The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  She chattered unflaggingly during the day, her words flowing in an endless stream as they rode along.

  And yet when he was alone in his room every night he actually found himself fidgeting. Tapping fingers. Pausing every time he heard footsteps near his door. He could still hear her voice in his head and he actually longed for it in the humming silence of his room. He came to resent that silence.

  He would idly pace until his dinner tray arrived, always grateful when it did so he could eat and fall into bed and sleep. In sleep, he could forget her. Escape.

  For three nights this was their pattern.

  The fourth morning continued as the others had. Even her mule seemed to know the routine and trotted along at a more obliging pace. They were nearing Glasgow now. He tried not to think about that . . . or the man he knew who lived there. He planned to bypass the city.

  Except every time he managed to put thoughts of Glasgow and Struan Mackenzie from his mind, a sign would appear alongside the road in a cruel twist of humor, announcing the distance to the city. The signs seemed to taunt him to confront his half brother. He wasn’t certain what he would say or do in such an instance. Past confrontations between them had never gone well. After all, this feud between them had nearly killed him.

  As the noon hour approached, he noticed that Alyse was not as garrulous as usual. In fact, she was quiet.

  He glanced over his shoulder. She was lagging behind again. The mule, contrary beast, had reverted to his old crawling pace. She sat on his back rather listlessly, not even bothering to prod him forward as she usually did.

  Marcus wheeled his horse around and galloped back to where she plodded along, determined to nudge the mule ahead for her. Her head drooped. It almost appeared as though she were dozing.

  “Alyse?” Concern pricked at him as he reached for her reins, dipping his head to better view her face.

  At the sound of her name she gave a small start and lifted her gaze. Whatever else he was going to say died a swift death in his throat.

  Her eyes were bloodshot and glazed like she wasn’t in full comprehension.

  “Alyse?”

  She swayed in her saddle.

  With a sharp oath, he leaned between their two animals and caught her the moment she toppled. He swept her atop his lap, cursing a fury.

  Her head lolled limply as though too heavy for her neck to support. He tapped her cheek with his fingers, hoping to rouse her. Her eyes remained closed. Her skin felt hot. She was raging with fever. He expected cold in this freezing air, but she was hot to the touch.

  “Bloody hell. Alyse!” He glanced around as though he would see salvation somewhere near, perhaps lurking in the trees crowding the road. Except there was no help to be had. Wind blew through creaking and brittle limbs stripped bare of leaves. Never had the world felt so desolate. Never had he felt so helpless.

  There was no one and nothing about. It was just the two of them on this wild stretch of road separating one village from the next. He glanced down at her face again. Eyes closed, a soft rattling rasp escaped her parted lips. She was dead to the world.

  “Ah, sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell me you were ailing?” he muttered as he adjusted her in his arms. He didn’t expect her to answer, but he couldn’t stop talking to her. As long as he talked to her it was as if she were still here. Still with him. Not gone. Not lost.

  “You’re going to be fine.” He was responsible for her. No one else. It fell to him. Shaking his head, he whispered close to her ear, feeling the heat radiate from her like a burning grate. “Everything will be fine.” She would be fine.

  He looked away from her and sent one last desperate look around.

  He knew what he had to do. There was only one hope for her.

  She needed the very best of care and she had one chance of that.

  She floated like a bird, her wings sailing with nary a flap on the air. There was no cage. No locked door barring her escape, but she didn’t quite feel free yet. She felt every bit as trapped, as penned, as she always did.

  She wandered through the fog blindly, unable to see anything save rolling gray.

  It was hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

  Time suspended as she drifted, floated. Aimless wandering.

  She whimpered and called out. For anyone. For someone. For him. Marcus.

  At one point she felt him there. Knew it was him before she felt his hand on her. Gentle as wind on her skin. Soothing her ruffled feathers, touching her almost tenderly as though careful not to crush her feathers.

