Marry Me (9 page)

The moment she saw him, Millie clamped her hands over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She hadn’t meant to say it at all.

Raymond’s lips twitched. He murmured something to his sister, something Millie couldn’t hear, and handed over the glasses.

A hand fell on Millie’s arm, jerking her back. “We’re going,” Mr. Elliott growled in her ear.

Raymond advanced, stripping off his evening jacket. “Hands o-o-off-f m-m-my—”

But Mr. Elliott did not relinquish his painful grip on Millie. “Oh no, Wa-Wa-Wilson. She’s mine.”

“I’m not.” Millie kicked at him again, but this time he was prepared. Effectively side-stepping her assault, he backed toward the door.

Raymond dropped his jacket on the floor. He threw a punch at Mr. Elliott.

Elliott, not expecting the attack, grabbed even harder to Millie’s arm, dragging her down.

As Mr. Elliott released her, she stumbled and fell, onto Raymond’s jacket.

Something small fell out of a pocket—a candy heart. She grabbed it and the jacket and scooted out of the way, tripping on the hem of her pink evening gown. A few gentlemanly hands caught her and lifted her up, then melted back into the crowd, leaving her alone.

The crowd formed a circle as Raymond and Mr. Elliott squared off.

Several of the gathered women cried out in surprise and retreated to the safer perimeter of the room. The men surged forth in eagerness, decorum slipping away at the prospect of a juicy fight.

Behind her, Millie heard someone wager, “Two bits on Wilson.”

His fellow replied, “No thanks. Wilson will wipe the floor with that doorknocker.”

Millie hugged Raymond’s jacket tight. She ignored the bruise Mr. Wilson had inflicted on her upper arm. If her mother continued her silly advocacy of Mr. Elliott, she would show her what he had done to her. Let her contest his suitability then.

Raymond and Elliott circled each other. Raymond moved smooth, like a cat whereas Elliott bounced. Both were in shirtsleeves, though Millie didn’t see where Mr. Elliott’s jacket had gone.

“Millie’s n-not y-y-ours.” Raymond feinted at Elliot, who dodged.

Jab-jab, then retreat. Elliot danced back then advanced, swinging a right hook that fell well clear of its intended target.

“Aw, stop playing with ’em, Wilson,” a man called out from the crowd. The crowd laughed at that.

Mr. Elliott’s face reddened. “He’s stealing my girl!” he shouted at them.

“I wasn’t yours in the first place,” Millie shouted back. “Why don’t you just clear off?”

Mr. Elliott shook his head. “Don’t you see? You don’t know what you want. He’s bad for you. Got you believing all sorts of wrong things.” But he kept his eyes on Raymond.

Millie’s hand closed tight on the jacket and the heart. “Has it ever occurred to you that I chose him?”

His eyes tightened. He hesitated and frowned.

That was all the opening Raymond needed. In a one-two-three combination, he socked Elliott’s face, spinning him around. Elliott fell to his knees, his hands slamming hard on the tiled floor.

The crowd cheered, a hearty sound full of male glee. Millie looked about. Most of the women had retreated, leaving a circle of men enclosing the pugilists.

Mr. Elliott spat out bloody saliva. He pushed himself upright, rage contorting his face. “Millie, we’re leaving!” He lunged at her.

Millie screamed and backed off.

Raymond was there. He tripped Elliott and followed it up with a kick to his backside. Elliott sprawled on the floor once more, but Raymond wasn’t leaving him there. He hauled Elliott up with both hands and they squared off once more.

Mr. Elliott’s anger had blossomed. With a cry of rage, he launched himself at Raymond. Both men tumbled to the floor, to the oohs of the crowd.

Raymond rolled them over and delivered another punch to Elliott before springing to his feet. Perspiration dampened his sprung collar. Elliott only had a few moments to rise when he received a straight one-two punch to his face.

“G-g-g-ive up,” Raymond urged. A few flecks of blood—not his—spattered the front of his shirt.

