The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  “The world is not fair, Miss MacEachin,” he said with a grim smile. “But then, you already knew that.”

  “Yes, I did,” she admitted soberly. He was exactly right. “Now I am searching for my own fairness.”

  She hadn’t meant to sound so sad…and yet, the loneliness had escaped her.

  In the dark, she could feel his sharp, questioning glance. She’d have to guard her tongue. Mr. Lynsted had a barrister’s quick mind. He’d read something into everything she said if she wasn’t careful.

  And probably use it against her.

  “Here we are,” she said. “My building is only two doors down. I’ll meet you on this corner in the morning. You can hand over my valise.”

  “You don’t trust me to see you safely to your door?” he said with a hint of disapproval.

  She kept her voice light as she replied, “You warned me to be cautious.” She reached for the handle of her valise to take if from him, when two shadowy figures unfolded from the bushes and came at her.

  Chapter Four

  Richard didn’t think; he reacted. He’d dreamed of someday clearing a line of men with “his morleys” but had yet to test his mettle—and now, here he was.

  He stepped in front of Miss MacEachin, lifting an arm to block the nearest man’s attack. Clenching his fist, he punched the man in his soft, paunchy gut.

  With a grunt of pain, the man doubled over.

  Richard’s lawyer’s heart almost burst with pride—until the other attacker delivered a blow to his kidney.

  Fortunately, Richard was a big man and the hit a puny one. His attacker’s fist bounced off with little damage, but gave Richard the opportunity to pick the fellow up by his shirtneck and the hip of his breeches. He was a runt of a man with a foul mouth. Richard didn’t think twice about tossing him back into the bushes from whence he came.

  The first man regained his strength. He took a swing at Richard, who easily warded off the blow with his arm. However, before Richard could strike back, Miss MacEachin decided to enter the fray.

  Most women would have screamed and gone running off or at least had the sense to duck out of the way.

  Not the Scottish songbird.

  She jumped in front of Richard, brandishing her sharp little knife at their assailant as if she would carve out his heart. What she did do was ruin Richard’s clean shot at their attacker’s jaw.

  And, of course, the bloke used his longer arms to grab her at the elbow and swing her around as a shield against Richard.

  What the man didn’t anticipate was that she’d use the knife. She buried it in his thigh.

  “God’s balls in heaven,” the man roared and then screamed as Miss MacEachin pulled the knife out. “Here, take her. I’m not being paid that much to grab ’er.” He shoved her toward Richard with enough force she fell into his arms, her breasts against his chest.

  Richard was stunned by the contact of her soft roundness against his hard strength. Breasts. He’d never had them so close before—and that second of stupefied hesitation was enough to allow the man to go running off down the street into the night. His companion had recovered from his interview with the bushes and limped off in the opposite direction.

  Miss MacEachin shoved Richard away. “They are escaping.” She started after the one she’d stabbed but quit after a few steps. “He’s gone. Damn.”

  In Richard’s world, women didn’t swear. And he knew he was to blame for not capturing their attackers. In fact, it was a true blow to his pride that while he had acquitted himself well with his fists, Miss MacEachin and her little knife had sent the scoundrels running for their lives.

  She made an exasperated sound. “We should have caught them.” He heard the accusation in her voice. She meant he should have caught them.

  Righting the valise she’d dropped to the ground, she opened it and pawed through her tumble of clothing until she found a kerchief. She used it to clean the knife’s blade with little more concern than if she’d gutted a fish.

  “We had the better of them,” she grumbled. “Then again, perhaps you didn’t want me to catch them.”

  “What does that mean?” he demanded, reaching for his temper. Temper he liked; feeling she was right, he didn’t.

  She closed the bag and rose to her feet. “It means you didn’t try very hard to stop them.

  “What?” The word exploded out of him. He recovered. “Miss MacEachin, I defended you.”

  “Yes, but not as well as you might have,” she said, delivering the insult with blunt practicality. She picked up the bag and started walking. “Then again, if we follow the trail of blood from that one I stabbed in the thigh, we both know where he would lead us.”

  “And where would that be?” Richard demanded, falling into step beside her.

  “To your front door step,” Miss MacEachin informed him.

  Richard’s feet rooted to the ground. “What did you say?” he challenged, not certain he had heard her correctly.

  Miss MacEachin turned and coolly responded, “I said, the trail of blood would lead to your doorstep.”

  His blood boiled. “That’s an outrageous accusation.”

  She raised her brows, not offering apology.

  Richard stomped up to her. “First, I did defend you. You’re the one who let them escape by interfering. Second, my father and I would never be a party to such an attack. We have no reason to be—”

  “I believe you do. Your father and uncle do not want what I have to say to become public.”

  “You are infuriating,” Richard replied, stifling the urge to howl his outrage like the man she stabbed had. “How often do I need to repeat that my father and uncle would never involve themselves in such a scheme? And let me point out, I am so certain of it, I am traveling with you to the ends of the earth to interview your father. I shall be gratified to hear your apology.”

