A Lord for the Lass

by Amalie Howard

  “Grandfather,” he said, seeing a hopeful light flare in the old man’s watery eyes. “This is the woman I will marry. Her name is Makenna Maclaren.”

  The only sound he made was a pained gasp, but more moisture leaked from the corners of his eyes. His fingers moved toward Makenna’s and she knelt beside his mother, taking his frail hand in hers. “A pleasure, Lord Riverley. I’m so proud to be marrying yer grandson.”

  His mouth opened and closed, his throat working, but the dying marquess forced the broken syllables from his throat with effort as his eyes met Julien’s. “For…give.”

  Julien thought of his mother’s words, of the release letting go of his hate would bring. “Yes, I forgive you.”

  Oddly, the words weren’t as hard as he’d thought they would be. A weight he hadn’t known was there lifted from his shoulders.

  They stayed with the marquess until the end.

  To no one’s surprise, his wily old grandfather had already directed his solicitor to finalize the paperwork naming Julien his heir. Julien had planned on refusing, of course, but now things had changed. They did not stay for the funeral, his mother understanding the urgency of their return to Duncraigh, and encouraged them to depart without delay. She would take care of everything at Bramble Park.

  She kissed Makenna’s cheek. “No matter what happens, you are the best thing that ever happened to my son.” Then she embraced him. “Courage, mon fils.”

  He and Makenna were married a day later in Gretna Green. Julien would have liked to have married in the chapel at Bramble Park, but English laws required a license and a calling of the banns, and they did not have the time to linger. As he took his marchioness’s trembling hand and walked from the chapel, Julien felt a tingle in his palm that climbed all the way up his arm to behind his ribs. A piece of the stone guarding his heart fell away.

  Makenna was his. Title or not, he would do whatever it took to make himself worthy of her. Marquess, man, lover, friend…whatever it took, he was hers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The forest was unnaturally quiet as they drew closer to the Brodie keep. Its ramparts and stone towers were visible at times as they rode, but they still had to make a last push through the trees before they came into one of the open fields. Makenna and Julien, along with several men who had been waiting for them at Duncraigh upon their return from Gretna Green, had been within Colin’s domain for the last handful of hours, and yet no guards had materialized out of the wood to capture them. The empty forest, and the easy passage through it, was unsettling. She didn’t trust it.

  Makenna had been strung tight with an overload of emotions as they had set out from Julien’s land, and the fast ride into Brodie lands had done nothing to alleviate them. Because of Julien, and what he had done for her, she now held a glimmer of hope that such a rescue could be accomplished.

  She was Julien’s wife. The Marchioness of Riverley. Colin could not touch her. But that did not mean he could be forced to release Tildy or Malcolm. They were both Brodie by blood, Malcolm more so than anyone, and if Colin found out, it would be next to impossible for Makenna and Julien to reclaim him.

  Still, they were going to try.

  Julien had accepted his grandfather’s title, taken her to wife, all to make certain that Colin’s attempts to manipulate her for her hand in marriage could not come to fruition, and to press him with the full force of Julien’s new power to allow Tildy and Malcolm to choose whether or not they wished to stay or go. They would choose Makenna, she was certain of it, and she only prayed that Colin and his men had not mistreated them in any way. She’d been allaying those fears with the common reasoning that Colin would not risk damaging that which he wanted to barter with. However, there were more ways to wound a person than the physical. Tildy must have been devastated over Douglas’s death; Malcolm had to be scared and confused.

  Makenna would not feel an ounce of happiness or relief until she saw them to safety. Even the barest trace of wonder over marrying Julien—of actually being his wife—felt selfish, and so she forced herself to think of it as a means to an end. Had Colin not plucked Tildy and Malcolm from Duncraigh for the intended use of ransom, Julien never would have proposed they wed. He never would have backed down from his staunch position against taking his grandfather’s title. He’d gone against every firm resolution for her.

