The Bride Thief

Chapter Twenty-four

Eric paced in the alcove like a caged animal, his heart growing heavier with each passing second.

She was ten minutes late.

He couldn't bear to look at his timepiece again, couldn't stand to gaze upon its mocking face.

The velvet drapes parted and he turned sharply. The visibly nervous vicar joined him.

"Is she here?" Eric asked.

"No, my lord." Extracting a handkerchief from the folds of his voluminous robe, the vicar wiped his perspiring forehead.

Eric lifted a single brow. "Then I suggest," he said in a carefully controlled tone, "that you keep watch for her and advise me the instant she arrives."

The vicar's vigorous nod set his double chins in motion, and he hastily backed away. "Yes, my lord." He exited through the drapery.

Alone again, Eric closed his eyes, desolation crushing him. She wasn't coming. She didn't want him. She'd rather face scandal than marry him.

Damn it, that hurt. In a way nothing else had ever hurt him. And it angered him as well-that she hadn't even had the courtesy to tell him her decision. If she wasn't going to marry him, she could bloody well tell him to his face. And if she wouldn't come here to tell him, he'd go to her and make her say it.

He turned to stride through the drapery, but before he could take a step, the heavy curtain parted to reveal the vicar's face.

"Miss Briggeham has arrived, my lord. However, she insists upon speaking to you privately-before the ceremony. Most irregular." The vicar's lips puckered with disapproval. "She awaits you in my office."

Sammie paced the worn rug in the vicar's small office located off the vestibule. When a knock sounded at the door, she called, "Come in."

Eric entered the room, softly closing the door behind him. Their eyes met, and her breath stalled at the sight of him. Dressed in his formal wedding attire, from his perfectly knotted cravat and snowy shirt, cream waistcoat, to his Devonshire brown coat and fawn breeches, he was simply the most beautiful man she'd ever beheld. And for a short, incredibly lovely moment in time, he'd been hers.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me in here," she said. "I must speak with you."

He leaned against the door and regarded her through hooded eyes. "You're late."

"I'm sorry. There are so many details to see to when one is leaving home forever."

He squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, muttering something that sounded like thank God.

"I had to say good-bye to Hubert," she said, her voice hitching on his name. "I could not leave without explaining things to him."

Pushing off from the door, he approached her. When he stood before her, his gaze swept her slowly from head to foot. Then he looked at her with an expression that heated her from the inside out. "You're beautiful, Samantha."

Warmth rushed into her cheeks, and she looked down at her wedding gown. "Thank you. The dress is lovely."

He lifted her chin with his fingers. "Yes. But I was referring to the bride wearing it."

The sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, made her want to throw her arms around him and pretend no obstacles stood between them. But time was short, and with so many things to tell him, she couldn't waste another minute.

Drawing a resolute breath, she said, "I am not here to become a bride, Eric. Indeed, I am here to release you from your obligation to marry me. I have made arrangements to travel abroad, to live my own life. You need not concern yourself with my welfare any longer."

His hand slowly lowered from her chin, and his eyes went blank. "I see."

She grasped his arm and shook it. "No, you don't. I wanted to speak to you yesterday, but I did not dare. Eric, Adam Straton knows who you are. He came to my home yesterday and questioned me." She quickly repeated her conversation with the magistrate. "He knows, Eric. He's going to arrest you and see you hang." Her voice broke and tears flooded her eyes. "You must take this opportunity to escape. Now. Immediately. I will distract the vicar and guests as long as I possibly can to give you a head start. I have this terrible, awful feeling inside that there isn't a moment to lose."

He clasped her by the shoulders. "Samantha, I cannot abandon you here."

"Yes, you can. You have my full blessing to do so."

"Then allow me to rephrase that. I will not abandon you here."

Desperation washed over her and she clutched at his jacket. "You must. Please. I can face anything-a scandal, ridicule, scorn. But I cannot face you being captured." Hot tears spilled onto her cheeks. "I cannot bear to see you die."

"Then marry me. And we'll leave together. All the arrangements are in place for us to do so." He cradled her face between his hands, his dark eyes serious and intense. "I don't want to live without you, Samantha. I want to share my life-my new law-abiding life-with you. We can continue to offer women a choice, but we'll do it together, legally, through financial channels. Set up a trust of some sort-whatever we decide upon. Together."

Her ability to speak, indeed her ability to breathe, abandoned her, and she simply stared at him, trying to absorb his words. I don't want to live without you.

Lowering his head, he rested his forehead on hers. "I love you, Samantha. So much I ache with it." He raised his head and pinned her with a deep gaze. "All those things I believed I never wanted… marriage, a family… things I thought I could never have… love changed all that. You changed all that. I want you for my wife. My lover. The mother of my children. I cannot deny there's a risk of me being arrested for the rescues I've performed, but we can leave England immediately following the ceremony."

She attempted to moisten her dust-dry lips with her equally dust-dry tongue, and failed miserably. "Say that again," she croaked.

"We can leave England-"

She laid a finger on his lips. "Not that. The 'I love you, Samantha' part."

Grasping the hand that had silenced his words, he pressed a kiss into her palm, his gaze boring into hers. "I love you." He lowered her hand to his chest, and his heartbeat thumped hard against her palm. "Feel that. It beats for you. If you want me, you'll make me the happiest man in the world. If you don't…" He pressed her palm tighter against him. "Then there will simply be a hole here. My heart is yours to take… or to break. Every woman deserves to choose. The choice is yours."

Sammie stared at him, her own heart pounding so hard she could feel the drumming in her temples. He loved her. Plain, odd, eccentric Sammie. Impossible. He must be daft. Or inebriated. She discreetly sniffed, but there was no odor of spirits about him. Only his clean, warm, masculine scent. And there was no doubting the sincerity in his gaze. Or the love burning from his dark eyes.

Still, just in case the poor man's wits were addled, she felt compelled to point out, "You realize I would make a frightful countess."

"No. You'd be a charming countess. Captivating. Caring. Clever and considerate. Courageous." He brushed gentle fingertips over her cheeks. "So many 'c' words to describe my extraordinary Samantha."

She locked her knees to remain upright and tried to gather her thoughts, but him loving her simply defied logic. Before she could even begin to corral her scattered emotions, a knock sounded.

They both turned toward the door. "Come in," Eric said.

The vicar entered, his questioning gaze bouncing between them. "Are we ready to begin?" he asked.

Eric turned back to her and their eyes met. He said nothing, merely watched her, waiting for her, allowing her to choose, praying she would want him.

With her gaze locked with his, she spoke to the vicar.

"Yes, we're ready to begin."

Exhilaration and joy swelled in Eric. He and Samantha would be together-as husband and wife.

Everything was going to work out perfectly.

Farnsworth, the magistrate's most trusted man, slipped into the Earl of Wesley's bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him. Looking about the spacious, luxurious room, he quickly made his way to the cherry-wood desk near the window. Hopefully he would find something here. His search of the earl's private study and the library had yielded nothing, and time was running short.

He checked through the drawers, but found nothing. Crouching down, he ran his hands lightly over the glossy wood. Underneath one of the legs, his fingers encountered a round knob. Scarcely daring to breathe, he twisted it. A faint click sounded and he was able to push aside a panel on the bottom. Something soft fell into his palm.

Sliding out his hand, he gazed at a black silk mask.

Triumph pulsed through him. This was just the evidence the magistrate needed. All Farnsworth had to do was deliver it to him.