The Fairest of Them All (21 page)

He would never have spoken these words without the darkness, and now she understood: This journey was not so much about stopping an elopement as it was about confronting a traitor.

“And when you see him?” she asked. “What do you intend to do?”

There was a long period of silence and then he said so quietly she could have imagined the words, “I don't know.”

Chapter Twenty

C
har did not want to leave the haven of the Widow Fitzwilliam's house, especially to ride horses. Between her riding the day before and the lovemaking that she and Jack had reveled in, she was discovering muscles she didn't have before.

Mrs. Fitzwilliam surprised her with a dress. It was deep loden green and far from ­fashionable, the sort of thing a maid would wear, but as the widow said, “I thought when it came time to stand before the minister, you'd like something a bit more fitting to your sex.”

Char thanked her profusely and wore the dress at the end of each day as they walked around the villages they came upon looking for places to stay for the night. As far as she was concerned, Jack was her husband. They even signed themselves into the registries at two inns as “Mr. and Mrs. Whitridge.”

Jack would ask if anyone fitting the duke's description had been this way. The answer was always no and they began to relax. Still, they did not dally.

The sores she had earned in the saddle ­subsided and her body happily adjusted to love­making. They had little in the way of money. Jack's funds were growing limited and he still needed to pay their ship fares to Boston, but she couldn't ­remember ever being so content. The old sense of desperation that had led her to pickpocketing had left her. One way or the other, she and Jack would manage. She trusted him.

She also enjoyed listening to his stories of his past adventures. Or hearing him describe Boston. She made him create word pictures of the street where he lived. She quizzed him on how he lived. He talked about his friends including Governor Strong, who had asked him to petition on behalf of peace.

“I dislike disappointing him,” Jack said.

“
You
didn't. Your brother did. He was the dishonorable one.”

“War will come, Char. There are too many hotheads in Congress. You understand we will be on the opposite side? You are all right with that?”

Char reached for his hand. “I've made my choice. And, who knows? Perhaps cooler heads will prevail.”

“Perhaps.” He did not sound optimistic.

At last, they reached the Scottish border.

Char once more changed into her dress, Jack standing guard of the thicket where she'd gone for privacy. She didn't rebraid her hair but twisted it into a chignon much like Sarah wore. She placed her hat on her head, tilting the wide brim to a jaunty angle.

“I'm becoming quite good at making this dress stylish,” she bragged.

“You could make a sack stylish, my lady,” he answered, and she laughed.

“Are you ready to marry?” he asked. “We are almost there.”

“I've been ready,” she informed him wearily, and held out her arms for him to help lift her up into the saddle. She would ride sidesaddle into Gretna, a proper lady.

“Then let us do this,” he said, and started down the road.

Gretna Green was a lovely village of whitewashed cottages and a good-­sized smithy. There was also an inn. Jack observed that the smith probably didn't make as much money from his forge as he did from marrying couples in front of the anvil.

People nodded at them as they rode into the village. There seemed to be no question that Jack and Char were a couple ready to marry and the locals were welcoming.

The day was a bit overcast but a good one. The weather was the least of Char's worries. She wanted the marriage done.

The smithy itself was a number of buildings connected by walkways. They were greeted at the door by a jovial lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Lang.

“We are here to marry,” Jack said. “The sooner the better.”

“A long trip you've had of it, eh?” Mrs. Lang said. “Let me fetch my husband. He went home for a wee nap.”

“Please do,” Jack answered. “Also, how much is the fee?”

“It will be fifteen guineas, kind sir. I will return in a moment.”

“Fifteen?” Jack drew a breath and released it.

Char knew he was thinking of the ship fare. “We shall manage,” she assured him.

He nodded. “Wives are expensive.” There was no heat in his voice.

“And I only have one dress. I pray thee wait, I may become more expensive.”

He laughed and kissed her hand. “There are always breeches. We shall be fine once we return to Boston.”

