Page 10 of The Forbidden Love of an Officer (The Marlow Family #7)

A plump woman came into the smithy through a door at the back, and as he and Ellen turned, she smiled. ‘Another couple come to exchange vows then.’ Two young children followed her. A girl who was probably eight or nine, and a boy of about five.

‘Aye,’ the blacksmith answered in a gruff voice. The children hovered near their mother, watching as she came closer.

‘Margaret can bear ye witness too,’ the blacksmith said, calling Paul’s attention back.

‘Say y’ur piece and I’ll pronounce ye man and wife.

’ The cold dispassionate words turned Paul’s stomach.

He needed this to feel a little more than something rash and hurried.

He wanted it to be a moment Ellen would look back on with fondness.

He wished to make a memory they could treasure their entire lives.

He faced her, searching for the right words.

Words that would profess all he felt, but he had never been a poet.

‘I love you, Ellen.’ Her eyes searched his, shining orange in the low light of the smithy, and her lips pressed together, slightly curved.

A few strands of her hair had fallen about her face, the ebony curls caressing her jaw and neck.

His chest filled with a warm sensation. Her beauty could steal his breath away.

‘I promise to protect you. I swear I shall cherish you every day of my life. You may trust me, you may rely on me. I am yours. I wish to give myself to you – my life to you. Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?’

Her lips parted in a smile.

‘Yes,’ she answered. But she did not hold her fingers out for him to put the ring on. ‘I love you, Paul. I wish to be your comfort and your sanctuary. I pledge my life to you. I will be your wife. Will you be my husband? Will you marry me?’

A smile touched his lips. ‘Yes. I will. Give me your hand.’

He held her hand steady and slid the ring on her finger. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.

Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy, he pressed a kiss on her lips.

A loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.

‘I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.’ They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.

‘Congratulations,’ the blacksmith’s wife said.

‘Thank you,’ Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink.

He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence.

To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.

‘I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,’ the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.

Ellen’s hand reached for Paul’s. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. He prayed her faith would be honoured. Please, let all be well.

‘Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I ’ave signed it.’

The blacksmith took the document from the woman’s hand and held it out to Paul. ‘Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.’

The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the paper.

Paul signed the document on a rough wooden table.

The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education.

Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too.

Then the blacksmith signed it with a smutty hand, marking the paper with a scrawled, unrecognisable name.

It did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.

Paul lifted the paper and blew on the ink, as outside they heard horses. He handed the document to Ellen.

The blacksmith looked at him, a dark eyebrow lifting. ‘An angry papa? Or another couple come?’

Paul’s heartbeat stilled for a moment, then pounded. Damn . He had hoped to save Ellen from a scene with her father. He turned and followed the blacksmith outside. Ellen followed them.

An unmarked carriage raced along the road towards them.

Not her father. If it had been her father, the Pembroke coat of arms would be emblazoned on the door.

Yet it looked like a privately owned vehicle; fresh polish glowed in the moonlight that breached the layer of light clouds and reflected back from the snow.

The postilion rider, who sat astride the right-hand lead horse, pulled on the reins as the carriage drew closer, slowing the horses and therefore slowing the carriage. Paul took a breath and held it for a moment, an uncomfortable feeling running up his spine.

Ellen joined him on the road outside the forge, her gloves were now pulled on and her bonnet tied, ready to progress their journey.

Her hand embraced his elbow. ‘They are my father’s men.’ Her other hand contained the confirmation of their marriage.

Paul watched the carriage slide on the snow-covered ground as it slowed.

He straightened, feeling the lack of his sword and pistol.

Both were in the carriage. Not that Pembroke would fight.

Paul was married to Ellen and any thought of annulment would be foolish, it could not be undone; she had been on the road alone with him for days. She was ruined regardless.

Whoever was within waited for one of the men to climb down from the box.

Accustomed to charging into battle, Paul’s arm slipped from Ellen’s grip as he walked forward. He reached the carriage at the moment the man opened the door. Another stepped out. Not Ellen’s father. Though this man had blue eyes very like Ellen’s.

‘It is Mr Wareham, my father’s steward,’ Ellen whispered.

Paul glanced into the carriage and saw no one else within. Her father had sent someone for her, not come himself.

The man stared at Paul. ‘Captain Harding, I presume.’

‘Mr Wareham,’ Ellen said.

‘Lady Eleanor.’ The man’s gaze passed to Ellen, his expression stiff. ‘I have come to prevent this nonsense?—’

‘You are too late to stop us,’ Paul answered.

The man continued looking at Ellen. ‘Am I, Lady Eleanor?’

She nodded, holding out the document on which the ink was still drying. ‘The evidence is here.’

‘My journey is wasted then.’

Paul did not answer, neither did Ellen, and for a moment the man just stood there looking at them as if he expected something else.

Then he said, ‘Very well…’ and reached into his inside pocket. ‘I have this for you. I was to give it to you when I found you, if you were already wed.’ He held out a folded letter, the red wax seal on the top had been stamped with the Duke of Pembroke’s mark. Ellen took it.

‘I will leave you then.’

‘Wait,’ Ellen said. ‘Will you take letters for me, Mr Wareham, if I write them quickly?’

The man had already moved away, but he turned back, agreeing with a nod. ‘If you wish me to.’

‘I will only be a moment.’ Ellen looked at the blacksmith. ‘May I purchase some paper?’

The blacksmith nodded, looking at Paul to agree the price.

Mr Wareham returned to her father’s carriage as they entered the small smithy.

It did not take her long to write three separate letters and fold them, as Paul watched. The first she wrote to her father, asking for his forgiveness. The second she addressed to her mother, asking for understanding. The third was to her sister, Penny, expressing regret at leaving her behind.

He remembered writing letters home when he had joined the regiment.

They had been full of light and hope as hers were.

He had given up writing because who at home wished to hear of his desperate need to keep his men fed, and alive, and how many men had been killed in battle, or how far they had marched that day?

He hoped Ellen’s joy in life and the hope in her words would not die when she learned his life.

But he refused the thoughts of consequence or future now. This was their wedding day, their wedding night, and tomorrow was Christmas, the first day of the twelve days of feasting; a time to count blessings.

‘Here, Mr Wareham.’ Ellen rushed back out into the road, bearing her letters.

Paul could see her willing her family to support her marriage as she handed the letters to the man in the carriage.

Her father would never approve. Paul had seen her father’s face when the man had turned down his offer, as though it were a piss-pot that he had offered.

The Duke’s man took the folded pieces of paper without a word.

Ellen looked at Paul, biting her lower lip.

He went to her. ‘Ellen.’ He took both her hands. ‘Do you regret this?’

‘No.’ The denial came immediately.

He smiled, ignoring the Duke’s carriage pulling away behind her. ‘Shall we go to Carlisle and find an inn?’

‘Yes.’

He turned towards their carriage. ‘Do you think he even tried to catch us in time to stop our marriage? He did not seem overly concerned.’

‘He is committed to my father. He has worked for him for several years.’

‘Time is not the thing that makes a man loyal. Trust and respect make a man loyal. I do not think he cared one way or another that we were married.’