Chapter 15
Marguerite screamed, too. Her head and right shoulder already protruded out the door even as the carriage sped up, the clattering wheels and pounding hooves deafening.
Terror-stricken, she saw the cobblestones below her and the carriage wheels spinning so fast they appeared a blur. With all her strength she held fast to the door frame, her knuckles white as Belinda bent over her to try and hurl her into the street, screeching now.
“I will be the Duchess of Summerlin, not you! Somehow you escaped those men sent to kill you and now Russell is dead! Yet Alexander Scott lives and I will be his bride after your tragic accident—damn you, let go!”
Marguerite screamed in horror as Belinda scratched at her fingers to pry them loose from the door frame—dear God, help her, no!
She felt her one hand slipping and suddenly she lost her grasp, both shoulders out the door now. She felt Belinda wildly prying her other fingers loose one by one—
“No!” Marguerite thrust her knees upward in a desperate attempt to defend herself. She heard a startled intake of breath, Belinda flying over her to tumble screaming into the street.
Then a jarring bump as the back carriage wheel struck something—Belinda’s scream abruptly cut off.
Oh, God, oh, God. Marguerite hung on with both hands gripping one side of the door frame now, while the carriage kept racing down the street.
With all the swaying, she could not pull herself in! She was going to tumble into the street and be crushed to death just like Belinda—
“Damnation, man, stop the coach!”
Walker! In disbelief she spied him galloping hard atop a lathered mount just behind the carriage, while his pistol firing into the air made Marguerite gasp.
And then another shot, exploding even closer. The carriage rolled to such an abrupt stop, the coachman roaring “Whoa!” as the horses whinnied in fright, that she slammed into the front wall and lost her grip entirely.
Yet she didn’t spill out into the street, Walker jumping off his mount next to the open door to catch her by the shoulders.
Wholly stunned, she stared up at him, not sure if she would laugh aloud from near-hysteria or burst into tears. Then he pulled her from the carriage and swept her into his arms, her feet never touching the cobblestones.
He held her fiercely, murmuring her name as he cradled her against him, his heartbeat thundering against her ear. While her heart felt caught in her throat that he’d come charging after the carriage—but how?
“She…she tried to kill me…”
“Shhh, love, I know, I know. She offered to fetch you…and then I realized with Sims on guard he’d never open the door so I came after you myself only moments later.”
“Oh, Walker, I opened the door.” Marguerite lifted her head to meet his eyes. “I was so worried about you, and Lady Belinda said that you sent her so I went with her—”
“I know, forgive me. I came riding down the street just as you left in the carriage, but it was moving so fast. I saw the door swing open—dear God, the two of you struggling…”
He grew silent, his expression tortured in the moonlight, which made Marguerite reach up to caress his face. Yet he glanced down the street to where Belinda lay dead, people coming out of their houses to gather around her as a shout went up to fetch the authorities. Walker shook his head, sighing heavily.
“I should have guessed when she came to the house tonight that she and Russell…oh God, that she was desperate enough to conspire with him when he told her we’d gone to Gretna Green. Damn me for a fool, I didn’t see it and sent her right to you!”
Now it was Marguerite who shushed him, tunneling her fingers into his hair to draw him closer so she could press her lips to his. He crushed her against him, though his kiss was tender but not for nearly long enough. He lifted his head to stare into her eyes.
“My father, Marguerite. I doubt he’ll live to see the morning. He knows we were wed and he wants to meet you—”
“Oh, Walker, is he angry?”
“Not at all.” Walker gently kissed her forehead, his voice lowering to a fervent whisper. “He said you must be truly extraordinary”—he glanced at the open door of the carriage and back to Marguerite, pulling her closer—“and I agreed. Absolutely…unequivocally…extraordinary.”
***
One month later
Porthleven, Cornwall
“You know, husband, we’ve you to thank for this happy day.”
Donovan glanced at Corie, who stood beside him holding his hand in the flower-bedecked parish church. The Reverend Easton had just pronounced Walker and Marguerite to be husband and wife, and such a cheer went up from all the family and friends present.