  So much had changed within a handful of days, but she was under no illusions that he had wanted to marry her or accept the Riverley title. He’d only taken the most effective course of action to protect them. He’d assessed the situation, weighed the benefits and consequences, the potential risks and gains, and had moved forward. As he would have with any new investment or business proposition. Though it wasn’t as unfeeling as all that, Makenna knew. He did care for her somewhat. His obvious anguish over sending her away to France had turned him inside out, and their one night together, when he’d opened to her and so carefully, ardently opened her to him, had been genuine. Julien had made a difficult and selfless choice in accepting his grandfather’s title, and he’d done it for her.

  But once this was all over…once they were safely away from Colin and his ruthless men…what then?

  Certainly, being the new Marquess of Riverley would be advantageous for Julien in regards to his wealth and business holdings. Opportunities that might not have been available to him before would now stand wide open and welcoming. But would he regret it? Had he truly forgiven his grandfather, as he’d said to the old marquess as he lay dying, or had it been a lie? A marriage built on a foundation of duress and lies would be no marriage at all. She should know.

  Would he eschew the title…and her with it?

  Julien kept pace beside her as their band of men rode in absolute silence. Makenna couldn’t discuss any of her concerns with him now, nor had she been able to broach them earlier. Immediately after they’d wed at Gretna Green, they had boarded one of Julien’s ships in the port, a packet that he’d arranged to have meet them, and they’d started north for Duncraigh. It had taken less than a day to arrive in the harbor, the hours at sea a flurry of activity aboard the packet ship. And now here they were, about to face off with Colin.

  The men ahead and behind them were rough and reticent, and Julien had appeared to know one of them, a man named Gowan. He looked familiar, and Makenna thought perhaps he’d been one of the guests at Lord Cranston’s house party. She presumed they had all been sent by Maxim to help them, and as they emerged into the field that sloped down toward the ancient stone walls of the Brodie keep, she was grateful for their presence. The Riverley title bore an intimidating amount of weight, but should Colin prove intractable, an equally intimidating amount of muscle would be necessary.

  Julien held up a hand and slowed his mount. She felt it, too. The empty forest had been foreboding, and now, the field, cleared of any farmers as far as she could see along the rolling land, confirmed her suspicion.

  “They ken we’re here,” she said.

  Her husband—Lord, it was odd thinking of him in that way—nodded. “We were likely spotted long ago,” he said.

  The Brodie men had been instructed to let them pass, unaccosted. Of course. Colin had been expecting them for days now. Makenna wondered if he’d grown anxious, if he’d started to question whether or not she would come. Then again, Colin had never struck her as the anxious sort. He would have waited as long as it took for his prey to appear.

  “Won’t do us any good to split up now,” Gowan added. She agreed. It might have even done more harm. The only reason they had not been attacked was because Colin wanted Makenna delivered to him uninjured.

  “He’ll be at the keep,” Makenna said, and urged her horse forward. She was desperate to set eyes on Malcolm and Tildy, to see for herself if they had been mistreated, but she also knew any emotion like desperation would do her no good here. It would only weaken her, make her more susceptible to whatever tricks Colin planned to launch against them. As they closed in on the keep, she kept their
only advantage in the forefront of her mind. Their position. Her husband’s old and venerated title, his vast networks of power that led straight to the King of England.

  The courtyard came into view, and Makenna’s heart nearly guttered to a stop. Armed clansmen crowded the inner yard, and almost instantly, archers appeared on the ramparts. Every last man waiting for them held a sword, a pike, or a bow. Her sweeping assessment landed on Gregor, who stood just in front of the keep’s main doors. He grinned at her, the malice fairly dripping from the corners of his mouth. The man was an animal, and he’d been the one to capture Tildy and Malcolm…to kill Douglas. Makenna gripped her reins as she and Julien came to a stop, their horses side by side, so close her knee grazed his. Gowan and his men fanned out behind them, ostensibly to prevent their being surrounded on all sides, if it was at all possible.

