Page 42 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke (Scottish Duchesses #1)

Chapter Thirty-One

“ T hank you,” Adrian murmured to her.

Isobel’s hand trembled around the unfamiliar butt of Lord Moreton’s pistol. She clutched it so tightly her fingers ached, but she didn’t dare release her grip. Below her, the two men grappled. At first, she had thought that perhaps this was for the best.

Then Lord Moreton had hit Adrian, and she’d discovered she could not stand passive. So, as the two men fought, and Isobel picked up the pistol that Moreton had dropped.

In truth, she didn’t know if she could shoot him, but that didn’t matter.

And what was the weight of his death on her conscience if she could save more people from falling prey to him?

He’d already killed at least three people.

Over the course of his lifetime, there would be more, unless she put a stop to it.

Adrian had climbed slowly to his feet, a red mark on his cheek from where he had been struck. Moreton had remained on the ground, and she kept her pistol focused on him, not daring to let it waver.

Adrian had stridden to where she stood and put one hand on her waist as he’d thanked her.

“Will you shoot him?” she whispered through numb lips.

“Not unless he makes me.” He prized her fingers from around the handle and took the burden of the gun into his hands.

She had to admit, it was a relief to not have to worry about it anymore. Adrian had both guns and the upper hand.

“Did you think I would come here unprepared?” Adrian demanded, his voice harsh as he turned on Lord Moreton. “Did you think I would stand back and let you threaten my wife?”

He bent into a crouch, far enough away that Lord Moreton could not lunge for him, but close enough that he could get his point across clearly.

Isobel shivered.

“You asked me what I would do to protect my wife, and the answer is everything . I would do anything it takes to look after her. Including ending your sorry excuse for a life.”

Moreton’s lip curled, and he stuck his hand into his inner pocket.

When he came back out, he had a knife in his hand, which he slashed at Adrian.

Isobel screamed, her hand over her mouth, but Adrian moved more quickly, dodging the knife and knocking it from Moreton’s hand in one movement, then kicking the other man in the chest.

Adrian stood over him, pinning him down, pressing hard enough that Moreton’s face flooded with color.

Isobel picked up the knife from where it had landed, handling it gingerly. There was still blood on the blade from where she imagined it had sunk into the dead man’s body.

She inhaled, fighting back the nausea. If Adrian could do this, so could she. They were a team; they would handle this together.

“You’re doing great, love,” Adrian said even as he kept his gaze locked on Moreton’s body. “I’m proud of you.”

Despite everything that had passed between them, Isobel felt a glow of pride. He was proud of her, something he’d never said before in all their days of being together.

She wanted to kick her heels and squeal. A completely illogical impulse now of all times. She ought to be horrified—and she was , but something about Adrian’s capable demeanor and praise made her feel as though everything was going to be all right.

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Isobel turned to find several men running into the docks.

“Bow Street Runners,” one man called, his booming voice leaving no room for doubt. “We received a message that there was something occurring here,” he said as he approached, chest puffing. “And I can see we were right.”

“Ah, gentlemen.” Adrian cast a quizzical look at Isobel, who shrugged.

She had attempted to tell him that she’d instructed Lord Rowton to send for the Bow Street Runners, but he hadn’t let her speak.

“I am glad you’ve arrived. As you can see, you must arrest this man. There is a murdered body over here.”

“And who are you?” the man demanded.

“I am the Duke of Somerset.” Adrian held out his hand, where his ring—with its crest—was clearly revealed. “And I am telling you to arrest this man. He is guilty of more murders than just the one here tonight.”

“Right-o,” the Runner said, still puffed up with his own self-importance. “If you release him, sir, we’ll take him with us and off to gaol.”

Prison. Isobel knew a little of what happened in England—the Old Bailey was famous, after all—but part of her had hoped he would be immediately arrested and committed to death.

A trial, while a magistrate heard all the pieces of evidence they had collected, felt as though it would go on altogether too long.

Her chest cinched.

Adrian removed his foot from Lord Moreton’s back. But instead of lying there passively, awaiting arrest, Moreton jumped to his feet and sprinted.

“No!”

Moreton ran past the warehouses, barely visible in the gloom and fog, and Isobel lurched forward, though it was too late to do anything.

“After him!” the Runner yelled, and the men plunged into the docks. Isobel shuddered, the fog sneaking under her clothes and making her cold.

“The knife,” she said, her voice catching.

“Give it here.” Adrian held out his hand, and she deposited the knife into it. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her into his chest. “Did you call for the Runners? Clever girl.”

“I told Lord Rowton to. He said it was the least he could do for letting me come here.”

“I’ll be having words with him.” Adrian tipped her chin up, not seeming to notice the chaos unravelling behind them. “Are you all right?”

“I—I think so. But ye shouldn’t blame Lord Rowton.” She gave a wan smile. “I threatened him with a pistol.”

“Of course you did.”

“He wanted to keep me at the house until ye returned, but I refused. I wanted to make sure ye were all right. And to help ye. Because that’s what partners do.”

He slid his hand into his hair, looking as though he would kiss her here, in a London dock in the middle of the night, when they heard a cry from behind them.

A yell that almost turned into a scream.

Yelling, commands that layered over one another.

And a splash.

Isobel’s blood went cold.

“Did he?—”

Adrian’s hand settled possessively over her arm. “It seems like he might have done. But don’t worry, love. Stay here with me. The Runners can jump in after him.”

“Do you think he’ll escape? The water must be so cold.”