Mr. Lang, “Bishop Lang,” was a handsome, ­officious man with a lighthearted attitude. “I married a couple this morning and thought I was done for the day. All right, shall we be on with it? We'll have you stand right over here in front this anvil.”

Jack took Char's hand, but before they could move there was a commotion of horses outside. A glimpse out the window showed the team.

Matched grays
.

Char gave a start. She might have run if not for Jack's steadying presence. He squeezed her hand.
Courage.

“Let's be on with it,” Jack ordered Mr. Lang.

Mr. Lang accommodated him. “Please tell me whence have you come?”

“London,” Char said.

“Boston,” Jack answered.

“This is a long way, sir,” Mr. Lang replied.

“And I'm in a hurry to return,” Jack assured him.

“Yes, well, then, let us begin.” Mr. Lang looked at Char. “Will you state your full name—­?”

The smithy's door flew open. The Duke of ­Baynton in greatcoat and boots ducked under the door and came striding in followed by a very ­worried Sarah. “Stop any ceremony,” he ­commanded. “This young woman is under age and I have her guardian with me.”

S
arah was heartily tired of traveling and overjoyed to see Char. She would have hurried to her, except Lord Jack had stepped forward, placing her niece protectively behind him. More telling, Char accepted him as her protector, even moving closer to the shelter of his body.

The gentleman who had appeared ready to ­perform the marriage ceremony closed his book and calmly informed the duke, “Sir, I need tell you, this young lady is legal under the laws of Scotland. Her guardian has no say.” He had ­obviously given this little speech before.

“Where are you in the vows, sir?” Sarah ­demanded.

“We haven't started,” he answered.

“Yes, we have,” Char countered.

Lord Jack's attention was on his brother. They glowered at each other like angry tigers. “
You
are not welcome here.”

“I didn't expect to be,” Baynton answered. “What the devil are you doing? Is this how you have plotted to strike back at me, Jack? By ­humiliating me through marriage to Lady ­Charlene?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Lord Jack answered. “I met her long before you did, brother. More important, she's
mine
now.”

Baynton reared back as if his twin had physically struck him.

Sarah, too, was stunned.

Mine now
. She understood exactly what Lord Jack was saying. There would be no turning back for Charlene. She'd given him her virtue and Sarah could have wept. His claim echoed words Roland Pettijohn had said to Sarah the first time she'd tried to leave him—­
mine.
Then again, Roland had been a liar and a fraud. If the duke had been ­confronting him, Roland would have pushed Sarah in front of him, expecting her to save him.

Lord Jack gave every sign that he would shield Char with his life.

However, what truly jarred Sarah was Baynton's astounding response.

“Yours? Like chattel?”

When they had come within sight of Gretna, Sarah has promised herself she would keep calm. She could see the duke was growing more ­aggressive as he neared his quarry. They were both tired, exhausted, actually, and she knew one of them needed to be the cooler head. Her ­purpose was to be there for Charlene.

However, the duke taking her ideals, ideals that he had repudiated repeatedly on their journey, and twisting them to use to his own ­advantage destroyed all good intent. They also gave her a convenient target since contemplating the ­irrevocable choices Char had made with her life was far too distressing. “That was uncalled for,” she informed the duke.

Without bothering to look at her, since his glare was saved for his brother, Baynton said, “What was?” He spoke as an aside.

“Mocking my principles.”

“They are mockable,” he responded, annoyed enough at her interruption to give her a stern frown and an unvarnished opinion. “I did not ­appreciate them being foisted on me.”

“And yet you just used them on your brother.”

Now she received the duke's full attention. “Are we here for the same purpose? Do we not want the same result?”

“Not at the cost of my principles.”

He looked at her as if she had stepped on his last ounce of patience. “I'm merely making use of all the nonsense you have been foisting upon me.”

“We have been together for days. We had to talk about something.”

Baynton lifted a brow. “Aye, we did. And may I remind you that you don't like my politics, my views on religion or the role and place of women—­”

“What intelligent woman would admire the opinions you hold, Your Grace?” Sarah answered with false sweetness.

