Stealing the Bride (29 page)

Instead of being vexed that she’d once again outsmarted everyone, including him, he nearly lost his grip. Besides, the sight of her filled his heart with joy, a completeness that he’d never known.

A gift he now understood was the blessing of love.

“If you are quite done playing the fairy tale hero,” she said, “you might consider getting down from there before you break your neck and leave me with no choice but to have to actually marry one of those nitwits.”

He held his position. Now that he thought about it, perhaps he was a little put out that he hadn’t been able to save her properly. “What are you doing down there? Get back up here and let me rescue you,” he said, nodding toward her prison window. “Some story this will make for our grandchildren if you steal all the glory.”

The trellis groaned and swayed, the rung in his hand cracking and threatening to give way.

“Tell whatever version you like,” she said, “just get down from there.”

He decided that the better part of valor would be to live to tell the tale, even if he couldn’t figure prominently as the hero, so he started to climb down.

She tipped her head and smiled up at him as he made his careful descent. “You want children?”

“Scads of them,” he said. “I understand you need the little nippers if you want to eventually have grandchildren.”

If it was possible, she grinned even wider.

The trellis lasted until Temple was nearly to the bottom, then the poor thing gave way and he toppled the last eight feet. As he’d predicted, he was buried in a bower of vines and blossoms.

Diana rushed to his side, plucking off the stray bits of ivy and the wayward thorns from the roses.

“Temple, you great idiot. What were you doing up there?”

“I would have climbed twice that to reach you,” he said, pulling her down into the grass with him and kissing her soundly.

“Only twice?” she teased.

“To the stars if I’d had to,” he told her. For it was true. He might have discovered his heart last night, but he hadn’t learned the depth of it until today. The miles he’d walked not knowing her fate—he’d never felt so lost and alone.

She made a delicious little sound of contentment as he kissed her soundly and thoroughly.

“Do you think it would be proper if we—” She winked, her eyes sparkling with an indecent invitation.

“You mean here and now?”

She nodded.

Temple considered what was before them. All they had to do was to ride the thirty-odd miles to Gretna Green and get married without incident.

Too bad, he thought, it would never be as easy as all that. Especially considering his body was already hardening at the thought of being inside her, of feeling her bare skin against his.

No, no. It would never do.
He shook his head.

“Why not, Temple?” she whispered, her eager hands straying to the inside of his shirt.

He knew a thousand reasons that he should set her aside and tell her no. They needed every minute they could muster to put as much distance between them and their enemies as possible.

Temple didn’t relish going another round with Penham and had the bruises to prove it, even as his blood started thrumming wildly in his veins, his body hard with need.

“Please, can’t we just…” Her lips nibbled at his ear and whispered a request into it that made his throat go dry.

It wasn’t some languid joining that she was asking for, but a hot, greedy moment in which to slake her thirst, sate some measure of her long-restrained passions.

She was mad with desire for him, and he for her.

And besides, who was he to refuse a damsel in such obvious distress?

T
hey made love in the overgrown grass of Lord Nettlestone’s gardens, quickly and fiercely, before they set the rest of his horses loose and rode hell-bent for Gretna Green. While the night before had stormed and rained, this evening the moon lit their way, the stars twinkling guides as they finished their quest for the border.

Diana rode in a state of dizzy wonder. Whether it was the heady rush of making love with Temple again or the thought that on the morrow they would be man and wife, she didn’t know. Almost afraid the starry night was just another teasing, taunting dream, she didn’t dare pinch herself, but clung to each moment so she would never forget the romance of it all.

They crossed the River Sark and rode into Scotland, stopping only for the old man who collected the tolls. The ruddy-faced Scot gave them a sly smile.

“Let me guess,” he said to Diana in his broad accent. “You’re that London heiress, eh?”

Before Temple could offer one of his poorly conceived lies, Diana nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, aye. But unfortunately, my father is quite opposed to our match. We’ll be beggars.”