  She forced her stare away from Gregor’s scarred face and kept searching for the man she had been dreading for months. Not that she’d let any of them know. She hitched her chin.

  “Where is Colin?” she asked, her voice ringing out loud and firm in the collective silence.

  “Is that any way fer ye to summon yer laird?” Gregor asked.

  She refused to look at him. “He is no’ my laird, and I shall summon him any way I please. Colin! Show yerself!”

  Movement near the entrance drew her attention. She sat taller as he exited the keep and sauntered into the courtyard. He held out his arms, as if in warm welcome, all while Makenna’s bravado trembled and threatened to collapse. But she felt the barest touch of Julien’s knee against hers, and it shored her up.

  “The murderess returns,” Colin drawled, his own malicious grin trumping Gregor’s. He radiated arrogance and self-importance, as he always had, but there was something else there now, too: unchecked power and confidence. The mantle he’d always coveted was finally his. He could do and say whatever he wished, and so long as the men surrounding him were either in support, or too afraid to challenge him, he would continue to succeed.

  “Where are they?” Makenna asked. “Tildy and Malcolm, I want to see them.”

  “Ye’re in nae position to make demands, wench,” Colin replied. “No’ when ye murdered yer husband as he slept.”

  “On the contrary,” Julien said, cutting off Makenna before she could deny that she had killed Graeme. It would have been a waste of time anyhow. These men would not believe her, and even if they did know Colin was the true murderer, there was no guarantee they would care. “She is in an excellent position to make demands. You should be aware that as we speak, a letter is being delivered to King George regarding the Brodies’s vicious behavior toward the new Marchioness of Riverley. If I were you, I would anticipate His Majesty’s intense displeasure.”

  Colin’s heavy black eyebrows slammed together, his lip curling as he took account of Julien. “Who in Hades is the damn Marchioness of Riverley?”

  “I am,” Makenna replied. Colin speared her with a daggering glare, and she felt the cold fury of it. “And if anything should happen to me or to my husband,” she carried on, indicating Julien with a nod of her head, “the king will learn of it.”

  “Liar,” Colin seethed, exposing the crooked set of his bottom teeth as he sneered at her, then at Julien. “Ye’re a Frenchman. A bloody frog. Ye’re no’ an English lord.”

  “I assure you, I am,” Julien replied. “French, yes, but with English roots, and those roots have granted me the power to destroy everything you think you possess up here in your little corner of Scotland. Now, answer my wife’s question: Where are Tildy and Malcolm?”

  The crowd surrounding them shifted, their weapons clanking hollowly. The men were becoming agitated, perhaps unnerved by the declaration of Makenna’s new connections to the powerful English king. Not Colin, however. She saw the madness brewing in his eyes as he glared at her, mute and calculating. The twin blooms of fury that had darkened his cheeks were now receding. He had always been quick on his feet, and clearly devious. Enough to betray his own cousin and laird. To seize control here so swiftly and thoroughly. She could almost hear the inner workings of his mind as he thought of a new way to entrap them.

  “Even if ye’ve already remarried,” he said calmly, despite the fire that still simmered just underneath the surface, “what will yer dear King George think when he hears the new Marchioness of Riverley stabbed her first husband in the heart? I have yer dirk with the laird’s blood on it. Ye were a Brodie when ye committed that sin, and we have the right to punish ye as we see fit.”

  Makenna felt Julien bristle beside her, opening his mouth, and she raised her hand to stall him. He only meant to defend her, but it was what Colin wanted—for Julien to get rattled, to lose control of the situation. It was already tenuous as it was. They were outnumbered, and the new laird was not perturbed in the least. Makenna glanced around. None of the men had moved, but it did not bode well for a nonviolent resolution.

  “Yer threats of the king’s wrath are pitiable,” Colin said, walking toward her horse in slow, determined steps. “Ye forget where ye are. The crimes ye’ve committed.”

  That gave her pause.

