The Viscount's Vow

by Collette Cameron

They emerged from the trees, having taken a wending dirt path through the woods. The trail opened into a clearing a hundred feet from the rear side of the barn. Skirting around a pile of horse manure and used straw, Vangie and Ailsa paralleled the building. At the corner, they both stopped short, each covering their mouth with a hand to stifle their giggles.

  Ian, with the stable master by his side, was circling the paddock examining several horses, each one haltered and held steady by a groom. A jet-black stallion followed the groom around like a trained puppy. He nudged the man’s bony backside every few steps in an effort to get his attention.

  Exasperated, the stable master turned to the stallion. “Cease, ye blasted brute.”

  The horse nickered in his ear, then probed the groom’s coat pocket for a treat.

  “Gerard, couldn’t you come up with a better name for that beast than Thor?” Ian goaded in a syrupy voice, grinning ear to ear. “Mayhap Muffy or Pookie? Does he do any parlor tricks? Beg? Roll-over?”

  The other stable hands snickered.

  Gerard ignored them. Thor snorted and nudged his muzzle into the man’s calloused hand, eager for the apple he held. Patting the horse on the neck, Gerard turned his back muttering, “I have me a mare to check on. She’s nigh on ripe to foal.”

  He crossed the paddock to the stables.

  The ever-faithful stallion followed on the stable master’s heels. Thor’s large head bumped into Gerard from behind every few steps, earning huge gap-toothed grins from the grooms and another hoot of mocking laughter from Ian.

  Vangie was nearly bent double, one hand over her mouth and the other clutching her stomach, trying to suppress her laughter.

  Evidently, the stallion decided he didn’t appreciate being ignored. He blew a long, horsey breath on Gerard’s neck before extending his large tongue and licking the groom’s cheek. Howling with laughter, Ian slapped Gerard on the back.

  Walking into the stables, Ian was laughing so hard, he could scarcely speak. “God Almighty . . . the brute . . . even licks . . . like a dog.”

  “Leave off with the lickin’ or ye’ll be gelded by nightfall, ye old poger,” groused Gerard.

  Vangie and Ailsa erupted into another round of hushed giggles upon hearing the muffled threat.

  It seemed the men were crossing the full length of the barn. Ian would no doubt exit the other end. Vangie, with Ailsa in tow, reversed her direction, and they headed back the direction they’d come.

  Nearing the end of the elongated building, Vangie saw Ian leave the barn. He must have been momentarily blinded by the brilliant morning sunshine, because he stopped a few feet beyond the exit and shielded his eyes.

  Obscured by the trees and the barn’s shadow, she carefully picked her way around the putrid pile once more. Glancing up, she came to a hasty stop. Ailsa plowed into her from behind.

  The Dowager Viscountess Warrick stepped from the path the women had used minutes before.

  Chapter 26

  An eerie prickling skirted across Vangie’s flesh. She shivered and wrapped the shawl tighter round her shoulders. Ailsa muttered a prayer under her breath.

  “Ian, there you are. I apologize for keeping you waiting.” The dowager’s chilly voice floated across the clearing.

  Ian was meeting her? Why? He’d said he wanted nothing to do with her.

  After throwing a fleeting look into the stables behind him, he faced her. With quick strides, he crossed to where she waited in the oak’s shade. With his back to Vangie, and the increased distance between them, his voice was an indistinct muffle.

  “Lucinda—”

  “It was wise of you to suggest meeting here. It’s unlikely your, ah, bride will interrupt us.”

  At the coldness in her voice, Vangie shuddered again. There was something oddly disconcerting with her appearance as well. Trailing her gaze over the dowager, Vangie was at a loss to determine what it was. Dressed impeccably in mourning weeds, the woman hadn’t a hair out of place. She stood composed before Ian, loosely clasping a fringed jacquard shawl against the persistent breeze.

  Vangie flicked her gaze to Ailsa, then back to the dowager. She stared straight at Vangie. An icy shiver washed over her. Her ladyship knew she was standing there. Vangie met her eyes. The Dowager Viscountess Warrick’s were empty, vacant pools. It was like staring into the eyes of a dead person.

  No soul remained.

  Another shudder rippled across Vangie causing the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck to stand on end.