The old man laughed sticking out his hand out for the toll, which Diana paid with the last of her stash of coins. He eyed her anew, then cast a speculative glance at Temple. After he spat on the ground, he said to Temple, “Best to warn ye, I’ve had three of them heiresses this week. Half the spinsters in the countryside are claiming to be her just to catch all the fools out searching for the lassie.”

Temple laughed. “Never fear, I promised the chit I’d make her a duchess one day, so I believe we are even on that score.”

The man laughed as if he’d never heard such a jest and was still blowing his nose and wiping at his tears as he pulled the barricade out of their way.

Diana shot one last smile at the toll collector. “I
am
the heiress, I’ll have you know.”

“Lassie, you’re the best one I’ve seen so far,” he replied with a broad wink to Temple.

They arrived in Gretna just before dawn, exhausted and famished.

The entire town still slept, except for a stray cat or two roaming about the streets.

“Let’s find an inn and get a bit of rest,” Temple suggested. “Then when the vicar awakens, we’ll get married.”

They’d already agreed that a handclasp ceremony might be fine for some, but neither was willing to leave to chance that between her father and his grandfather they’d find some way to have such an unorthodox ceremony nullified.

Diana nodded, too tired to argue, and soon found herself being shown to a room by a sleepy but understanding innkeeper.

Apparently the good people of Gretna Green were used to strange arrivals at all hours and welcomed the exhausted yet determined lovers with open arms.

It was their business, after all.

But on one point the innkeeper’s wife was adamant. “I won’t have ye sharing rooms in my establishment until ye are married, right and proper.”

And so Diana was shown to a comfortable room at the end of the hall. Temple and Tully were pointed toward one on the opposite end.

“Sleep well, sweet goddess,” Temple bid her, under the watchful eye of their Scottish hostess. “In a few hours we marry.”

The heavyset woman snorted and shook her apron at him, shooing him off to his room, while she hustled Diana into the safety of the bridal suite. “Och, doesn’t he have a fine way with words.” The lady frowned and shook her finger at Diana. “He’d better have more than a glib tongue and fancy manners or you’ll find yourself with a houseful of bairns and an empty larder. I’ve seen too many of his kind pass through and the sorrow they leave in their wake. That’s the sort of man who can talk a woman into believing anything.”

But Diana barely heard the woman’s stern warning, for she’d discovered the comforts of the bed, and was nearly asleep, drifting happily into a dreamy world where such dreary predictions never came true.

Diana awoke some hours later, when a fresh-faced maid arrived. The girl carried a pitcher of water in one hand and a tray of food in the other. As she set out the food on a small table, she kept casting curious glances in Diana’s direction.

“Is there something the matter?” she asked the girl.

“Oh no,” the girl said, her face turning a rosy shade of pink. “It’s just that I’ve never met an heiress before, that’s all. First a duke and an earl, then that handsome marquis of yours, and you being an heiress.” She shook her head and sighed. “Me mum is never going to believe the day I’m having.”

A duke? An earl?

“What duke?” Diana asked, a pit in her stomach growing icy cold. “What earl?”

The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Real fancy ones, milady. The duke’s got a huge carriage outside. And you know the earl, I ’spect since he’s yer father.”

“My father?” The pit widened into a veritable chasm.

The girl nodded again. “Come to see you married, I imagine.” She glanced toward the door, where from somewhere beyond Diana heard a rising cacophony of voices.

Her father’s included.

Making herself busy, the girl tried to appear nonplussed about the contentious situation. “It will be all right, miss, once he calms down and you’re wed proper-like.”

Diana flinched. “Wed proper” would not be her father’s definition of a marriage to Temple.

She was about to ask the girl to help her dress, but realized she’d been so tired she’d slept in her clothes.

As she ran a hand through her hair, something caught in her fingers and she pulled it free.

