Page 39 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 39

Eammon

S he was bleeding. She was hurt. Markham had done this. Eammon would not allow it to stand.

With a surge of rage, he charged forward, wielding his pistol—not to fire, but as a bludgeon. He turned it in his grip so the barrel pointed behind him, the butt clenched firmly in his palm. Mid-run, he leapt, striking Markham across the side of the head. He ought to have shot him. Had they been alone, he likely would have. But Charity was there. He would not have her witness him commit murder—that would not bode well for harmony in the home.

Markham flew to the floor, blood gushing from the wound now opened at his temple. Yet the man was tenacious. Bleeding, wheezing from the well-aimed kick Charity had delivered earlier, he was still not ready to yield. He reached out, seized Eammon by the ankles, and yanked, nearly toppling him.

But Eammon was not going to fall. Not like this.

This man had come onto his property, stolen his wife, chained her like a beast, and threatened her with a blade. Eammon had wanted to storm the place immediately, but Thomas had urged caution. They had waited until Barron, Markham’s cousin, had emerged from the building. They had kept hidden, feigning no suspicion. Only when the moment was ripe had they charged in, kicking the door to the warehouse and confronting the wretched man inside.

Now it was time to end this.

Markham gave another tug, and this time Eammon allowed himself to fall forward. The sudden motion startled Markham, whose eyes widened in alarm. Eammon struck fast, slamming his elbow into the man’s chest. Markham cried out. Eammon grabbed him, hauled himself upright, seized the man by the hair, and yanked him to standing. Only then did he deliver a punch directly to his face, just as his father had taught him, shattering the man's nose and sending blood flying. A second punch sent Markham collapsing to the ground.

He was alive. Still breathing. With a little tending, he would recover. His nose might be more crooked than before, but he would live. For however long their peers in the House of Lords deemed him worthy of doing so.

“Thomas!” Eammon called.

His cousin had finished subduing Barron and was already tying the man’s wrists with a length of rope, securing him to a support beam.

“I’ll see to them both. You see to your bride,” Thomas called.

Eammon turned at once.

Charity was slumped to her side, her arms stretched above her head, bound to a rusted iron fixture embedded in the wall. Blood streaked down one arm. The sight of it made Eammon want to turn back and strike Markham again, but that could wait.

He rushed to her, pulling her into his arms. With the dagger he carried—a precaution he was suddenly glad for—he cut through the ropes. She fell into him, weak and trembling.

“Oh, Eammon, you came,” she whispered. “I was so frightened. I feared you wouldn’t. That you’d think I ran away again—that you wouldn’t want to come for me.”

“The moment Ambrose returned without you, I knew something was wrong. I would never leave you. Never. You are my wife. You are my life, my future. You are mine. And no one will ever take you from me.”

“Oh, Eammon, I am so grateful you are here.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. He kissed the left one, then the right.

“How is Ambrose?” she asked.

He smiled. “Still the same sweet-hearted creature. He sounded the alarm, of sorts. Came home without you, and the stable master knew immediately something was wrong. I rode to the field, where you had been brushing him, and found the carrots, your shoe...”

“I tried to leave a trail,” she said.

“I thought you might have. I’m glad you did. It confirmed you hadn’t simply wandered off. And it led me to you. The whole family is searching. My uncles are scouring the countryside, and the ladies are tearing apart the house looking for that blasted book.”

“The book,” she said quickly. “It’s beneath my mattress. I know it’s not the cleverest hiding place, but I had no time. I don’t want to keep it. I want to burn it.”

“I think that’s wise,” he said. “Although, perhaps we might keep the passages concerning Lord Markham. They could be useful—for leverage, if nothing else.”

She nodded. “Let us go through it together. We’ll keep only what is absolutely necessary. The rest, we burn.”

“We will.” He paused, his expression softer now. “Charity, when you say ‘we’... do you mean that you forgive me? For the lies, the secrecy?”

She blinked and wiped at her tears with her uninjured hand. “Yes. I forgive you. I had time to think last night, and again this morning when I took Ambrose. And again here, while chained in this place. I cannot say I’d have acted differently, had the circumstances been reversed. We didn’t know each other. We didn’t know whether we could trust one another. But now we do. And I want us to always be honest. I want us to be...”

“Friends?” he said, a little deflated.

But she placed both hands on his cheeks and turned his face to hers.

“Friends and lovers. The best relationships are those where lovers are also friends. I want that with you. All of it.”

Relief flooded him. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Good. That’s what I want as well. I want us to be happy.”

“I shall call the authorities,” Thomas said then. Eammon had nearly forgotten he was there.

He nodded. “Yes, see to it.”

“I think my father would have liked this,” Charity whispered. “Us. Together.”

“As would mine,” Eammon replied. “I wish we had grown up together. Known one another sooner.”

“Perhaps our fathers thought it best to keep us apart. To protect us from their actions.”

“Perhaps,” Eammon said. “Perhaps.”

She leaned against him. “Mrs. Jenkins—our housekeeper up north—told me my father was very fond of you, though he didn’t know you well. He mentioned you in his letters. I’ll show them to you. He implied he had a gentleman in mind for me, and I think he meant you.”

“I think he may have,” Eammon said. “Maybe, somewhere, our fathers are watching us now. With sherry or brandy in hand. Smiling.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I wish they were still with us.”

“They’ve passed,” he said. “But we are here. That must be enough.”

She paused. “In the book, there was a birth certificate. The one listing your true parents. What happened to them?”

He drew her into his embrace again. “It was an accident. For so long, I suspected more. I lived under lies, and I believed there must be more to the story. But in the end, it was only an accident. Still, the suspicion shaped me. It made me wary, mistrustful. But now I know the truth.”

She sighed. “If they hadn’t died...you wouldn’t have come here. We never would have met.”

He shook his head. “I think we would have. Some things are meant to be. Even if I’d grown up the son of a mirror merchant and you, the daughter of an earl, we’d have found our way.”

“Different challenges,” she said. “But the same ending.”

He kissed her forehead, then took her hand in his—her uninjured one.

“Charity, there is something I wish to ask you. We have been through so much. How would you feel about getting married again—truly married—with our family and friends in attendance, in a church, with flowers and music and joy?”

“I would love that,” she said. “Though we are already wed, it never quite felt real. Not the way it should.”

“I agree. And so, here and now, filthy and bloodstained, but finally free from secrets, let me ask you, Charity Hayward—will you do me the honour of becoming my wife again?”

“Yes, I will. And I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said.

And then they kissed. Even as the constables could be heard approaching from the docks, their boots ringing out with urgency, Eammon did not care.

He was with the woman he loved. And now, they would be together.

Together, forever, as husband and wife.