  Ailsa whispered, “Lawks. That addled fly-by-night witch is off her broom and abroad in daylight. Gawd save us all!”

  “Hush, Ailsa.”

  Vangie scrunched the shawl in her hands. Should she make her presence known to Ian or retreat and allow him some privacy? Another swift glance at his stepmother, and the matter was decided. Vangie touched Ailsa’s arm to turn her about, but the dowager’s words rendered her immobile.

  “It’s truly admirable, your diligence in seeking that gypsy’s undoing.”

  Vangie heard Ailsa’s horrified gasp and the gloating triumph in the dowager’s voice.

  Quest? Undoing? More of her lies?

  “When we plotted your trip to London, after what that slattern did to my poor, dear Charlotte, oh, and Geoff of course, I thought you only sought to tarnish Miss Caruthers’s reputation.”

  Charlotte? Geoff? Whatever had they to do with her?

  Ian answered his stepmother, though it was difficult to hear him clearly. Vangie strained to understand his indistinct words.

  “Liar . . . vulgar . . . Vangie . . . immoral light skirt.”

  He didn’t believe that of her, did he? Dizziness swept her. No, he couldn’t . . . could he? But that explained his loutish inferences during their wedding reception. And what came after. She trembled, though whether from nerves, anger, or cold she couldn’t be certain.

  Ailsa laced her fingers with hers. “Your hand is freezing,” she whispered. “That witch could turn the devil’s blood to ice, she could.”

  She tugged on Vangie’s hand. “Let’s go, my lady.”

  Vangie shook her head, shushing the maid with a stern look. She ventured forward several steps. What was Ian saying?

  “Bringing her to Somersfield was brilliant,” her ladyship said. Looking past Ian’s shoulder, she met Vangie’s eyes with her shrewd stare.

  “When are you going to tell her the marriage is a sham? That the rector was a drunkard, a boosey hired to perform the vows?”

  She smiled nastily. “I must say, it was a stroke of genius hiring Reverend Tipsyton. He could never resist a bribe or a bottle.”

  Vangie missed his reply as the breath left her lungs in a loud, painful hiss. Was that the Reverend’s name? Had she even been told his name? Blast her difficulty with names. She couldn’t remember.

  How would the dowager know his name unless Ian told her?

  Vangie stood horror-struck, unable to draw in even a wisp of air. The marriage was a sham? The rector—

  He had reeked of spirits.

  Oh dear, God.

  The ground wavered, undulating alarmingly. Vangie’s pulse slowed to an irregular tempo, and her head began to spin. She shook it fiercely. Not now. She couldn’t, wouldn’t have an episode now.

  Her gaze riveted on Ian, she said through stiff lips, “Ailsa, have a horse readied for me, not a sidesaddle either.”

  “But, my lady. . .”

  “Now, Ailsa!” The firm resolve in Vangie’s tone brooked no argument.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Ailsa spun around to do Vangie’s bidding, murmuring dire threats and uncouth allegations about the dowager’s character until she was out of earshot.

  “It would be the coup de grâce in our pursuit for vengeance if you knapped her with child before you turned the unworthy didikko out.” A sneer curled the dowager’s thin lips.

  Nausea speared Vangie. Ian meant to cast her off?

  Step-by-step, she began to retreat. She swallowed against a
nother surge of nausea.

  The dowager’s gaze flicked to the barn’s shadows. “Mayhap she already carries your seed?”

  Ian ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. “Not yet; soon I hope.”

  Dear Lord.

  Devastation ravaged Vangie. Something irreplaceable shriveled in her center. She reached to steady herself against the barn’s rough siding. She’d allowed herself to love Ian. And he’d used her for his selfish gains. No, he’d used her in a premeditated scheme of spiteful revenge.

  To what end, her heart cried?

  Why did he detest her so? What had she done to earn such loathing? She sucked in a bracing breath, nearly gagging at the stench of rotting manure. She withdrew several more steps, her gaze trained on Ian the whole while.

  His rancor had something to do with his brother and sister. Had she ever met them? Closing her eyes, Vangie attempted to conjure Charlotte or Geoff’s face. She’d been introduced to so many people throughout the Season. Trying to recall a pair of faces was futile. Surely she’d remember Ian’s sister if something untoward occurred between them, wouldn’t she?

