The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  He roamed his gaze over her, taking in each refined feature, each supple curve. He permitted his eyes what he denied his hands and mouth and body.

  As if sensing his perusal, she shifted her worn boots a bit further beneath her faded skirt. Her humble attire embarrassed her and also made no sense. He’d seen her in quality clothing; the yellow frock and the filmy silvery gown. Eyebrows scrunched together, he frowned. Why she now wore scarcely more than rags when Stapleton’s pockets overflowed remained an enigma.

  She removed her bonnet—if the sad thing could be called a bonnet—and patting her hair, placed it on the seat beside her. After wedging it into the corner, she folded the ribbons into a neat pile.

  “You’ll need a new wardrobe, of course,” he blurted.

  Vangie stopped fussing with the satin strips and stared at him, her expression unreadable. What went on in that keen mind of hers?

  Feeling uncharacteristically gauche, he picked a piece of imaginary lint off his sleeve. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Tannsen, can take your measurements. She used to be a seamstress.” Decades ago, but Vangie didn’t have a lady’s maid. Yet. Still, he wasn’t asking Lucinda or Charlotte for any favors. Unfortunately, Charlotte was becoming more like her spiteful mother every day.

  Vangie remained mute, and to fill the awkward silence, he said, “You may order whatever you like. Gowns, under things, bonnets, boots, slippers, fallalls, fripperies—” He waved his hand in a circle. “And whatever other whatnots you women find necessary.”

  A vision of her in that revealing pink confection sprang to mind, and a smile tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Several more of those tempting, filmy nightgowns too.

  That idea cheered him enormously. More than it ought, given the current circumstances. If he’d buffered himself behind his battlements of indifference, why did tantalizing visions of his wife in scanty nightclothes keep bumping around in his mind? He shifted on the seat once more, cursing the rain and his ardor.

  Vangie remained silent as he pressed into the dim corner.

  He sent her what he intended as an encouraging smile. Although in his current uncomfortably aroused state, it may have been a lecherous grimace. “I’ll arrange to have the order sent straightaway to London. New garments should begin to arrive within a fortnight.”

  “I have clothing, Ian.”

  “Not befitting your new station.”

  She flinched and shrinking against the squab, averted her gaze. Smoothing her skirt, she lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.” Even in the subdued light, he couldn’t miss the rosy color blooming across her cheeks.

  Curse his loose tongue, he’d embarrassed her.

  Had he not been in such a hurry to uncover the truth about Lucinda and Charlotte’s blatant deception, he would’ve delayed his departure to Northumberland and purchased a new wardrobe for Vangie in London. With her aunt’s and cousin’s assistance, she would’ve enjoyed the venture, no doubt. Instead, he’d unintentionally reminded her of her prior status and humiliated her.

  So much for his vow not to hurt her again.

  Vangie repositioned herself on the seat, and although almost undetectable, a wince pinched her face.

  Other than offering Ian a half-smile, Vangie hadn’t bothered attempting to engage him when he’d first clamored into the carriage. When she’d exited the inn this morning, a smile of excitement and anticipation on her face, he’d been atop Pericles already. Last night’s well-laid plans evaporated with the dawn’s dew, and she fought foolish tears as, Malcolm, the driver, assisted her into the coach.

  One could only take so much rejection, and after her husband had rebuffed her yet again this morning, she’d determined to protect herself from further despair and humiliation. The fragile wall she’d carefully erected since climbing in the coach would crack and disintegrate if he rejected her once more. With each saturated mile they traveled, her heart grew heavier, and her ire rose a bit higher as well.

  How could she bear a lifetime of this?

  There’s always the Roma.

  Stealing a glance at her husband lounging across from her, Vangie had no doubts that Ian was none too pleased the weather had forced him to share the coach hours before he typically did.

  Arms folded, he sighed and shifted slightly, his face only partially visible in the half light. “Vangie, I truly meant no offense. I…” He faltered to a stop as she met his eyes for an instant before aiming her attention to her frayed gloves. “Do you have any personal belongings you’d like to retrieve in Brunswick before we continue on to Somersfield?” he asked considerately.