A bit of ivy from Nettlestone Castle. Then she glanced in the mirror and realized a little more than a hasty repair would be necessary.

She looked, as she’d once heard in a play, “well tumbled.”

The last thing she needed was her father to suspect she was no longer an innocent. He’d probably shoot Temple without a second thought.

She stared at the mirror and tried to decide what to do first.

“Let me, milady,” the girl said. “I’ve got five younger sisters and have had quite a bit of practice. Besides, can’t have you going down looking like this. Not on your wedding day.”

The girl proved to be a dab hand, and had Diana’s blond hair brushed, twisted, and pinned up in a simple country fashion.

“Hmm,” she mused. “You’d look much better with a wreath of gillyflowers, but I suppose you don’t have time for that.”

Most decidedly not, Diana thought, when from downstairs came a thundering outburst.

“Marry my daughter? You? Why, I’d rather see her wed to Nettlestone.”

Diana bolted up from the chair. “Thank you—”

“Martha, milady.”

“Thank you, Martha. You should come to London, you’d make a fine lady’s maid.”

“Me?” the girl blushed a rosy hue. “Oh, go on with you.”

“If you ever need a job, you come to London.”

“But I don’t know your name, milady,” the girl said.

“In a few hours I’ll be Diana, Marchioness of Templeton.”

If my father doesn’t kill the groom.

Temple weathered the Earl of Lamden’s initial outburst like a seasoned sailor bracing for the first winds of a storm.

He hadn’t borne his grandfather’s blustering for all these years not to know how to buckle down for a real tempest.

Speaking of his grandfather, Temple hadn’t been surprised when the innkeeper had summoned him downstairs for an audience with the earl and found his grandfather, as well, standing before the fireplace.

The duke had always kept close tabs on his whereabouts, despite Temple’s best efforts. Apparently having learned that he’d been sent after Diana, his grandfather and the earl had joined forces to find their wayward heirs.

His grandfather hadn’t bothered to greet him, other than to nod once, a grim look on his face.

None of this boded well for his and Diana’s plans.

“I won’t have it,” Lamden was saying. “You’re a wastrel, and an idiot, and—”

The door to the private room swung open, stopping Lamden in mid sentence. Temple expected to see Diana coming in, but to his surprise, it was another all-too-familiar and decidedly unwanted face who entered the room.

“Pymm,” Temple said. No wonder the duke and Lamden had been able to find them so quickly.

The man grinned, a rare sight on his pinched face. It made him look like a rat who’d just escaped the cat with a wedge of Stilton.

“Temple! I knew I’d enlisted the right man for the job when I sent you after Lamden’s gel.” He nodded to Lamden and the duke as if they were just servants to be politely acknowledged. “Setchfield,” he murmured as he bustled past the duke and held out his hands to the fire.

“Pymm,” the duke replied tersely.

Temple thought his grandfather, a man who exacted his due deference from all, would be outraged at this snub, but to Pymm he remained vaguely polite, which was as uncommon as Pymm’s smile. He’d have to ask Pymm one day what secrets he held over the duke’s head.

Pymm rubbed his hands together. “Now the innkeeper tells me Lady Diana isn’t married. How is this? I gave you that special license so any delay could be avoided. But never mind, I’ve taken care of matters. Nettlestone and Lord Harry are outside.” He glanced at Temple. “I’d suggest you leave by the back door. Both men seem to be under the impression that you have wronged them rather dearly.”

“Pymm, it’s not like that,” Temple told him. “I’ve made a change to your orders.”

The Foreign Office spymaster waved his hand at his best agent. “When haven’t you? I’m used to your insubordination. But what is important now is that the gel be married posthaste.” He walked toward the door, as if about to see to the task himself.

Temple caught him by the shoulder and held him fast. “And why is that, Pymm? You know, I’m still not sure why you of all people have so much interest in Lady Diana’s marriage. You hate to travel, and for you to come all the way up here, this seems an uncommon favor for a friend.”