  And his brother? Did he look like Ian? There’d been no portrait on the gallery wall of him. Had she met a Geoff Hamilton? Blast and damn. She simply couldn’t remember. A sickening thought slithered into her mind. Mayhap he’d been one of the gentlemen whose advances she’d spurned.

  The familiar queasiness welled up again, its nauseating waves clawing at her throat. A child? Was that why Ian had been intimate with her last night? He wanted to get her with child before he abandoned her? Sucking in a tremulous breath, her eyes filled with tears, and her heart broke, sharp fragment by sharp fragment.

  She cupped her belly. Even now, did a poor, innocent babe lie there? How could God allow this?

  Vangie hardened her heart. From the moment she’d met him, Ian had been scheming for her ruination. Every caress and kind word, all part of his perverse ploy. He was no better than the dowager. No—he was worse. Pretending anger at being forced to marry her. Making her feel guilty. Feigning affection in order to seduce her . . . all with the intent of destroying her.

  Unconscionable, despicable knave.

  “You’ll hurt me no more, Ian Warrick.”

  With resolve, she turned away and barricaded her crushed heart, as well as her newfound love, from the man she once called husband. One could only forgive so much.

  “No matter what trials life brings, do not harden your heart, Nukkidai.”

  Vangie shook her head, purposefully turning deaf ears to the voice of wisdom whispering in her mind. Not this time, Puri Daj. One doesn’t cast pearls before swine, then complain when they are trampled upon.

  Ian stared at Lucinda. Why did her gaze keep traveling beyond him?

  Vangie.

  He knew before he half-turned and looked over his shoulder he’d see her there. He sucked in a great gulp of air. His gut burned when he saw her face before she darted around the other side of the barn.

  Bloody hell.

  How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard? What exactly had she heard? Her beautiful face was ravaged with desolation, and her eyes . . . God help him, her haunted, devastated eyes.

  “She believed me, Ian, every calculated lie. Yes, even that you asked me to meet you here.” Lucinda laughed then, an insane cackle reverberating amongst the early summer greenery.

  “I could see it in her eyes,” she gasped.

  Ian rounded on her, snarling, “Damn you, you evil, possessed bitch.”

  He lunged at her, itching to shake some sense into her.

  Stumbling backward a pace, she threw one hand to her throat, the other palm out to ward him off.

  He stopped, breathing heavily, his fists clenched. “You’re not worth it. Confine yourself to the dower house and grounds, or I’ll banish you.”

  Ian swiveled around, intent on pursuing Vangie. Lucinda grabbed his arm. He tried to shake her off, but her grip was surprisingly strong. Even through the fabric of his coat, her long nails bit into his flesh.

  “I want what’s mine,” she hissed, madness reflected in her glassy eyes.

  “You don’t deserve the settlement I brought to my marriage with Roger. Charlotte must have it.” Spittle gathered at the corner of Lucinda’s mouth as she clawed his arm. “She’s from my loins, not you. My monies, my lands, my holdings must go to my offspring, not Roger’s spawn.”

  She scratched frantically at his coat. “They’re mine, not yours.”

  Her last words ended on a shriek as Ian roughly shook her off. He stepped away from her.

  “You’re mad. Father long since sold the properties you brought to the marriage, and he wasted your settlement away. Every last guinea of it.”

  “No, you lie!” She shook her head vehemently, causing several pins to come loose. Her graying hair hanging haphazardly around her head and shoulders made her appear even more demented.

  “He couldn’t have. It’s not possible. I’ve planned for so long. . .” She peered at him, her eyes glazed.

  She muttered, to herself. “No one else would have me after. . . my father paid Roger a fortune to marry me. The settlement terms were enormous.”

  “Lucinda, I cannot change what’s been done.”

  Wringing her hands, she didn’t seem to hear him. “It can’t be gone. Charlotte must have it.”

  “Charlotte is married. . .”

  A glimpse of lucidity shone through. “To a penniless cork-brain!” she snapped. “No, she must have position, wealth—a title.”

