The Brigadier's Runaway Bride (Dukes of War Book 5) (3 page)

Chapter 3

Edmund flew across the cobblestone streets as fast as the stallion could carry him. Sweat raced down his back despite the bitter March wind. Devil take it. If he was too late… If the woman who’d haunted his dreams ended up someone else’s wife…

He lowered his head against the wind and urged the stallion as fast as he dared. ’Twas wretched out. The streets were slippery with icy pockets of snow. Teeming with carriages and pedestrians. The stench of horse manure and dirt. Edmund hated it all. The clamor, the crowds, the chaos. London was repellant.
 

It was too much like war. Like being lost. Like the endless nightmares of chasing after his brother, running toward the other soldiers, and always being left behind. He’d woken in cold sweats then. No wonder he was reliving it now.

But a wedding was underway, and he had to stop it.

Sarah was the one bright light in the darkness of his world. Pure and sweet and beautiful, she was everything he desired. Everything he’d longed for all those lonely nights. The heat of her skin. The scent of her hair. The feel of her body as he lifted her slender form above him and—

Ravenwood House rose against the blinding sunset like a dragon unfurling its wings. It was not a small part of a crescent of row houses. Its three floors and two annexes
were
the crescent.
 

Edmund’s jaw tightened. The stallion reared at the sight as if it, too, sensed danger lurking within those elegant walls.

There were no longer pedestrians crowding the pristine road. No life of any kind. Any visiting carriages had already been tucked out of sight inside the mews. And of course, nothing so gauche as a hired hackney dared sit idle before the grand ducal estate.

Tough. Edmund tucked his head and raced his horse right over the manicured grass of the front lawn. If Ravenwood’s perfect garden got mussed, so be it. There was no time to waste.
 

As Edmund neared the front door, servants streamed out of the estate in alarm. He leapt from the stallion and tossed the reins to the closest gaping footman before shouldering his way inside the mansion.

Of course the servants wouldn’t invite him to enter. He hadn’t been to Ravenwood House since he’d purchased his commission four years ago, so the staff was unlikely to recognize him.
 

He also knew he looked a fright. Tattered, mismatched clothing. Scarred face covered by a five-week beard. A scowl fierce enough to terrify the devil himself—and with good reason. If Edmund was too late to stop the ceremony…

“Where’s the wedding?” he snarled to the housemaids.

One of them keeled into the others in a dead faint.

A male voice broke in. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to…”

Edmund whirled to face Ravenwood’s butler, whose jaw dropped with the shock of recognition. “Master Blackpool?”

“Where are they?” Edmund demanded, his voice hoarse. “I have to stop the wedding.”

“Master Blackpool, it is splendid to see you alive and… well, alive, sir, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to thwart His Grace’s wishes, particularly on this day of—”

“The alcove of the back parlor,” gasped one of the maids. “The blue one, next to the billiards room.”

“
Agnes
.” One of the other servants grabbed the maid’s arm. “You’ll be sacked for this!”

“But it’s all so romantic…”

Edmund missed whatever else was said because he was already tearing down the corridor toward the rear of the mansion.
 

He hadn’t forgotten the way. As a young man, he, his twin brother, and their three best friends—Xavier Grey, Oliver York, and the Duke of Ravenwood—had spent many a lazy evening drinking the duke’s port and battling for temporary dominance over the billiards table. It had all seemed terribly important and worldly when Edmund was but a young buck of seventeen years.

He was now six-and-twenty and this particular battle for dominance would determine the fate of the rest of his life.

His breath quickened. On the ride over, he hadn’t let himself think of anything except getting back to Sarah. No good would come of wondering how she’d wound up in the arms of Edmund’s (better looking, better moneyed, better mannered) lifelong friend. It didn’t matter. She was
his
.
 

The fact that Edmund’s own brother had apparently come along to witness the unholy event also did not bear contemplating. There was no room in Edmund’s atrophied heart to feel betrayed or wounded, when he was so bloody thrilled to discover his brother was even alive. The rest would come later. He and Bartholomew were
twins
. The best of friends. Inseparable and indistinguishable. Edmund had dreamed of being reunited with his brother almost as often as he’d dreamed of being reunited with Sarah.

And he would not let the Duke of Ravenwood stop him.

Edmund flung open the parlor door and charged forward bellowing, “
Stop!
” as he raced up the makeshift aisle.

The first thing he saw was her hair. Thick and chestnut and familiar, the long tresses had been gathered up in a shiny mass and pinned to the back of her head, just as it had been in Bruges. She was his siren. He could already smell her soap and feel the softness of her dark brown curls as he plucked the pins free one by one.

As if responding to the force of his thoughts, the power of his love, Sarah turned to face him.

Edmund pulled up short. His stomach dropped, his jaw dropped, his bloody
heart
dropped because Sarah was… pregnant.
 

Not just pregnant:
hugely
pregnant. His slender, innocent, doe-eyed bride had doubled in size since last he’d seen her. His stomach dropped. No wonder there was a wedding.

He cut a furious glance toward Ravenwood, who held up his palms and shook his head.

The vicar clutched the cross hanging from his neck and backed away.

“Not Ravenwood,” Sarah said, her voice cracking. “The baby is yours.”