  “Crimes?” she echoed, feeling her mount shift with unease. Beside her, Julien’s did as well. “Ye’ve accused me of killing the laird, which we both ken is a lie. What are ye accusing me of now?”

  “Ye took the laird’s bastard son with ye. Stole him away,” he answered, his expression brightening as he leveled this new infraction against her. It turned her stomach, the obvious joy he was taking in making these claims.

  Malcolm. She wanted to see him. Longed to embrace him and tell him all would be well, even though, at the moment, she felt as if she were walking at the edge of a cliff.

  “Lady Arabel brought him to me,” Makenna replied. “I didnae take him.”

  Colin’s sickening impish grin only broadened. “Arabel. Now why would that faithless bitch run from the Brodie with Graeme’s boy, and after Graeme was gone, too? What in the world could she have been protecting him from?”

  The teasing lilt of his voice whipped at her. He knew.

  Devil take it, Colin knew Malcolm was not Graeme’s son.

  “From a bloodthirsty traitor,” she answered, her patience and control stretched thin as gossamer. No more games. No more manipulations or lies. “Admit it. Ye killed Graeme to take his seat as laird because ye were envious of him. Ye always were.”

  There was no rustle of movement or surprise throughout the courtyard. What did that mean? That the clansmen were aware of the truth, and did not mind? She’d wondered if there were some who knew, like Gregor, but…all of them?

  “Graeme took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.” Colin’s taunting tone was gone. “The lairdship is now mine, just as ye are mine. And like my dear cousin before me, I shall take what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Ye.”

  Julien edged his horse forward, causing a wave of alarm throughout the courtyard. Men raised their weapons, alert. Above, Makenna heard the strings of the bows going taut. Her own heart stuttered. She’d been a fool to bring him here. A pure amadan to believe Colin would fear the threat of retaliation ordered by the king, all the way in London. At the moment, it felt so far away it might have been on the other side of the world.

  “I am already married,” she said, her breathing shallower than before. “I will never belong to ye.”

  “Ye could be a widow again easily enough,” Colin said, taking a glance at one of the archers on the ramparts, then crossing a look with Gregor. Makenna didn’t dare move a muscle, but sudden fear leeched her of all warmth and reason. Stay focused, she demanded of herself.

  “Ye for yer precious maid and the lad,” Colin continued. “That is my offer, and ’tis a generous one.”

  It was as she’d thought: he would turn Tildy and Malcolm loose if she would first turn herself over to him. Married or not, he didn’t care. And what would he do to Julien if she gave in? Direct an archer to
put an arrow through his heart? Colin was insane, his mind so warped and irrational that he truly did not fear reprisal from England. He could very well refuse his end of the bargain, too, keeping Tildy and Malcolm if he so chose.

  “The boy and the maid are under my protection,” Julien said. “They were on my land when you had them forcibly removed. Your hired man murdered one of my workers.”

  “Yer worker was holding my clanspeople prisoner, as were ye,” Colin said, twisting his lies into a claim of defense, one that a small corner of Makenna’s mind accepted might actually succeed.

  “Then be a man instead of a coward,” Julien growled. “Take up your grievances with me instead of with women and children.”

  Colin’s maniacal laughter ricocheted off the stones of the keep. “Ye? Ye’re nothing to me. No’ ye or yer useless English title.”

  “Choose your words carefully, Colin Brodie,” Julien replied, his voice tight. Makenna would not turn her attention from Colin or the clansmen to look at her husband, but she imagined what she would see: Julien’s unrelenting stare, his mouth in a grim line, the utter lack of humor in any aspect of his countenance. He was no longer bargaining.

  “Ye think we fear the king? Let the bloody bastard send his soldiers. We’ll cut them to pieces,” Gregor said. Several men nodded and made sounds of agreement. “Ye’re in the Highlands now, Lord Frog.”

  “Will you do the same to the Maclarens when they come? And the Montgomerys? What about the half dozen other Highland clans who ally with them? You cannot withstand such an assault,” Julien said, Makenna’s heart cramping at the threat.