“Ah, Templeton, you are just overtired. Always looking for secrets where there aren’t any. Good man, though,” Pymm said, shaking himself free and casting an uneasy glance around the room.

Pymm turned to Lamden. “Told him to use any means possible to see her wed, and it sounds like he’s done a fine job of coaxing the chit up across the border.” He paused and said to Temple. “Of course
you
don’t have to wed her. I’ve got two willing grooms outside, though I do say they are just as eager to settle a debt or two with you, Templeton, something about horse stealing and some improprieties that I don’t think should be discussed here.” He nodded toward Diana’s father and then shook his finger at Temple as if he were reprimanding him for stealing tarts. “If I know you, you used every trick in the book to bring her to heel. Good for you. You’ve earned your assignment to Constantinople. I’ll make a full recommendation to the Secretary for you to be sent to the Ottoman Empire when I return. Excellent job, my lord, excellent work.”

“Because I outwitted Marden? Because I discovered that she’s not Lamden’s issue, but the natural daughter of Louis Bourbon?”

Pymm paled.

His grandfather glanced up from his glowering stance, his mouth falling open.

Temple caught Pymm by his badly tied cravat and hoisted him up until his feet pedaled in the air. “I’ve had my fill of your high-handed ways. You lying bastard, you threatened me with expulsion from service and tossed me without warning into Marden’s path. She’s the daughter of a king. Did it ever cross your mind to tell me?” He shook him for good measure. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“I-I-I—” the man sputtered and choked.

The only person who did manage to say anything was Lamden. “There’s only one way you could have discovered that secret, you cur, and if I thought for a minute you had—”

His outraged response was cut off by a small cough from the door.

“It matters not how Temple discovered it, Papa,” Diana said, rooted in the doorway, one hand holding the door frame for support. “The only thing I want to know is, is it true?”

Temple released Pymm, shoving him aside, and going toward her. He was cut off by Lamden, who rushed to his daughter’s side.

“Diana,” he said, clasping her in his arms and placing a fatherly kiss on her brow. “Dear girl, thank God you are unharmed. You’ve given me a time of it this past sennight.”

“And you haven’t answered my question,” Diana said, stepping out of his embrace. “Am I your daughter? Or is it as Temple says, that I’m Louis’s bastard.”

Temple felt everyone in the room hold their breath—with the exception of Lamden and Pymm.

From Pymm’s expression it was obvious he’d known all along—exactly as Temple suspected. He wasn’t angry that he’d been sent after Diana, for what would have become of her if he hadn’t gone chasing her up the Manchester road? Temple shuddered at the thought of it. She’d be trussed up like a Christmas goose and on her way to France right now.

And he would have lost her forever.

As much as Temple wanted to continue throttling Pymm, it now seemed he’d probably have to ask him to stand up for him at their wedding. After all, their wedding was to his credit.

Pymm, the matchmaker.

The better revenge would be to let that moniker bandy its way through the clerks at Whitehall.

“Diana, I had hoped you would never learn the truth,” Lamden said.

“So it is true?” she whispered.

Lamden nodded.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Didn’t you think I had the right to know this?”

“No. Never,” Lamden told her, pulling her into the room and closing the door. “Telling you would have been tantamount to putting your life in danger.”

“I think that has already come to pass, my lord,” Temple said, coming to stand behind Diana.

Instead of the smile he expected on her face at his support, she glared at him.

What the devil had he done now?

Before he had time to ask, Lamden continued.

“Your mother came to me after she discovered she was with child. She was the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, a cousin to the exiled prince. Her father and Louis both claimed a passion for engineering. The King found it delightful that Arabella shared her father’s talent for inventing, so she was often at the King’s workshop. His Majesty was intrigued by her, as most of us were. I was just a young adjunct with the English ambassador, hardly a match for the sophisticated men who swirled in her wake.” Lamden closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were recalling those days in his mind.