. There was no doubt in his eyes, and that small gesture gave her the strength she needed. “I will,” she said.

“Who giveth this woman . . . oh, dear . . .”

“It's all right, Uncle Clarence. I give myself.”

“Oh, well. Yes. Quite right. Ahem.” He ran his finger down the order of service, confusion turning his face beet red. “The vows. Yes. You will repeat after me . . .” he said.

Leannah faced Harry. Her heart trembled. She waited for him to stumble over his words, to betray some sign of doubt. She waited for regret, for weakness and, yes, cold, hard common sense to come racing in and stop them.

But Harry did not stop or stumble. “I Harold take thee Leannah to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Leannah was shaking. She could not even begin to name all the emotions that seized her. This at last was genuine madness, this moment that would seal them together.

I promise, I will do my best by you, Harry Rayburn, whoever you turn out to be,
she said in the space of her mind.
I will be honest and I will hold faithful, however far we travel together. I will try. I want to try.

Now it was her turn to speak. They were all waiting for her. Harry most of all.

*   *   *

Harry watched the stream of thought and feeling ripple through Leannah's gold and emerald eyes; memories he had yet to discover, hopes, wishes, fears, and doubts he could empathize with even though he had yet to learn their names.

“I Leannah take thee Harold to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

He could not take his eyes off her. Her beauty held him, but so did the depth of her feeling, the life and the mystery of her being that he'd just begun to glimpse. All manner of desires filled him as he, they, solemnized this strangest possible marriage, but the desire to stop, or even slow down was not among them. In fact, he was having to work to hold her hands gently. He wanted to gather her close in his arms. He wanted to shout his need of her from the rooftops. If there was anything that frightened him, it was this desire and his willingness to dare the world to claim her.

I promise, Leannah, I will make a good husband—a steady, kind, thoroughly English husband. I'll keep you safe and make you comfortable. I will take care of you, no matter what happens and however long or short the time we manage together. I will try.

“Is there a ring?”

“Yes,” said Harry. Leannah looked down at his bare hands, but Harry reached into his pocket and with a small flourish, pulled out the jeweler's box that had been waiting there the entire night. He opened the lid to display the gold and diamond ring. Leannah stared. Behind her, Genevieve gasped.

“Where on earth did that come from?”

“Genny! Be quiet!” hissed Leannah.

“I won't be! What kind of man wanders around with a diamond wedding band in his pocket?”

“One who has recently been disappointed,” answered Harry with as much calm as he could manage. He'd thought it might look a bit odd, but like every other imagined impediment, it had seemed trivial enough. “I'm afraid this was purchased for someone quite different.” He watched Leannah anxiously as he said this. He did not want her to feel slighted.

“It's beautiful,” she answered. “I'll be proud to wear it.”

Miss Morehouse fell silent, but suspicion still screwed her face tight. Leannah cocked her head, giving Harry a wry look, as Harry handed the ring over to the clergyman. To Uncle Clarence, he supposed he should say. They were family after all. He seemed a good sort, and Leannah was obviously fond of him. He'd have to set about making friends with the man. They could invite him to dinner. This was a comfortably domestic thought, and Harry found he liked it.

Uncle Clarence laid the ring upon his book for a moment, and then handed it back to Harry.

“You will please repeat after me: With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Harry spoke the words. They came as easily as the vows, but as he tried to slip the ring onto Leannah's finger, it wouldn't go past her first knuckle. Confusion descended and he stifled a curse. Of course it didn't fit. It had been bought for Agnes, and her hands were much smaller.

Leannah just smiled, and wiggled her littlest finger. Blushing, Harry took the hint. He also repositioned the ring. It fit perfectly. But it wasn't right for her. It was somehow too showy and too small at the same time. Why, of all the possible concerns that could have raised their collective heads, was this the one that nagged at him? He didn't know. He just knew it was wrong for Leannah to wear Agnes's ring. He would fix that, and whatever else might come along, just as soon as they got back to town. Well, not just as soon. There were several other more personal and private things to be attended to first.

It was these things Harry kept firmly in his mind as he took both of Leannah's hands and Uncle Clarence said, “Amen.”

“Amen,” they all answered, even Miss Morehouse. Genevieve.

And it was done, just like that. A breath of words, a moment of agreement, and she belonged wholly and solely to him.

“Mrs. Rayburn,” he breathed.

“Mr. Rayburn,” she answered.

“Ah, never mind the priest, kiss her, young man!” boomed the landlord.

And he did. He gathered her to him and he kissed her, openly, shamelessly, and for a very long time. Long enough to be sure she understood his promises of desire and constancy; long enough that they both knew he meant to make this mad dream real. She was his wife and he was her husband, and no ill-fitting ring, no rash motives, no disapproving sisters, uncles, or parents would put that asunder.

All would be right. He would make sure of it.