  Uncertain what to make of his solicitousness, she lifted her gaze to his and nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I do have a few things I’d like to collect.”

  “No trouble at all. We’ll stop on the morrow as we pass through.” He bestowed a warm smile upon her.

  Taken aback by his change in demeanor, she searched his face for a long moment. “Thank—”

  The coach lurched violently before bumping to a sudden, rough stop, practically tossing her onto the floor. Only clutching the seat prevented her from plummeting onto Ian’s booted feet. Her reticule and hat weren’t as fortunate. She bent over to recover them. Whatever caused them to stop so abruptly?

  Shouts echoed outside.

  Stifling the worry skittering across her shoulders, she inhaled sharply as he pulled a mahogany gun case from a compartment beneath his seat. Her alarm ratcheted upward once more when he removed one of the flintlock officer’s pistols from its royal blue velvet bed. His mouth pressed into a grim line, he loaded the gun with practiced efficiency.

  “Ian?” Vangie managed to sound poised though her pulse beat an uneven staccato, and her breath refused to leave her lungs in a normal fashion.

  He smiled reassuringly before returning his attention to loading the other pistol. “Most likely nothing to be concerned about, sweeting. I’m only being cautious.”

  More shouting commenced, and the coach rocked as a driver climbed down.

  Her stomach caught and quivered. Stay calm. Coachmen disembarked for any number of reasons.

  Ian raised a finger to his lips, mouthing, “Don’t move.” He quickly extinguished the lamp. From the edge of the window, he peered outside.

  Was he serious? Vangie had no intention of sitting demurely by while God only knew what occurred outdoors. She bent forward determined to take a look herself.

  The murky twilight hindered visibility, and only indiscriminate shapes and shadows met her scrutiny. Trying to see anything out there was like peering into a deep, dark pond. One knew something lurked beneath the surface, moving about, but one had no idea what it was—or whether it might be dangerous.

  Ian opened the door, scarcely wide enough to squeeze through.

  She barely swallowed the cry rising to her lips. Heavens, he wasn’t going out there?

  Slipping through the narrow opening, pistols in hand, he whispered, “Stay here.”

  The door closed with a soft snick.

  Trepidation coiling in her stomach, she scooted to the edge of the seat. Balancing awkwardly, her backside hanging halfway off, she poked her nose around the sash just in time to see him disappear behind the rear of the coach.

  A shot echoed, immediately followed by a profusion of cursing.

  Dear God, please keep Ian safe.

  An eerie silence descended, and she strained her ears, clenching and unclenching her hands. Only her uneven breathing punctuated the ominous stillness. Another gun’s report disturbed the dusk’s tranquility, and she jumped, her thoughts ricocheting around in her head. Whatever is happening? Where is Ian? Is he injured? Where are the drivers? Who is swearing such foul oaths? How many highwaymen are there? Then ludicrously—has the rain stopped?

  She stuffed her gloved fist in her mouth, muffling the hysterical giggle gurgling forth.

  Chin up, old girl. Gypsy blood. Sterner stuff and all that.

  Rot and rubbish. She was utterly terrified.

>   Suddenly, the door wrenched open with such force, it cracked against the coach’s side.

  Hitching in a great gulp of air, Vangie jumped backward, hitting the squab with a solid clunk and banging her head on the carriage wall. The air whooshed from her lungs with the impact. Clutching the seat with one hand, she managed to right herself while keeping her other hand hidden beneath her skirts. Her head throbbed where it had connected with the carriage.

  A surprisingly well-dressed man, a red handkerchief tied over the lower portion of his face, lurked in the opening. He waved the pistol he held menacingly. “Where’s the gent?”

  Vangie searched beyond him. Nominal daylight remained. Where was Ian? She shifted her attention to the highwayman and inched backward on the seat. Lifting her chin in the arrogant manner of the aristocratic dames in London, she answered icily. “You, sir, are mistaken. As you can plainly see,” she angled her head haughtily, “I am alone.”

  He chuckled, a malevolent, alarming rumble that sent a frisson of fear creeping across her skin. His cold eyes narrowed. “Ye be a clacky wench. Mighty pleasin’ to me eyes too.”