“Many women do,” he answered. “Hosts of women.”

“So you keep telling me.” She looked to the minister. “This is Scotland. I could use of dram of whisky or maybe three after traveling with him for days on end.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pettijohn,” the duke said, speaking to the room at large and making his exasperation clear. “Advocate of Mary Wollstonecraft and bluestockings everywhere.”

“You are
so
annoying,” she replied. “­However, I must credit you with knowing who Mary ­Wollstonecraft is. I am amazed. Simply amazed.”

Baynton growled his response. “Thank you again, Mrs. Pettijohn. May I say, I preferred you as a maid? You weren't so opinionated.”

Char had come out from behind Lord Jack. She stood beside him, her gaze turning worried as she followed the argument from the duke to Sarah and back again. The expression on her face brought Sarah to her senses.

In truth, her niece did not look the worse for wear. Her hand had found Lord Jack's and their fingers were laced together. Something about seeing them this way eased the knots of fear and doubt Sarah had been harboring.

“His Grace is being sarcastic,” Sarah assured Char.

“I wasn't being sarcastic,” Baynton shot back.

Sarah harrumphed her answer. After all, a good harrumph was unanswerable. It said so much without saying anything.

And gave her the last word, something she knew the duke would not appreciate.

Lord Jack spoke up. “I'm actually starting to feel sorry for you, brother.”

“I don't want your pity,” Baynton answered.

“That
was
sarcasm,” Lord Jack informed him, and his dry quip startled a laugh out of Sarah . . . and once she started, she couldn't stop, especially when the duke gave his brother one of his lowering looks he'd been directing at her whenever she'd dared to question his opinions.

And this whole trip had been for naught.

Yes, she was glad she was here to protect her niece. . . but she needn't protect her from Lord Jack. Even a blind woman could tell he loved Char. And Sarah, whose principles had included a belief that a woman should do exactly as she wished, had come to realize she had no right to stop Char. Not from this marriage or from going to Boston. Char had had more faith in herself than Sarah ever had.

Sarah just wished she'd realized all this before having to spend days in Baynton's insufferable company. She had probably lost her position at the Haymarket by now because she had been gone so long—­and faced with her own culpability Sarah could only laugh all the more. It was all so absurd. Who was
she
to tell Char whom to love?

“Are you all right?” Char asked.

Sarah tried to catch her breath, to bring ­herself under control, but then a burly blacksmith in his leather apron and big clopping boots walked through the room on his way to another, and she started laughing again. Only in Scotland could this happen.

Char noticed him as well and she began to chuckle. Laughter could be infectious. Then the minister and his wife started laughing and they all seemed to feed on each other.

The only ones not joining them were the ­brothers Whitridge.

Sarah tried to explain. “It is all so incredible,” she said, gasping for breath. “We're in Scotland and it took days for us to arrive here and now we are here and why?
Why?
”

“She's daft,” the duke said to Lord Jack. “That is what happens when women read too much, and she reads. She reads everything.”

Yesterday when the duke had said that, Sarah had been so angry she'd threatened to walk back to London. Today, right now, it struck her as ­hilariously funny.

And then the duke really sent her into laughter when he said to his brother, “Do you really want to marry into this madness?”

“I do,” Lord Jack answered. He shrugged as if he could not help himself and he began to laugh as well—­and the duke lost his temper.

“
Then the devil with all of you.
” He turned on his heel and went walking out the door.

That sobered Sarah.

“Wait—­” she started, but he was gone. She wouldn't put it past him to drive away. She looked to Lord Jack. “Go talk to him. Now.
Go
.”

“I will not. He has ruined everything I've tried to build with his jealousy. He wants to claim the woman I love.”

“Do you truly love her?” Sarah asked, ­watching him closely.

“With all my heart,” he answered without ­hesitation.

“And you, Charlene. Have you thought this through? You do realize that if you marry him, we may never see each other again.” A hardness formed in her chest. “He's been very clear to Baynton and everyone that he considers himself an American.”