Page 3 of Better Love Next Time
“After all this?” He cut a hand at her figure. “I don’t believe you.”
“I am tired, Julian. I can fight no longer.” The summer moonlight beckoned through the window. Her legs felt light, ready to run there, ready to break glass and plant her hands on the sill.
And jump.
She trembled with anticipation as she slipped out of Julian’s coat and held it out to him.
He hesitated. Then crossed the garret with quiet steps and took back his coat. “I never thought we would end this way, you know.”
Her mouth was dry. “Neither did I.”
He grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I loved you. And I’m sure”—he swallowed—“I’ll never love another as I did you.”
“And I am quite sure you will love again,” she said. “We were but children. The next will be a better love.”
A sad laugh broke from his lips. He bent and brushed a kiss to her forehead. “Take care, fairy. I wish you a happy life.”
“And I the same.” She struck out her hand. “Remember me well, will you?”
He engulfed her hand, made to speak but didn’t. Without lingering further, he walked away.
Tears clouded her eyes and slipped down her face, obscuring her sight. But she needn’t eyes to form the picture of Julian leaving her life for good. Nor did she require clear eyes to see what events lay before her. She only needed the will.
At the garret door, the latch clicked.
Julian swiveled on his heel, his expression inscrutable in the shadows. “Come here, Kitty.”
“Go,” she whispered harshly.
He met her in long strides. His right thumb worked the ruby ring on his little finger as he looked down his proud nose, made proud by its aquiline curve and the cool manner in which he peered.
He wrenched the ring from his hand and jammed it upon her right fourth finger. “We will leave for Scotland immediately and be married. Once it is done, you are free to leave and live your life. If you wish, you may follow me to the Continent.”
She gaped down at the ring.
“I know you. I know your soul, and though I have damned it countless times, I will not allow it. ‘Remember me well?’ No. I will not. And by God,youwill not jump out of that window.”
Reaching to the back of his breeches, he pulled out a silver-inlaid flintlock pistol and cocked it. Her eyes widened at the weapon before he hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her from the garret.
The Blacksmith’s Shop, the first establishment in the first village over the Scottish border delineated by the River Sark smelled of burnt coal, horse sweat, and coin. Mr. Joseph Paisley, in the wake of England’s prohibition of “irregular marriages” ten years past, had seen an opportunity. Paisley had styled himself an anvil priest as a few other Scots had done, and married his first eloping couple.
And so Julian stood in front of a large anvil, his bride quiet at his side, with a blacksmith for an officiant. He had paid an exorbitant amount to rouse the enterprising smithy from his bed and more for witnesses. Kitty had asked and been denied a real priest. As if the marriage which they entered into could have any semblance of heavenly endorsement.
Julian did not want to marry Kitty.
But the alternative was indefensible.Remember me well?What Kitty had sweetly uttered when facing the executioner during their childish games? Not while he breathed.
He had been drinking steadily the afternoon Kitty’s father had carried her out of his cousin’s home after getting word of Kitty’s scheme to escape marriage to Lord Staverton. The friends Julian had been drinking with had gone and invitedKitty Babbington to join them on their trip to the Continent, commencing in a week’s time.
Yes, Julian had been drunk when he had seen the bleakness in Kitty’s eyes, almost a death, as her father had dragged her down the stairs. Julian had veered his bleary gaze to Staverton as Sir Jeffrey Babbington hauled his daughter across the reception hall. The fat lord who could be Kitty’s grandfather had wiped his fish lips with the back of his sleeve. The lecher had been salivating on his coming wedding night. Church-sanctioned rape.
Julian had felt the blood drain from his face.
He should have walked away. Better yet, ridden neck or nothing back to London where he had spent the past year forgetting Kitty Babbington’s betrayal with whores, high stakes, and liquor. Why had he listened to Anthony Philips? Julian’s friend had been drunker than all of them. Though he hid it well. Always had.
A vengeful, rotten part of Julian’s soul had rejoiced in the face of Kitty’s plight. It said she deserved Staverton’s withering old member pumping away in the dark, every tear to be shed in her future as Lady Staverton. For leaving him gutted.
He hadn’t walked or ridden away. He had rescued her. Bottles of whisky had fortified him as his coach had raced north to Scotland. Now he was here, marrying the young woman who had shattered his soul in a letter. And there was nothing he could do but answer Mr. Paisley’s questions.