  Scots.

  As Vangie edged a hand farther under her skirt, she swallowed against the alarm clawing at her chest

  “Och, tanight willna be a total loss.” A lewd gleam entered his eyes. He licked his thin lips and his black eyes dipped to her bosom. “I bet ye’d be a wild lassie to bed.”

  Her focus locked on his leering face, she stealthy crept her fingers closer to her dagger. His gun trained on her, the robber advanced, intent on stepping into the carriage.

  Where is Ian? Why hadn’t he stopped this lecher? Oh God, was he hurt or—?

  A deafening blast shook the coach, and the thief lurched to an abrupt halt. Eyes widened in astonished disbelief, he toppled face-first onto the coach floor. Dead. His lower body dangled awkwardly in the opening, a bloodied hole in his back.

  Behind him, clothing dirty and torn and lip bleeding, Ian brandished a smoking pistol.

  Vangie slapped a hand across her slack mouth, smothering her terrified screech. Dear God. Gaze riveted on the dead man, she gulped against a wave of nausea then gulped again. Dead. He’s really dead. She’d never seen anyone killed before. Injured, yes—gruesomely at times in the Romani encampment—but not dead.

  As silently and as lethal as the panther Vangie likened him to, Ian had disposed of his prey. “You’ll never know, you hell’s spawn,” Ian snarled, rage sparking in his baleful glare. He looked like the very devil himself.

  A chill washing over her, she swallowed again.

  Blood thundering in his head, Ian searched his wife’s face. “Vangie, are you—?”

  She yanked a dagger from the folds of her shabby skirt. She had the strangest expression on her face—a curious blend of resolution and dread—and her lips trembled.

  Like a loadstone, his heart dropped to his boots. He’d die by his wife’s hand this day, and she could blame his demise on the highwaymen. How she must hate him.

  Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. The subtle shifting of her gaze past his left shoulder alerted him.

  Fiend seize it!

  Twice now he’d been caught unawares, because his thoughts had been consumed with her. He ducked and spun around simultaneously, just in time to catch a glint of steel from the corner of his eye. Jerking his head to the side, he seized the thief’s wrist. Ian slowed the plunging blade, but couldn’t stop the descent entirely. The knife’s finely-honed tip scraped the length of his neck, leaving a stinging trail. Caught unawares, even with both hands gripping his opponent’s wrist, he was at a disadvantage.

  His adversary suddenly stiffened, issuing a guttural grunt.

  Ian’s focus flew to fixate on Vangie’s ashen, horror-stricken face. She appeared as if she were going to swoon or be sick or both. Her stunned indigo gaze never wavered from the man he been grappling with.

  Straightening to his full height, Ian released the robber and retreated a pace

  The man swayed from side to side. His eyes glassed over, rolling back in his head. He slowly tipped backward, bouncing against the edge of the carriage opening before landing on the soggy ground with a loud, heavy thud.

  Ian gaped, his jaw hanging slack. He flashed hot then cold then hot again, scarcely believing his eyes.

  Impaled to the hilt, Vangie’s jeweled dagger protruded from the robber’s back.

  “God, forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me.”

  Her hoarse whisper jolted him from his stupefied trance. Grasping the coat of the other dead robber, he yanked him from the carriage entrance then dumped the man in an undignified heap on the ground beside his deceased cohort.

  His mind still whirling in flabbergasted amazement, Ian bounded into the carriage and without hesitation, drew his quaking wife into his arms.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking and mumbling incoherently against his coat. “I had to, Ian. I had to.”

  He patted her back soothingly, brushing his lips across her hair. “Shh, sweeting. It’s all right.”

  She sucked in a ragged breath. “He’d have killed you.” Raw regret laced her voice. Head angled, her haunted gaze sought his. “I couldn’t let him hurt you. I had to kill him. Don’t you see?” Her tears flowing freely and fingers trembling, she clasped his lapel and pleaded for him to understand. “I didn’t want to, but I’d no choice. I wouldn’t let him take you from me.” Weeping softly, she closed her eyes and pressed her face into his chest, her tears saturating his coat.