Edmund’s ears roared. If anyone was speaking, he could not hear them. Sarah was pregnant. The baby was
his
. Sarah was pregnant. He was going to be a
father
. Sarah was right there in front of him, waiting for his reaction with tears in her eyes.

Edmund’s position had not changed. His will had only been reinforced.

“Stop the wedding.” He marched forward, his gaze locked on hers. “She marries
me
.”

Ravenwood sidestepped in front of Sarah, blocking Edmund’s view of his bride.
 

Edmund’s eyes narrowed.

Ravenwood turned his back on Edmund to curl his insolent fingers gently about Sarah’s trembling shoulders. “You don’t have to marry me, Sarah,” he told her in his calm, quiet voice. “But you don’t have to marry Blackpool, either.”

Edmund’s fingers flexed into fists. If the duke had a death wish, so be it.

“I have never had a choice,” said Sarah, her expression haunted. “Women have never had choices. Not really. Least of all someone in my position.”

“Because of the baby?” Ravenwood’s voice lowered. “I told you I would have no problem raising your child as my own, and affording him or her all the benefits of—”

“Your wedding is
off
.” Edmund shoved the duke aside to take Sarah’s hands. She had loved him before. She would love him again.

He lifted her swollen fingers to his lips to kiss them, but stopped when he remembered the unkempt beard protruding from his face. He would not kiss her like this. Not even her fingers. Not when she’d been about to wed a duke who would have showered her with money and estates and thousands of ducal advantages that Edmund could never replicate.
 

He let her fingers drop. “We’ll call the banns tomorrow.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “Tomorrow is Monday—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah interrupted. “I can’t wait for banns.” She cast a pointed look toward her round belly. “
We
can’t wait for banns.”

No wonder she was in a hurry. Edmund swallowed. He still couldn’t fathom it.
 

He’d spent so many months just trying to get through one more day, one more hour, that he hadn’t given any thought to the future at all. Still wasn’t certain he had one. Things like futures could vanish in the blink of an eye.
 

All he’d wanted was Sarah, if only for one more night. One more moment.

Well, here she was. Standing right before him. With a chasm the size of the world between them.

His stomach churned. What had happened between her and Ravenwood? The duke was bloody
nice
enough to do something foolish and romantic like wed his missing friend’s bride so the babe would not be born illegitimate. The duke was also
rich
enough to have sent out a hunting party or two in search of said missing friend. Hell, the duke’s know-all older sister could probably have rescued Edmund on her own in a matter of hours, and cleaned up the French/Austrian political climate that same day after tea.

Edmund would’ve settled for just being found.

“Well, you’re not marrying
him
,” he said flatly, without sparing Ravenwood so much as a glance. “So you’re right. You have no choice.”

“Be reasonable,” began the duke. “You haven’t—”

Edmund cut him off with a chilling glance. “This is
my
baby and
my
bride. You might notice that I’ve just returned from war. A wise man wouldn’t speak to me right now, for fear of how I might react.”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Edmund.” Sarah flashed him a wobbly smile, her eyes glistening. “I’ve never wanted anything else.”

His chest thudded in pleasure. He longed to reach for her. But not like this. Not covered in dust and dressed in rags. She deserved so much more. He would prove he was a man she could be proud of.

“Brother…” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

Heart thundering, Edmund whirled toward the rear of the alcove.
Bartholomew
. Edmund’s chest tightened with love at the ridiculous sight of him. Bartholomew’s valet had trussed his master up just as beautifully and ostentatiously as Edmund remembered.
 

Which only made him feel less worthy of Sarah’s love.
 

Where Edmund was covered with grime and too much facial hair, Bartholomew was starched and tailored and shaved into perfection. Where Edmund’s skin was unfashionably brown, Bartholomew’s was properly porcelain. Where Edmund’s borrowed boots had begun to separate at the soles, Bartholomew… now bore a false limb?

Edmund’s shocked gaze flew up to meet his brother’s. Were it not for the telltale clapping sound as the wooden prosthetic snapped into place with each step, neither Bartholomew’s manner nor appearance would have given any hint that one of the most celebrated dandies in London was missing half of one his legs. Edmund’s heart clenched.

This, at least, indicated why
Bartholomew
had not led the search party for his missing twin. He would not have been able to walk for many months. Perhaps had even spent time recovering in hospitals himself. His injury explained so much.

Edmund swallowed. He hated himself for being relieved that there was a reason his brother had not come to find him. Never would Edmund wish the slightest harm on his twin, much less the loss of a leg. But, well… when one returned from war to discover one’s bride about to wed one’s childhood friend, one could easily begin to think he’d been forgotten completely.

Bartholomew opened his arms.
 

Edmund swallowed his brother in an embrace fierce enough to make up for several of their lost months.

“I hope I’m crushing your hideous cravat beyond all salvation,” he whispered into his brother’s ear.

“I hope the French haven’t permanently turned you off from bathing,” his twin shot back.

A bark of laughter escaped from Edmund’s throat. He clapped his brother on the back and broke their embrace to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”

“I decided to be an Original. Any dandy can have
two
feet,” Bartholomew returned with a careless wave of his hand. He stared at Edmund as if he couldn’t quite credit that he was actually home. “I’ve missed you so much. What happened to
you?
”