  His voice eased over her. Deep, dark, luxurious satin closing over her, promising her that everything was going to be fine.

  She knew that voice. She felt it deep in her soul. And she believed it. She believed him.

  Everything was going to be fine. She was going to be fine.

  Somehow these words had the power to make her muscles soften and relax. His voice made the fog seem less dense, less suffocating . . . and it pushed her to keep going, keep searching for a way out.

  A way back to him.

  One look at the mammoth structure and he felt confident it belonged to Struan Mackenzie. The man wouldn’t live in a home any less grand than this. He’d clawed his way out of the gutters of Glasgow and was now rich as Croesus. Such a man wouldn’t have anything short of a palace for himself and his wife—a wife with whom he was profoundly besotted.

  If Marcus was wrong and at the incorrect house, he didn’t give a bloody damn either. He had reached their final destination. He couldn’t continue dragging her through the city in her condition.

  He would not lose her. She needed care and this place would be it. If he had to reveal himself as the Duke of Autenberry to gain entrance then so be it. Experience had taught him that people generally gave way once they knew that.

  He lowered himself from his mount, careful to not lose his hold on her. He didn’t bother to wait for a groom to approach and tend to their mounts.

  Standing, he adjusted the weight of her in his arms and rushed toward the front door, his boots biting into the frozen ground. He left their mounts behind, letting them wander aimlessly in the courtyard, expecting a footman would see to them.

  He pounded on the great double doors with his boot. No response. Cursing, he kicked at the door again, glancing down at her ashen face as he did so. His chest squeezed tighter at the glimpse of her face. She was still so pale.

  After what felt like an eternity, the door swung open. A ginger-haired man in full livery stared back at him, his expression already fixed in annoyance—no doubt from Marcus’s demanding boot knocking.

  He looked Marcus up and down before pinning his gaze on Alyse and asking drolly, “Is she dead?”

  “No, and she’s not going to be.” He swept past the servant. “Send for a physician and direct me to a bedchamber. Do you have a maid that can help undress her? She’s damp from the snow. She needs something warm—”

  “Who are ye?” the man blustered with a shake of his head, his composure slipping.

  “We haven’t time for introductions,” Marcus snapped.

  “Sir, I insist on—”

  “Is this the residence of Struan Mackenzie?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then let him know the Duke of Autenberry is availing himself of his hospitality.”

  The butler stared at him with his mouth agape, unmoving, scarcely even blinking.

  With a muttered curse, Marcus bit out, “Tell him Autenberry is here . . . his brother.” That proclamation delivered, Marcus strode past the man and up the winding marble stairs leading to the second floor, not about to wait for the butler to direct him.

  Once on the second floor, he bypassed the double doors of a drawing room. The doors to that room were cracked and voices floated out into corridor, but he didn’t care. At the moment, Alyse needed a bed. That was his foremost concern.

  He turned a corridor, dimly aware of the squawking servant trailing behind him.

  Holding Alyse in his ar
ms, he managed to push the door latch down on one room, only to discover it was a music room full of instruments. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he continued searching until he arrived at a vacant bedroom at last.

  He strode inside and lowered her on one side of the bed. Moving around the monstrosity, he pulled the covers down and then picked her up and tucked her inside beneath the heavy coverlet.

  “Stoke the fire,” he barked at the hovering servant. “And call for a maid to help undress her.” He paused to glare at the unmoving man. “Has the physician been sent for yet? Why must you stand there and gawk?”

  The man sputtered and looked ready to object when a feminine voice spoke his name, “Marcus?”

  At the sound of his name, he looked toward the door where Poppy Mackenzie stood, formerly Poppy Fairchurch. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need your help,” he answered, almost not recognizing the thick, stark quality to his voice.

  Her wide gaze swept over him before drifting to Alyse in the bed. Color heightened her cheeks. “Oh!” She hurried forward in a rush of elegant skirts. “What’s amiss with her?”

