Chapter Twenty-Five

H arry saved his best surprise for the end.

On the last day of the trip, after the London Ladies Cricket Club had successfully played (and soundly trounced) the local team in Manchester and then celebrated with them, Harry held his wife's hand and guided her down the garden path on the grounds of their estate.

Ruthie followed him blindly—literally, because Harry had tied one of his old neckties around her eyes before they set out.

He ordered her to keep it on even after they'd reached the outside of the chapel. He left her there alone while he ran inside to check that everything was just right. He'd screwed up one wedding to the woman of his dreams; he wouldn't be doing it twice.

His bare hands trembled when they touched Ruthie, removing the cloth from her head, but this time for reasons very different than before.

She rubbed her face, dashing her wheat-colored hair off her freckles. "Why do you look so nervous?" she teased. "Should I be worried?"

Harry kissed her smile, lingering on her lips because he'd learned they were the safest place in his world. "You never have to worry with me. You know that."

She twisted her neck and looked around them. "Then why are we here? Oh, this is lovely, isn't it?"

It was, Harry had to admit. He'd been lucky. The chapel was as quaint and charming as the rest of the ground, reminding him of the gingerbread house from the fairytale he'd heard Orla and Maeve reading through the walls one night. Ivy covered most of the gray stone, but each rectangular window at its side was filled with dazzling, jewel-toned stained glass.

Without answering, Harry towed Ruthie toward the entrance. He stopped to kiss her one more time before he opened the door and ushered her inside.

And then he realized he would have to push her down the aisle, because her feet had decided to stop working. Ruthie froze when everyone in the chapel turned to welcome them, all wearing grins as wide as Harry's.

Not taking her eyes off her teammates and her siblings that Harry had gathered for the event, she reached for him. "Why are they… What is everyone… Why are they all looking at me that way?" she stammered.

Harry squeezed her hand proudly. "They're looking at us, darling," he said, leading her down the aisle, where a very somber and very sober priest was waiting for them. "We're getting married. Again. But the right way this time."

She stopped him before they made it to the end. "But we were married the right way."

Harry managed to keep his voice down, but he couldn't hold back the curse. "Dammit, Ruthie, you deserved so much better than that blasted farce. Like a priest who wasn't sick all over, and one who actually got your name right. Did you ever think about that? I'm not even married to you. I'm pretty sure that I'm married to someone named Ruby Winrose!"

Ruthie didn't laugh, but the blue of her eyes sparkled brighter than the ruby ring she wore on her finger. The ring that Harry had given her. He'd done just about everything wrong that day, but at least he'd got that part right.

Her smile was gentle. "I love you, Harry," she said.

"I love you," Harry said, tugging her once more. "But now no more talking, because I want to get this over and done with."

"Over and down with?" she squawked as she stumbled after him. "Whatever happened to getting married the right way?"

Harry settled Ruthie in front of the priest and leaned toward her ear. "There's a lot to do, my love. Because I also have to make up for our wedding night, and I have a feeling that's going to take a while."

Ruthie's blush covered her face. "You don't have to make up for that," she whispered, darting a nervous glance to everyone watching them. "That was wonderful."

"Yes, but this day is about making everything better, and I'm determined, wife. I'm very determined not to disappoint you."

"You've never disappointed me, and you never will."

"Tell me that again in fifty years when we're old and gray."

"I will," Ruthie said.

The priest waved his hands in front of the couple. "We're not there yet, Miss Waitrose," he said with an impish wink. "But we'll get there soon enough. Can everyone stand so we can get started?"

The ceremony wasn't as quick as Harry would have liked. That was the problem with sober priests, he realized. They tended to have more to say on the subject of marriage and had no issue standing for long periods of time. Despite that, Harry found himself moved by the experience and let himself get lost in it. Holding Ruthie's hands, he repeated his vows from the very bottom of his heart, knowing that he would never forsake this woman. Equally, as Ruthie did the same to him, his gratitude was almost too much to bear.