  She snorted her opinion in the most unladylike way. “There will be no apology—”

  “And third,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you have so many enemies it could be any number of men who had attacked you. Those men could have been hired by that stage manager I had to pull off you earlier—” He paused. “Hmmmm, I don’t believe I was ineffective then, was I? Or perhaps those two lads who came after you were working for one of those who have placed wagers all over town on who will bed you?”

  She drew short breaths, one after the other, and he knew his barb had hit home.

  “Oh, wait,” he had to add, “you never have any difficulties walking home. I forgot. My apologies. You’ve become the most infamous courtesan in London, but you walk the streets without concerns.”

  “I never had a concern until tonight,” she answered, as if accusing him.

  Richard shrugged. “Considering your reputation, I’m surprised there aren’t brigades of men hiding in your bushes.”

  She stormed up to him, raising her hand as if to slap him for his effrontery, but then seemed to realize she was too petite to do much damage. Instead, she glared up at him with a look that would have done the meanest governess proud.

  Fortunately, Richard was past the age of being cowed by stern-eyed women.

  And he was rather proud of himself for giving her tit for tat. How dare she accuse his father of planning an attack on her—

  She kicked him in the shin.

  The action startled him more than caused pain. “Hey,” he said, offended.

  “I am not a whore. Not a courtesan. Not whatever names you men dream up to label women like spice jars in a cabinet. Do you hear me?” she ordered. “I don’t sleep with men. I’m my own person. I’m independent and ask nothing”—she spit the word out—“from any of you. So don’t you ever make an accusation like that toward me again or I’ll carve your heart out—no, wait. You don’t have a heart. You are a Lynsted. Holburn is the only good one of your ilk. But speak like that to me again and I’ll take my dirk and carve something, and let me assure you, Mr. Lynsted, you will not like it.”

/>   Her threats didn’t bother him.

  Letting him know she found him lacking when compared to his cousin the Duke of Holburn? That comment hit him square in the face.

  Not that he shouldn’t be accustomed to it. He’d spent a lifetime being compared to his cousin. Holburn was everything Richard wasn’t. He was handsome, a normal size, always comfortable in social settings, intelligent, included in every event…popular.

  Whereas, Richard was a great clumsy oaf who really did feel more comfortable with his ledger sheets than at a garden party or in a ballroom. He normally didn’t speak his mind as freely as he had this past hour with anyone let alone with a woman. He was too reserved…and his father’s son.

  People didn’t like his branch of the family. Richard wasn’t certain why, but he’d always sensed others’ disapproval. He’d assumed it was because of his father and uncle’s strict sense of what was right and wrong—beliefs he shared…but what if there was something else behind it?

  Immediately, he rejected the idea. Miss MacEachin’s ridiculous accusations had put the suggestion into his head. His father and uncle would not hire brigands.

  Well, his father wouldn’t.

  Richard wasn’t really too certain about his uncle. Through his business dealings with the man, he’d seen him take a short cut or two of the sort that caused concern.

  Miss MacEachin had turned and was walking away from him, her back ramrod straight.

  He followed with grim determination. Something was afoot. Perhaps the stage manager had sent two brutes after her to exact revenge. Perhaps he was right and they’d been after what most men wanted from her.

  Or…and he considered this gingerly, reminded of how panic-stricken his father had been this afternoon when he’d told Richard of her accusations…perhaps there was something to her story. Something his uncle had done that could destroy them all if it was revealed.

  She marched to the door of a modest row house. Richard stopped on the walk and then came to his senses as he heard the key click in the lock in the door. “Wait, let me go in first.”

  “Why?” she asked, distrust coloring the word.

  “Because if someone is waiting to attack you inside, I don’t want you to accuse me of orchestrating it by watching you enter alone,” he responded, gently pushing her aside and opening the door.

  Richard opened the door to a pitch-black hallway. “Where do I go first?” he asked.

  “Here, let me help,” she murmured and, before he could protest, ducked under his arm, a black shadow carrying the honeysuckle and rose scent of her perfume.

  There was the sound of glass against glass, a scrape, the flash of a match, and then the soft, warm glow of a lamp in a side room. She came out into the hall carrying a candle she must have lit off the lamp. “So, where shall you search first? The bedroom, to see who is hiding under my bed?”

  Her sarcasm was like a nail to the back of his head. “I’m sorry for wanting to keep you alive,” he shot back, mimicking her tone. He picked up her valise and carried it into the house. Setting it on the floor, he asked, “Do you have just this floor or is there an upstairs?”

  “Another renter is on the floor above,” she said. “Mrs. Nally and her cats. I have no fears from her.” She laughed and said, “She has nine of them.”

  “Nine what?” Richard asked, distracted by her leading him into a sitting room where the lamp was burning.

  “Cats,” she explained, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he searched behind the settee and checked for strangers standing in the draperies.

  The dressing room in the theater may have been a mess but Miss MacEachin’s home was immaculate and rather charming. She clearly didn’t own much and he suspected most of the furniture came with the lodgings. Clearly, she wasn’t a frilly sort and seemed to admire clean, modern lines…much as he did.

  “Next room.” He kept his voice businesslike. He didn’t want her to gain the idea he was enjoying himself. She’d kick his other shin.

