The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace. Jane Lark
lips. “Yes. I will. Give me your hand.”
She lifted her fingers, holding them out straight. He gripped her palm with one hand and slid the ring on her finger with the other. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.
He had not expected love and marriage to feel like this.
Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy he gripped her shoulders and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. But then a loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.
“I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.” They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.
“Congratulations,” the blacksmith’s wife said.
“Thank you,” Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink. He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence. To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.
“I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,” the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.
Ellen’s hand gripped Paul’s and he looked down at her. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. She was so innocent. He prayed her faith would be honoured. Please, let all be well.
“Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I’ve signed it.”
The blacksmith took the parchment from the woman’s hand, and then held it out to Paul. “Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.”
The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the parchment. Paul took the paper and moved to a wooden table then took the quill and ink from the blacksmith’s wife to sign his name. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too, then she passed it onto the blacksmith’s smutty hand, it marked the paper as he scrawled a virtually unrecognisable name. But it did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.
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