  Take him from her? Did she possess some minuscule degree of affection for him after all? Hope flickered to life. Vangie’s confession staggered far more than the knife tip pressed to his neck mere moments before.

  Hugging her to his chest, he soothed, “Shh, it’s over now.” He ran a calming hand down her trembling spine. “The drivers and I kept the first four from the coach, but the other two must’ve been hiding.”

  Six highwaymen.

  Truthfully, they were lucky to have survived. He wouldn’t have done if it hadn’t been for Vangie. How could he have believed she’d hurt him? She was everything good and decent and gentle. And, she killed tonight—killed to protect him.

  Despite his stinging lip, he kissed the crown of her head and tightened his arms around her slim form. Something wondrous sprang free in his chest, liberating him. Initially painful, the sensation resolutely exploded forth with a life and vigor of its own. It was marvelous, implausible, and consuming.

  And this time, he didn’t call it rot and rubbish.

  Disheveled and holding his right arm, Malcolm appeared in the coach doorway. “M’ lord, milady. Are ye unharmed?”

  “Shaken, but unharmed,” Ian assured him.

  Malcolm’s gaze meshed with his. “They was waitin’ fer us, sir.”

  Vangie opened her tear-blurred eyes upon hearing the humble coachman, injured though he was, inquiring after her well-being. Gifford, the junior coachman, his face battered and bloody, hovered nearby. Lurching to an upright position, she began issuing orders while tearing at the hem of her petticoat.

  “Ian, have we any water? Mr. Gifford, I need light, please, and my small box tied with the purple ribbon. Mr. Malcolm, do climb in the carriage, so I can attend to your wound.” She edged Ian’s cravat away from his neck. “It’s little more than a shallow cut, thank God. Best to clean it though.”

  After she removed her gloves, she gathered the torn petticoat. The three men remained motionless, gawking at her open-mouthed. In the act of ripping her petticoat into strips, she paused, quirking an eyebrow at the dumbstruck trio.

  “Faith, gentlemen. Don’t dawdle. Let’s be about it then!”

  Gifford and Ian obediently scrambled to do her bidding. Minutes later, she squatted beside Malcolm, dabbing at his injured arm. She’d blanched at the blood when cutting away his shirt, but made quick work of dressing the wound.

  “Vangie, might I use a strip of your petticoat?”

  At Ian’s question, she
glanced across the coach, and her heart pinged painfully.

  His neckcloth stained scarlet, Ian was a sight. Bruised, his left eye was horribly swollen as was his puffy lower lip.

  Her scrutiny dipped to her spencer. A wonder she wasn’t covered with blood too. She wrinkled her nose. The coach reeked of blood, sweat, mud and manure. She eyed the smears on the Malcolm’s boot only inches from her skirts.

  Ian pointed at his cut neck. “I’ll wash away the worst of this while you look after Malcolm.”

  “Of course. Here’s one for Gifford too.” She handed him two strips. “See to your lip first, Ian.” From the corner of her eye she watched him divest his coat and his bloodstained neckcloth, which he tossed through the open door. Using a portion of the water, he cleansed his lip and neck.

  She kept up a constant diatribe as she worked. Chatting had always calmed her nerves. “My puri daj, that’s grandmother in Romanese, taught me how to tend wounds.” She shifted, fully facing Malcolm to take advantage of the lamp’s light. “I’m not as accomplished as she is, but your injury is not terribly serious.” She curved her mouth reassuringly. “Though, I’m certain it hurts like the very devil, Mr. Malcolm.” She swabbed his injury with a damp cloth.

  “Just Malcolm will do, milady.” His features a mask of confusion, he stared across the coach. He clearly didn’t know what to make of a lady tending him.

  She twisted to glance at her husband too. A wide grin split his face. Whatever was he so jovial about? Heaven’s above, six dead men lay outside. She darted a glance to the open door, and giving herself a mental shake, forced her attention back inside. Never mind. Best to return to the task at hand and not dwell on that ugliness and the part she’d played.

  “Very well, Malcolm. The ball passed clear through, nice and clean. It’s fortunate I always carry my medicines and my dagger with me. Puri Daj taught me the art of healing with plants and herbs. She taught me to use a dagger too.”