  She led him into a small dining room followed by a tour of her kitchen.

  “Do you have anyone living with you?” he asked.

  “Other than Mrs. Nally upstairs? No.”

  “You should have at least a maid,” he responded. “A wise woman doesn’t live alone in London.”

  “I said I was independent,” she reiterated.

  “Sometimes too much independence is dangerous,” he murmured.

  “So you keep telling me.” She sounded bored.

  The next room was the bedroom.

  Richard’s pulse kicked up a beat. Here, the scent of her, a soft rose with that evocative undertone of spice, was very strong. And it didn’t help that the room was dominated by the bed.

  The coverlet was a blue and green stripe on top, at the head of the bed, were mounds and mounds of white, lacy pillows.

  A person could sleep all day in comfort in a bed like that, or do “other” things.

  Immediately his mind leaped to those “other” things.

  He tried to close them out, but they were there, vivid, strong, hungry.

  Richard prided himself on his control. Where other men turned into beasts, he continued to do what was right, to be a gentleman, to maintain wholesomeness.

  Of course, that was before he’d felt her breasts against his chest. There was a beast inside him, and it was tired of being repressed, especially around a woman as vibrantly alive as Grace MacEachin.

  He turned and walked out of the room.

  She followed. “Mr. Lynsted, are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “But you didn’t check behind the doors or search the drapes as you did in the other rooms.”

  “What? So you could laugh at me some more?” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked through the sitting room and into the hall. At the door, he stopped. Not looking at her, he stated, “The place appears safe, but you should have a maid or companion here with you at all times—and if you tell me you have that bloody little knife to protect you, I shall break it in half.”

  “You are angry.” She paused, considering him. “What did I do?”

  “What have you not done?” he ground out. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He escaped into the damp, cold night air. It felt good against his skin and cleared the smell of her from his senses.

  But what it didn’t do was relieve the heft of his arousal pressing against his breeches. He’d just barely made it out of her rooms without her noticing. She’d have had a heyday if she had. There would have been no end to her merriment.

  And he was going to travel to Scotland with her.

  Richard focused on Abigail Montross, his betrothed for the past four years. She’d never once inspired this heady sense of lust Miss MacEachin seemed to conjure at will inside him.

  He knew he shouldn’t look back, but he did. He couldn’t help himself.

  Miss MacEachin stood in the doorway still holding her candle.

  The woman didn’t have the sense God gave a wren. “Go inside.”

  Her head came up, tilting in that defiant angle he was coming to know very well. She did as ordered. He could hear the slam of the door from where he stood.

  At last, Richard could draw a deep breath.

  The stretch of the legs proved to be a good way to tame his lust. As he walked, he stacked all the reasons he didn’t like Miss MacEachin in his mind. They might be cooped up in a coach for a few days, but he would stay away from her. He could easily. He was a man with high moral standards. The phrase would become his watchword. Miss MacEachin was a temptation, but he’d met temptation before and chose high…moral…standards—

  Except, she really did have luscious breasts.

  The moment the thought entered his head, Richard understood why some penitents scourged sin by whipping themselves. He wasn’t in need of going that far. He just had to stop thinking about her breasts.

  Or that inviting bed with its mounds of pillows.

  “Highmoralstandards, highmoralstandard
s, highmoralstandards,” he repeated until the tension eased, but the sense of excitement didn’t, and he realized it wouldn’t. Nor was it centered on Miss MacEachin.

  He was leaving for an adventure.

  Richard rarely traveled anywhere save for business. However, he was on his way to Scotland to clear his family name. That alone grounded him.

  He could face Miss MacEachin’s breasts and her bed because he was finally doing something to prove his worth to his father. At last, his father would see that Richard loved him. His father may be close to his twin, but certainly there was room for Richard there, too?

  He would soon find out. As he came to the stoop of his father’s house, he was surprised to see all the windows lit.

  Marcus, the butler, opened the door. “Good evening, Master Richard.”

  If Marcus wondered as to why Richard, who rarely went out anywhere late at night, was returning home at this hour, he was too well trained to say so.

  Letting a footman help him out of his greatcoat, Richard said to Marcus, “My father is still awake?”

  “He’s in the library with Lord Maven.” Lord Maven was his uncle Stephen.

  “Thank you,” Richard said and walked down the black-and-white marble-tiled floor to the closed library door.

  Richard knocked.

  “Yes!” his father barked. “What is it, Marcus?”

  “It’s Richard, Father.” So anxious was he to convey the events of this evening and his plans to travel to Scotland, he opened the door without waiting for an order to do so.

  His father sat behind the huge mahogany desk that was his pride and joy. His uncle stood spinning a globe beside the hearth. The room smelled of leather, the smoke from the fire, and his father’s sandalwood soap. There was no other light save for the firelight. The decanter in front of his father was almost empty. His father gripped a glass in his hand.

  The twins both had dark hair and the elegant Holburn features. Richard favored his mother’s family. His mother had been an heiress of ungainly height known more for her dowry than her looks. He thought her comely, although few others did.