Page 122 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Her lips parted. “You know?”
“Of course I know,” he said, “the lock on my drawer was turned wrong. A thief should learn to leave no trace.”
Charles bristled. “If you’re going to call her that…”
“I’m calling you that,” Tristan snapped, “not her.” He drew a slow breath, forcing his voice to steady. “Christine, what’s mine is yours. I can no more stop that than stop my own heart. But you–” His eyes narrowed on her brother. “What did she give you, Charles?”
“A promissory note,” Christine said quickly, before her brother could lie, “from your study. And I was going to leave with him for Scotland. To begin again. I thought…it was the only way.”
Her honesty struck harder than any deception could have. He felt it land in his chest, sharp and clean.
“You thought I would cage you,” he said softly.
“I thought you would never stop chasing him,” she said, “that you’d chase until there was nothing left of either of you and I would always be the thing caught between.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The night pulsed with insects and faraway owls. Then Tristan turned to Charles.
“You have the note still?”
Charles hesitated, then reached into his coat and produced it, crumpled but intact.
“Make it out for any amount you like,” Tristan said, “it will be honored at my bank’s branch in Edinburgh. You have my word as a man and a Duke.”
Charles blinked, uncertain. “You mean it?”
“I have no taste left for vengeance,” Tristan said, “Take it, and be gone before I change my mind.”
Charles glanced from him to Christine. “I’ll not forget this.”
“Forget it immediately,” Tristan said, “It will suit us both.”
Charles wheeled his horse, hesitated only long enough to give Christine a half-formed smile, and spurred away into the dark. Tristan did not follow. He watched the darkness until the sound of hooves faded into the murmur of the river. Christine’s voice, small and uncertain, broke the quiet.
“How can I believe you won’t chase him again?”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and felt the words rise from the place that had no use for pride.
“Because I love you,” he said. “And I am tired of being a man who loves war more than peace.”
She made a sound that was almost a sob. “You said you loved me before.”
“I said it because I needed you,” he said, “tonight I say it because I cannot live without you. Christine,” he dropped to one knee in the grass, the dew soaking into his trousers, the moon turning his hair silver, “will you marry me? Not as bait for your brother or to quiet gossip or heal pride, but because my heart has nowhere else to go.”
Her breath caught. “You…Tristan…”
But before she could answer, a cry shattered the stillness. A man’s cry.
They turned as one. From somewhere beyond the slope came a desperate shout for help, the sound of struggle, of hooves thrashing. Tristan was on his feet at once, drawing the pistol from his belt.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
Christine didn’t argue. They ran toward the noise, branches slapping against her skirts, the path opening into a small clearing lit cruelly by moonlight. Charles was there, on his knees, one arm twisted behind his back in the grip of a thickset man with a familiar face. The driver from the cart. The brute who had tried to take Christine weeks before. And behind them, watching with cold satisfaction, stood Lady Martha and Lord Bingley.
“Well,” Lady Martha said, her voice smooth as glass. “The Duke of Duskwood and his scullery bride. How poetic.”
“Martha,” Tristan said, levelling the pistol, “you have outdone yourself. Kidnapping, assault, and ambush all in one night.”
She laughed lightly.