And although the Thames didn’t always run fast, they were in the dark, and there was nowhere to climb out of the river. Even the docks, sticking out into the water, were too high for anyone to grasp without outside help.

Isobel shivered. Despite everything, perhaps he had found a way to end his life, after all.

For all that, she wished he hadn’t. Yes, she thought he deserved to hang for his crimes, but she had wanted his death to be a symbol of her victory. A chance for his victims’ families to feel as though they had found justice. Not a watery grave.

Adrian’s arm closed around her shoulders, holding her against him as she gave a sob, her fingers finding his lapels and holding on for dear life.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “Either they’ll find him and pull him out and he’ll face justice, or he’ll face a justice of his own making. Either way, they’ll pull him out, and the world will know what he’s done.”

“I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“He’s gone under,” one of the Runners yelled. “Here, fish him out.”

Isobel closed her eyes.

Deep inside, she knew there would be no fishing him out. At least, not in time. He was dead and gone.

“Come on,” Adrian said, leading her back toward the carriage she had been so reluctant to approach before. “Let’s go home.”

Lord Rowton was pacing the hallway when they finally returned home.

“Thank God,” he said, his gaze passing from Adrian to Isobel. She could see the way his hands trembled even though he clasped them behind his back. “What happened?”

Adrian handed over the knife she’d given him. “Put this somewhere safe. We’ll deliver it to a magistrate tomorrow morning.”

Lord Rowton looked at the blade with disgust before finally grasping it between two fingers. “I’ll see to it. Moreton?”

“Dead,” Adrian said shortly. Beside him, Isobel stiffened. Everything had felt so much like a bad dream. She’d been prepared for anger—even for violence—but it transpired there was a large difference between watching Moreton lose his temper and him pointing a gun at Adrian.

When she closed her eyes, she would see the glint of the blade as Moreton swung it at Adrian. She would smell the bitter tang of blood as it coated the dirty alley.

The events of the night would stay with her forever.

Her only consolation was that she and Adrian had survived. Against all the odds, they were here and they were alive.

Now all she had to do was confront the state of their marriage.

Lord Rowton looked between the two of them as though he wanted to ask for something else, then stepped back. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll tell you everything then. For now, I’m going to call for a bath.” Adrian nodded at the butler, who hovered just out of sight.

Isobel closed her eyes, half wanting to weep at the idea. She did want a bath, desperately—sweat itched under her clothes, and she had a smear of blood on her hands from the knife. Her skirts were also filthy.

But more than that, she wanted to talk to Adrian.

Adrian slipped his hand in hers, surprising her, and towed her to the stairs.

“Until tomorrow,” he said to Lord Rowton, dismissing him, and led her up the stairs.

Isobel followed, not having the energy to fight him—at least until they reached his bedchamber. There, she tugged her hand free of his.

“I thought ye would want us to be in separate rooms,” she said, even as the words clogged her heart.

“You thought wrong.” He stared at her as though she was a shooting star, liable to disappear the moment he closed his eyes. “I won’t let you leave again, Isobel.”

“Adrian—”

“I’m sorry for sending you away.” The words sank between them, shattering the silence, shattering her uncertainties. “I was wrong. And I missed you—terribly. Please forgive me.”

Right there before her, he sank to his knees, looking at her with that odd, intense expression he had worn before.

“I wanted to protect you and my heart. But now I understand it would be fruitless. You are my partner. You go where I go, and I want you to be where I am. For no reason other than that I love you.”

Her breath caught. She sagged against the door, one hand over her mouth.

“Ye cannae be serious.”

“I was serious from the moment I asked you to be my wife. Then, I didn’t know how much I already cared for you, and I was in denial after that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, but he didn’t look away, even as shame entered his expression.

“You bring out the best and worst in me. I want to be the best man I can for you, but I was afraid of loving you.”

He gave a soft, wry smile.

“You see, after my father died, I vowed I would never love anyone, and I would be a man defined by my reserve, my isolation. Marriage, when I considered it, was to be an entirely bloodless, affectionless affair. No doubt the kind of union you would despise. And not the union you forced on me. Right from the beginning, you made me adore you, more than I knew I was capable of such things.”

“Ye sent me away,” she whispered.

“I made a mistake. I let fear rule me.” He looked at her steadily. “You want a marriage based on love and respect. And now I am here, on my knees, offering that to you.

“If I had not known you were the woman for me, I would have known it when you pulled that pistol out of your cloak. When you threatened Moreton. When you picked up that knife so he couldn’t hurt anyone again.

You are brave and beautiful and more honorable than I have ever been.

But I will try, Isobel. Give me a chance.

Let me be the man I know I can be—the man I want to be for you. ”

Her heart fluttered. She didn’t know if she could trust him to take care of her like this, but she wanted him.

Be patient .

“My mother knocked some sense into me,” he said wryly when she said nothing. “She said that by denying you a voice, I was behaving like my father. But I have no intention of resembling that man in any way. So, Isobel?” He raised his gaze to her. “Will you forgive me?”

Every part of her melted at the sight of him on his knees before her. Her duke, one of the proudest men she knew, begging for her forgiveness.

She could not deny him.

She sank to her knees beside him.

“I forgive ye,” she said, “if ye promise never to do it again.”

“A promise easily made.” He took her face in his hands. “You won’t regret this, Isobel. I swear to you. I will never let you go again. I will show you what it means to have married a duke.”

“A love match,” she said.

“A love match,” he repeated, and ghosted his lips over hers. “I love you, beyond anything I ever knew I could.”

She smiled against his mouth. “I love you too, husband.”