  He followed her gaze to Alyse where she lay as still as death. “I don’t know. She sickened on our journey north . . . she’s feverish.”

  Poppy looked to her servant. “Have you sent for the physician?”

  “Mrs. Mackenzie,” he said in a strangled voice. “What—who—”

  “At once, Givens,” she said, her voice commanding for all its gentleness. “Make haste now. Can you not see our guest is ill? There’s no time for explanations. Do as you’re bade.”

  With a final frustrated glance at Marcus, the man hurried from the room.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, watching as she pressed the back of her hand to Alyse’s forehead.

  “Of course.” She tsked, glancing up at him over Alyse’s alarming inert form. “We’re family, after all.”

  The proclamation startled him for a moment. He certainly hadn’t embraced her or her husband as family.

  He stifled a wince, an odd tightness wrapping around his chest. He should be grateful that she had such an attitude, he supposed. Without his connection to Struan Mackenzie, he would not have access to this place or access to what would unquestionably be an excellent physician. Mackenzie would settle for no less.

  “What are you doing here?”

  This time the voice to arrive in their midst was decidedly unfriendly.

  Marcus straightened from where he hunkered over Alyse. “Mackenzie,” he greeted, eyeing the giant of a man eating up all the space in the threshold.

  “Autenberry,” he returned, stepping into the room, his steps thudding over the thick rug. The man stopped beside his wife and looked over Alyse where she slept in the bed. “Who is she?”

  “Alyse,” he returned. “Alyse Bell.”

  Mackenzie flicked him a cold stare. “One of your . . . intimates?” Marcus was immediately aware that he had to search for that word and would have likely said something far more ugly if not for the presence of his wife.

  “My housekeeper,” he snapped.

  “Housekeeper?” Poppy looked bewildered. “You’re traveling with your housekeeper?”

  “I’m taking her to my property in the north. She’s going to manage the house there.” Even to his own ears it sounded ridiculous. The only thing more ridiculous was the other version of events. That other truth.

  She was the wife he had bought at auction in the market square.

  “Housekeeper?” Mackenzie echoed with a curl of his lip, clearly in disbelief. He thought she was his bedmate. A consort. Marcus would greatly like to take a swing at his half brother, but he stopped himself. He needed the bastard. For Alyse’s sake, he had to play nice.

  “She’s ill. She needs help. I need your help.” He held Mackenzie’s gaze as he said the words—words he never thought he would utter to this man.

  Mackenzie said nothing, merely continued to glare at him.

  “Struan,” Poppy hissed, her gaze meaningful as she looked between him and her husband.

  Mackenzie finally nodded, relenting. “Very well. I’m not a heartless man. Of course, they can stay here until she is well. We will see to her care.” He turned to look down at his wife and his expression turned soft and besotted and Marcus felt like retching.

  A knock sounded on the partially open door. A maid peered in the room holding towels and what appeared to be fresh clothes in her arms. “Mrs. Mackenzie?” she queried. “You’ve need of me?”

  “Yes, yes, come in and help me with our guest.” Poppy gestured for them to go. “Out with you two. Struan, get him a drink. We will change her and tend her until the physician arrives.”

  Marcus nodded, but still he hesitated, reluctant to leave her side. He looked down at her. She was still so pale. Ashy. Lips tinged blue. Those fine arched eyebrows of hers looked even darker than usual against her pasty skin.

  “Come,” Mackenzie advised. “Poppy has spoken. There will be no changing her mind, believe you me.”

  He nodded but still did not yet move away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t get his feet to work. It was like he was rooted to the spot. “She’s very cold. Don’t have her out from the covers for very long.” He glanced to the fire. “That needs stoking.”

  “Marcus. We know what to do. Now go.” Poppy shook her head at him. Behind her the maid pulled down the covers from Alyse and started on her shoes, unlacing the ugly boots. The toes were almost worn through, he noticed. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? They were more than ugly. They were inadequate. Hardly ideal for this weather. He cursed himself, not liking himself very much right then for his thoughtlessness.