“No.” Elliott rushed him again. Raymond stepped aside.

Mr. Elliott stumbled and didn’t fall down.

“S-s-ay Uncle.”

That needled Mr. Elliott’s anger. He rushed Raymond again, who had no problems tripping him and dropping Mr. Elliott to the floor once more. This time, he planted his knee in Elliott’s back.

“S-s-say Uncle.”

Mr. Elliott murmured an unintelligible reply.

“S-s-s-a it-t-t.”

“Mmmfh!”

Raymond bent down. “Sh-she’s not y-y-your girl. N-n-never-r w-w-as.” Instead of leaping up to resume the fight, he beckoned a couple of fellows over. “T-t-take out th-the trash, p-p-please?”

“Love to,” they replied. Together, they hauled a dishevelled and blood-streaked Mr. Elliott up between them. “Any final words?” one of them asked.

Elliott’s final words were not for polite company. Everyone gasped when he told Raymond what he could do with himself.

“Mr. Elliott!” Millie declared. She marched up in front of him. “How dare you use such language in front of me?” She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. She would speak slowly and calmly. Otherwise, she feared she’d tear off his face herself. “I will make myself very clear.” Her voice wavered at the end and she inhaled once more. Surely there was some courage lurking in the air? “I was never yours. I don’t like you. I don’t know why you thought I was—” She shook her head. “Just—” she held up her hand. “Go away.”

Mr. Elliott murmured something under his breath, over and over. A wave of greasy nausea rolled over her. Doubt pulled at her insides. What was she doing?

A pair of hands pulled her back, enveloping her. A soft, welcome voice murmured in her ear. Raymond. The greasiness dispersed and a wave of relief rolled over her. She wanted to sit down.

Mrs. Chandler took over from her brother. “There’s a girl.”

Raymond approached the imprisoned Mr. Elliott. “Tha-tha-that’s low.” He laid his hands on Mr. Elliott’s head, almost as if bestowing a blessing, or a curse. He stepped back. “B-because y-you can-n’t sta-sta-stay aw-way, I c-curse y-y-you. Y-you ca-come ca-close t-to her, y-your hair wa-will sha-sha-shriek like a-a p-policeman’s wh-whistle.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

The men holding Mr. Elliott complied and roughly escorted him outside. Most of the crowd followed to ensure he didn’t try to get back in.

Raymond returned to Millie. She shuddered and collapsed in his arms. “Oh, I was so angry at him.”

Raymond laughed and hugged her. “Ma-may I h-ha-ave my ja-jacket ba-ba-back?”

With tears and laughter, she held out his jacket. He shrugged it onto his shoulders.

Millie had something else in her hand. “And there’s this.”

He turned to her, a question in his eyes.

Millie lifted her hand and unfolded it. There lay a candy heart.

“Marry me!” it squeaked, rather loudly.

Raymond clutched at his empty breast pocket.

“It fell out,” Millie confessed. She lowered her eyes. “Was it—” her words tangled in her throat. “Was it for me?”

His hand closed over hers, silencing the rather gregarious heart. “I c-c-arried th-that sa-since the d-d-day I m-met you.”

“Got a pencil?”

Of course he had.

On the back of the heart Millie Moore wrote three very important letters. Y-E-S. She held it up for him to see.

The brightest of smiles crossed his face. With a shout of joy, he embraced and spun her around, laughing.

When he put her down, but did not let go, she said, “Now, open your mouth.” She held up the candy heart.

He opened, ready to receive the sweetest of words.

At the last minute, Millie put the heart on her tongue.

And that was how she gave it to him.

A word about the author…

Heidi Wessman Kneale is an Australian author of moderate repute. She writes lovely escapist fiction, especially romance and fantasy.

Like most humans, she has a family. She also keeps company with the world’s most boring cat.

Marry Me
is her third story with The Wild Rose Press.

Visit her online:

Twitter: @heidikneale

Blog: http://romancespinners.blogspot.com

Website: http://tinyurl.com/heidikneale/

Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.