He crept in as quietly as he could. But it wasn’t quietly enough. Isobel looked up from the window, startled, her eyes wide in the moonlight that filled the room. She was still dressed, with her bag at her side. One of her legs was slung over the windowsill.
He was too numb to feel the disappointment or the pain. He’d asked for too much.
She had every right to run away from him. Here in Carrbridge, she might even have a chance of permanently escaping his father. It was true the locals didn’t favor her, but maybe they would take her side if she revealed the truth about him and what he had done.
At the very least, she knew this place. No doubt every path and hidden corner was as familiar as the back of her hand. She’d been prepared in Ford, had admitted to learning the paths in the woods and possible bolt-holes during her days off when he’d questioned her late one night. That would have been a lesson learned early.
“It’s all right,” he whispered when she continued to stay there, frozen on the sill. “Go now.”
Across the room, Isobel hung her head and her shoulders shook as if with a silent sob. Before he knew it he was there, his arms around her. He pulled her back inside and she burrowed into his chest, her arms squeezing him tight.
Her tears wet his shirt, but she made no noise. Matteo held onto her, slowly warmed by her breath filtering through the cloth of his shirt until she eventually pulled away.
Isobel turned back to the window and for a moment he thought she was going to go through it. He wouldn’t stop her. Instead, she closed the pane, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she faced him once more.
“The magistrate’s name is Finchley,” she said hoarsely. “And he’s not old. He was new to his post when I left and from what I remember is a rather vain man. He’ll probably be annoyed with me when he hears you said that. And he will. No doubt every word you said to the innkeeper will be all over the village by the morning meal.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
It was hard to follow what she was saying because she’d begun to undress. She had opened the lacings of her gown and was pulling it down to reveal a snowy white chemise. Her eyes avoided his as she pulled off her boots and climbed into bed.
“Not to mention that it’s usually the minister that marries people in these parts,” she added, pulling the covers up to her chin.
He stared at her for a long moment, relief flooding his chest. “Unless he’s Catholic, my father won’t want him marrying us.”
Isobel shrugged. “Then the magistrate will have to do. Come to bed, Matteo,” she whispered gesturing to the empty space next to her with a tiny movement of her hand. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
The joy he felt was making him stupid and slow. Mechanically, he took off his waistcoat and boots. He kept his breeches on and would sleep in his shirtsleeves. Shifting the bedclothes, he slipped underneath the coverlet next to Isobel, being careful not to touch her…until she reached out and took his hand, testing the top of it tentatively before pressing her palm to his.
Closing his eyes, he relaxed. His witch wasn’t going to leave him.
Chapter 17
Isobel fingered the fine blue cloth of her new gown as the droning voice of the magistrate carried to her as if from a great distance.
Although the countrified style of the dress wouldn’t have satisfied the snobs in a London ballroom, she found it lovely—even though it did not fit quite right. It was an inch too long, and the bust was a little tight and fell too low. Although, judging from Matteo’s expression when he saw her in it, that last detail didn’t bother him too much.
He had presented her with the gown early that morning with an apology. The dress was the best that could be gotten on short notice. Matteo had told the local seamstress that one of her trunks had been lost on the road, her wedding trousseau with it. Even if he didn’t think the dress fashionable enough, Isobel had simply been grateful she wouldn’t be married in black.
Speaking of which.
The droning had ceased. Raising her chin, she found the magistrate looking at her expectantly. On her left, Matteo shifted and gave her an encouraging nod. Parting her lips she murmured something, feeling wool-headed and slightly numb.
She didn’t know what words actually came out of her mouth, but they must have been the right ones because Matteo relaxed and beamed at her. The rest of the service blurred. The long-winded sermon finally wound down, papers were signed, and congratulations flew.
The ceremony was followed by tea with the magistrate and various locals who had conveniently come to call that morning. The count was included in that number.