“Yes. I’ll stop in that inn and ask where the nearest anvil priest is. Do you want to come in and freshen up?”
“I’d better, else I’ll scare the priest.”
“Rubbish. You’re beautiful.” He could see by the mortified look she gave him that she thought he was lying. He wasn’t lying. He’d never lied about her appearance. She was beautiful, and the birthmark she was so self-conscious of made no difference.
They exited the coach, and he guided her into the inn. It was nothing special, a simple inn with a public room on the ground floor and stairs leading to the rooms for rent on the upper floors. Katie took her valise and disappeared into the retiring room, while he spoke to the innkeeper, who told him an anvil priest could marry them in the blacksmith’s shop next door. Henry caught sight of himself in a mirror behind the bar and did his best to straighten his own clothes and rumpled hair. Nothing could be done at present about the two days’ growth of beard. He’d shave once the deed was done and they were able to retreat to the room the innkeeper promised them.
Henry went out to give the coachman instructions regarding the horses and coach, and when he came back in, a woman in a veil walked toward him. Though the veil was heavy and dark, he knew it was Katie immediately. No one moved like her, with a step that was both tentative and graceful at the same time.
“You might as well take that off,” he said. “I want to see your face when I marry you.”
“Brides are supposed to wear veils,” she countered, lowering her voice so the sprinkling of patrons in the public room would not hear.
“Not you. You’ve worn enough veils in your life.”
She lifted the veil so he could see her eyes. “Carlisle, leave off. If I remove it, people will stare.”
He shook his head. “Let them. You’ll be a duchess in a matter of minutes. You had better get used to people staring at you.” He held out his hand, and she took it. Outside, he led her to the adjacent building, where he pounded on the door until a man in a blacksmith’s apron answered. He was a big man with black hair and large muscles, his corded forearms showing, as his sleeves had been rolled to the elbows.
“Aye?” he said, his gaze traveling from Henry to Katie, still in the veil.
“We wish to marry,” Henry said.
“Nae even had my porridge yet.” The blacksmith sighed. “Come in, then.” The man stepped out of the way, gesturing them inside. “One minute. I need to get my supplies. Do ye hae a witness? My wife can serve, but ye need another.”
“I’ll get my coachman,” Henry said. He stepped outside again, remembered he’d told the coachman to deal with the coach, and pulled one of his outriders inside instead. “Here we are. This is… What’s your name again?”
“Ebenezer, Your Grace.”
“Ebenezer. He’s our witness.”
The blacksmith narrowed his eyes. “How old are ye?”
“Fifteen, sir.” The outrider straightened his shoulders.
“Too young,” the blacksmith said.
Henry’s patience was growing thin. “God’s teeth, man. He’s old enough to witness a wedding and sign his name.”
“Carlisle,” Katie said in a warning tone. She still hadn’t removed the veil.
“Fine. Ebenezer, wait outside for John Coachman. As soon as you see him, send him in. The coachman is forty if a day. That old enough for you?”
“Aye. In a wee hurry, are ye?”
“I’d like to do this before her father appears with his pistol and shoots me in the head.”
“Let’s hope he’s a bad shot.” The blacksmith pointed to a wall where there was the definite mark of a pistol ball. “Last one was.” Then the man stepped out of the room, presumably to fetch his supplies.
Henry stared at the hole in the wall from the pistol ball and hoped he didn’t receive a matching one in his head. They’d seen no sign of Shrewsbury on the road, but that didn’t mean the marquess was not right on their heels. He felt for the deed to the vineyard, tucked in his waistcoat.
“Stop worrying,” Katie said, coming to stand beside him. “Everything will be fine.”
“You should take your own advice.” He held out his hand. “Let’s have the veil, then.”
“I should have kept my mouth shut.”
Henry wiggled his fingers.