  “We have this under control, Marcus.” Poppy touched his sleeve, her tone softer, her eyes gentle as she scanned his face. “Now go. We will send for you.”

  Mackenzie was waiting at the door.

  Poppy made shooing gestures with her hands for him to go. “Go with Struan.”

  With a sigh, Marcus obeyed. Reluctantly. He strode out of the room backward.

  “Come now,” Mackenzie said as they stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll get you some whisky.” They walked in silence for a moment, their steps a scratching hush over the carpet. “Housekeeper, huh?” His voice was rife with amusement.

  Marcus bristled. “That’s correct.”

  “I never once looked at a housekeeper the way you’re looking at that lass in there.”

  “That so?” he asked tightly.

  “Aye. I’ve only ever looked at Poppy that way.”

  Marcus stopped in his tracks.

  The fair-haired giant lumbered away. Marcus glared after him, certain he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. His hands opened and shut at his sides, curling and uncurling. He’d only been in the company of Struan Mackenzie a handful of times. But every time did this to him. Made him so mad he could taste it like copper in his mouth. It didn’t make sense. He knew that. It was an irrational anger.

  “I’m not you,” he tossed out. Indeed not. They were nothing alike. Not even in appearance. Well, not too much alike in appearance.

  Mackenzie chuckled lightly. “That much is clear. You were the golden one, our father’s pride and joy . . . I was the dirty secret.”

  “Only not so secret,” he reminded.

  Mackenzie shrugged. “Well, not anymore.”

  True. Not anymore.

  Mackenzie had surfaced a little over a year ago, making himself known to the family and rattling Marcus. He had never imagined he had another sibling . . . much less an older brother. Struan should have been his father’s heir. Had he been born on the right side of the family blanket, he would have been.

  It was also a strange bit of irony that Mackenzie looked more like the late duke than Marcus did. Same fair coloring. Same eyes. Similar features. Stranger still that Marcus was the heir. The legitimate one. The one that counted among the ton. The one that had mattered to the old duke himself.

  Only a
twist of fate determined that Mackenzie was the by-blow. The bastard.

  Shaking his head, Marcus followed the man down the hall. None of it mattered now. His father was dead. He was the duke. Struan was not. And the two of them were strangers to each other, blood related or not.

  They entered a rich, mahogany paneled study. Mackenzie poured them a whisky.

  “So.” His half brother offered him a glass. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. “Who is the girl really? And don’t say housekeeper. I won’t believe it. You care about her and not like one cares for a housekeeper.”

  He opened his mouth to deny it, but then closed it with a snap. Mackenzie had already made his mind up about the two of them. Why protest?

  He couldn’t bring himself to deny Mackenzie’s allegation. The girl was sick. Clearly, he cared. He’d ridden Bucky hard to get her here. He cared, damn it.

  He glanced to the open door of the study. Alyse was several rooms down being well cared for. She was in Poppy’s hands, so he had no doubt of that. She would be well. She would recover and they would resume their journey.

  He lifted his glass to his lips and took a heavy sip, wondering how soon he could return to her chamber and check on her without looking foolishly anxious. Swallowing, he peered down into the amber liquid and was reminded of her topaz eyes. Hopefully they would open soon and he would once again see her usual fire there.

  With a muttered curse, he downed the remaining whisky and set his glass down with a clink. “I’m going to see how Alyse is doing. The physician should be here by now.” And if he wasn’t here Marcus would do something about it. Even if it meant going out and scouring the city himself. He would not fail her.

  “I wouldn’t. Poppy said she will send for you and I wouldn’t disobey my wife.”

  “Disobey?” He looked his giant of a half brother over coolly. “I’m not afraid of your wife.”

  “You should be. She’s tenacious and fearful when thwarted.”

  He lifted up from his chair. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable that I’m concerned for my employee. Poppy will understand.”