Harry Holmes was a lucky man. He'd found a woman who could go toe to toe with him. Maybe Ruthie's youth was the answer to her madness. As he'd concluded the first night they'd met, only the incredibly young were foolish enough to believe they could do what they wanted, have what they wanted—that they could bend the world to their whim.

And Ruthie Waitrose had wanted him.

These were the thoughts that filled his head when he watched her repeat the priest's solemn words.

Which was why Harry didn't pay attention to a short man entering the chapel. And why Harry didn't register that, although the man had one lazy eye, the good one was squarely on him. And that was why Harry's instincts didn't kick in when the man lifted his pistol.

But this time, Harry wasn't too late.

When the shot was fired, Harry acted instantly, throwing Ruthie to the ground. As he turned to run for Vine, a searing pain knifed through the top of his arm, and he stumbled back. He knocked into the priest, who followed him to the floor, taking the brunt of the fall against the two steps leading to the altar.

People were screaming, but Harry couldn't hear anything. His mind was a whirlwind of sensations and tumbling thoughts threatening to drag him under until Ruthie came into his view. At once, the madness stilled as she reached for him. She pulled him off the priest, not relenting until he was resting in her lap.

"Are you hurt? Oh, Harry! Please tell me this isn't happening again." Ruthie sobbed, checking his body for the wound. She followed the blood to his arm, poking and prodding until he commanded her to stop.

"I'm fine. I'm fine… I think," Harry said, trying to ascertain if that was true or not. He forced himself to move the arm that vibrated with pain. He took it as a good sign that it wasn't numb. The wound smarted like a bastard, which usually told him that it wasn't as bad as it looked.

The priest confirmed it. "He missed. The bullet just grazed you." He pointed to the altar, which had a sizeable chunk taken off the corner. "It was a miracle."

Harry shook his head, craning his neck to check the wound. "It wasn't a miracle."

"It was," the priest argued. "The Lord was watching out for me today. You saved me, sir. That bullet was coming straight at me, and you stepped in its way. You saved my life."

Harry didn't have the heart to tell the priest that he hadn't done it on purpose. He must have stepped in front of the man when he'd moved to throw Ruthie to the floor. It was a happy accident.

It was luck, not a miracle.

Ruthie helped him to his feet, and across the chapel, Harry could see Samuel Everett holding Vine's hands behind his back. Vine's face was bloody and battered, and the man could hardly stand without Samuel holding him up. Harry didn't have to check Samuel's fists to know they were covered in blood. He nodded at his friend, and Samuel nodded back before letting Vine drop to the floor with a demonstrative thump .

Later they would find out that Vine had followed Harry after he left London, keeping his distance, waiting for the right moment to strike. As Ruthie had guessed, he had been behind Harry's original shooting. With Harry dead, Vine planned to take over the old gang, returning to a full-time life of crime, battling Dugan and his boys for supremacy of London's streets. Some men just didn't respond well to change, and Thomas Vine was one of them.

When the commotion died down, Ruthie and Harry were the last to leave the chapel. As she helped him down the aisle, Harry regarded the detritus of the ceremony—roses broken and stomped flat on the ground, bloodstains from where he'd fallen, a reticule left behind by a startled woman—and unleashed a filthy curse.

Ruthie's eyes latched on to his. "Harry! What's wrong? Is it your arm?"

"It's not my fucking arm," he muttered.

"Then what?"

His head fell. "Why do all our weddings have to be such fucking disasters?"

Ruthie laughed and patted him lovingly on the chest. "This wasn't a disaster. Yes, it was a bit dramatic, but Vine is caught and can't harm you anymore, and no one was hurt. You should be happy."

"Well, I'm not fucking happy," he grumbled. "I'm upset. I wanted something better for you."

"Harry." Ruthie stopped to look at him. "You're the best thing for me. I want nothing more."

"I suppose that helps," he said.

"Good," she said with a decisive nod. "And let's not forget about the most important thing to come from this day."

Harry arched a brow in question.

She smiled. "You saved a priest's life. Don't you see? Now you never have to worry. You're certainly going to heaven now."

Harry laughed and kissed the top of his wife's head. "I told you, darling, I don't worry about that anymore. Because I've been in heaven since the day I met you."