  Lucinda glanced at Ian. An eerie light glimmered in her eye. “Men always get everything.”

  Damn and blast. He didn’t have time for this. “Lucinda, go to the dower house, and stay there, or I swear to you, I’ll have you arrested today for imprisoning my wife.”

  With a final hate-filled glare, she shuffled away, grumbling beneath her breath.

  Watching her, he ran a hand through his hair and drew in a calming breath. The woman was unhinged. She needed to be kept under constant surveillance. He’d banish her to his cottage in the northernmost part of Scotland. She’d either live out the remainder of her days there . . . or in Bedlam.

  A more urgent matter consumed him. He must find Vangie.

  Was she yet nearby? Had she returned to the house? He ran to the stables. One of the stable hands, the new lad, stood at the entrance, staring at Lucinda’s retreating form. He spit on the ground, then turned to go inside the barn.

  “You there. . .” Ian called.

  The young man flushed and paused. “Ben, sir.”

  “Have you seen, Lady—”

  Two riders exploded from the paddock. Their stockinged legs were exposed as they galloped their horses across the pasture.

  Sprinting to the paddock’s fence, Ian jumped onto the lower rail and yelled, “Vangie, stop! Let me explain.”

  Chapter 27

  The wings of the gentle breeze sweeping across the clearing carried Ian’s words away. In frustrated horror, he watched Vangie’s horse rear. Good God, had his shouting spooked the beast? She slid off the horse’s broad rump, tumbling to the ground. She lay in a heap, unmoving.

  His heart stopped, terror numbing his mind. “Van—gie!”

  He didn’t recognize the tormented voice that ripped from his throat.

  He watched Ailsa swing her horse around, evidently intent on rescuing her mistress. Before she reached Vangie, a gypsy on horseback emerged from the trees and pounded to her side.

  The man at the pond.

  Vangie obviously knew him. She stumbled to her feet, holding her side. The Roma reached down, and in one smooth movement, swung her behind him on his sorrel gelding. Vangie turned to look over her shoulder.

  Across the distance, her gaze met Ian’s. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes, before laying her head on the gypsy’s broad back. With a yip, the unknown man kneed his gelding. He and Ailsa raced their horses over a knoll and out of sight.

&nb
sp; Ian gazed at the stunned audience assembled in the paddock. A couple stable hands coughed and averted their gazes. In full view of a dozen of his staff, his bride had fled with another man. Ian’s face heated in humiliation, but he ignored his pride.

  They didn’t know about Lucinda’s lies.

  Neither did Vangie.

  Her mare dutifully trotted back to the enclosure. Ben snared the reigns, then led the horse into the barn. Close on his heels, Ian began saddling Pericles. He was going after his wife.

  Glancing up, he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Blast and damn. Pretending to adjust the saddle, he walked around the other side of the stallion, keeping his gaze trained on Ben.

  The groom loosened the mare’s girth strap, then deftly edged his fingers beneath the saddle before slipping his fist into his pocket. Ian lashed out, gripping the groom’s smaller hand in his own.

  “Give it over.” Ian demanded, rage lacing each syllable.

  Ben dared bravado. “S—sir?”

  He gulped, terrified. His eyes, already bulging in fright, widened further when his gaze swept the barn.

  Ian glanced over his right shoulder. His men formed a semicircle behind him. Their loyalty in the wake of Vangie’s flight was balm to his wounded pride. He squeezed Ben’s hand mercilessly, ignoring the cur’s gasp of pain.

  “Ye better hand it over, lad. It will, go better for ye if ye do,” Gerard advised solemnly, then spit.

  With a cry of defeat, Ben relaxed his hand.

  Ian snatched the horseshoe nail from the groom. Blood and hair matted its length. Seizing Ben’s lapels, Ian jerked the groom eye level with him. “You ought to be thanking God my wife was able to ride away.”

  He shook the groom. “And you’d better be praying she isn’t injured, or so help me God, I’ll. . .”

  Ben went ashen beneath the light fuzz smattering his pimply face.

  “Hell.” Ian shoved him away.

  Ben staggered backward, almost falling. Not a single man offered him a hand.

  “The only reason I’m not beating you to within an inch of your miserable life, is because I don’t have the time to waste.”