Next to Corie, Linette stared agog at Marguerite, perhaps visions of her own wedding one day dancing in her head. Estelle giggled as Luther, a purple bow adorning his collar, began to squirm in her arms and bark excitedly, which made everyone laugh.
Donovan laughed, too, and clasped Corie’s hand more tightly. “I think you overestimate my contribution, wife. I didn’t scatter any sparkling fairy dust above their heads to make them fall in love—”
“Of course not, silly. But you did work tirelessly to ensure that Jared and Walker were pardoned and allowed to return to England, otherwise Walker would never have seen Marguerite again.”
“Again?” Donovan teased her, knowing full well when Walker and Marguerite had first cast eyes upon each other three years ago. “Ah, yes…Roscoff. How could I forget that night?”
Indeed, he thought, pulling Corie close to kiss her smiling lips though like Donovan, she momentarily sobered, too.
Upon that perilous night he had nearly lost her and she, him, which never ceased to make them both grateful for every moment together, every day, every passing year. Yet the cloud quickly passed from her lovely features, Corie smiling again as Marguerite and Walker passed by walking hand-in-hand toward the back of the church.
Everyone spilled into the aisle behind them while other guests already waited outside with baskets filled with flower petals to shower upon the handsome couple. Truly, Corie had never seen Marguerite as radiantly happy as at that moment.
Walker, too, couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from his beautiful bride, Her Grace, the Duchess of Summerlin. The only regretful note to this joyful day was that Walker’s father, Charles Scott, hadn’t lived to see it. Yet Corie took comfort that Marguerite and Walker had spent his last hours with him, the duke summoning a sense of humor in his final moments that he’d haunt them from his grave if they dared to go into mourning for him.
He’d wanted no tears, no wearing black garments…but only that Walker would provide his wife a proper wedding in her home parish surrounded by all those she loved.
“So he has…” Corie said under her breath, lacing her fingers with Donovan’s as they joined in the noisy procession out of the church.
The littlest ones had been left with nannies back at the house—her twins, Dahlia and Draydon, and Lindsay and Jared’s son, Justin—where the most sumptuous dinner awaited them and a quartet of renowned musicians come all the way from London to entertain them. Truly, Walker had spared no expense to give his bride the loveliest of weddings.
“Oh, Corie, isn’t this marvelous?” Lindsay enthused, rushing toward her in a swirl of pink satin. “So romantic…so…so…”
“I never thought I’d see the day you were at a loss for words,” Corie teased her as Jared came up behind his beaming wife. Corie gave her a warm hug, well, as best she could now that Lindsay was nearly eight months with child, knowing her dearest friend wouldn’t have missed this special day for the world. Meanwhile Jared shook Donovan’s hand, the two men who’d once held little love for each other grown into fast friends.
“Lindsay and I have decided to accept your invitation and remain in Porthleven until after the babe comes,” Jared announced, Lindsay clapping her hands together with excitement as they moved outside into the brilliant June sunshine. “I’ll be traveling now and then to Sussex until our house is done, but I know she’ll be much happier here than in London.”
“We’re so pleased, truly…” Corie said as Marguerite turned from the flower-festooned open carriage that would carry her and Walker to the house, and ran to them in a flurry of cream silk. One by one, she gave all of them a hug, Donovan and then Jared, Lindsay, and last Corie, while Walker strode toward them as if already missing his bride.
“Thank you…all of you,” Marguerite began, only to have her throat tighten and her eyes mist with emotion.
Such beloved faces…each of them playing a part in bringing her and Walker together. Marguerite didn’t know what else to say; there weren’t enough words to express the gratitude overwhelming her. She could but smile as Walker took her hand and squeezed her gloved fingers.
Just like the night she’d first seen him…the most handsome, the most wonderful man of her dreams.
“Come, my love,” Walker murmured and she did, squeezing his hand, too, as he led her back to the carriage.
*****
Read on for an exciting excerpt from Twin Passions,
Book 1 in Miriam Minger's bestselling Captive Brides Collection!