The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  If a week ago someone had told him that he’d be spending days in a coach with an actress and enjoying her company, he would have scoffed at the notion. Now, he basked in her presence.

  Grace. The name fit her. He loved the sound of it.

  He was also aware of why other men wanted her.

  He wanted her.

  All she had to do was give him a sly look from beneath her lashes as she contemplated which card to play next, and every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of his being went taut with desire.

  He kept at a distance. His lust embarrassed him, especially when she was offering him her trust.

  But what really kept him at bay was the realization that this woman had far more experience in bed than he had…because he’d had none. Most of the single men of his class and station had mistresses.

  Richard had never pursued that course. He worked. That was what he did. His betrothal to Abigail Montross had been arranged by his father and hers. One day they would marry, but he did not feel a hurry.

  There were times when he’d wondered if he wasn’t a bit like his uncle, a complacent bachelor. Richard hadn’t felt the need to pursue Abigail or any desire to bring about the nuptials.

  He was feeling desire now. In Miss MacEachin’s company, he was anything but complacent—

  “Why haven’t you married?”

  Her question startled him.

  “Why do you ask?” he parried. He didn’t want to mention Abigail Montross to her. He didn’t know why…but he had a suspicion, and it made him feel like any other man.

  She considered her cards a moment before saying in the most casual tone, “Gentlemen of your class are usually married by now. Or on their way to being married.”

  “Not all of us.”

  “Don’t you want to marry?”

  Richard decided to be very interested in his cards. “Of course.” Did she wonder about his attraction to women? She wouldn’t if she knew how tight his breeches were right now. “But I have been busy with the family businesses and travel and all.”

  “So there is no time for a wife?”

  “No time.”

  The lie flowed smoothly off his tongue—but any guilt he felt evaporated as Miss MacEachin gifted him with a smile so bright and sunny it robbed him of coherent thought.

  For a second, he could only stare, stunned by the sheer, precious beauty of her.

  “Gin,” she announced, triumphant, bringing him back to the moment. “Show me the cards left in your hand so I can tally the points.”

  “I can’t believe you beat me again.”

  “You aren’t paying attention,” she chastised him, spreading the cards he’d laid down on the seat so she wouldn’t miss a point.

  Perhaps she did know her impact on him.

  The thought made him cautious. “I think you’ve beaten me enough for one afternoon,” he said. Perhaps it would be best to put some distance between them. “I have some work to do.” He reached for his satchel. Work would cure him of focusing on her.

  She made a pretty pout. “One more game?”

  He should say no.

  “One more,” he heard himself answer.

  They spent the evening in an inn that was far more quiet than the one they’d been to the night before.

  Dinner was excellent and Richard couldn’t remember a meal he’d enjoyed more. Miss MacEachin surprised him by how well-read she was. Her experiences in life had given her a unique perspective on politics of the day and he found her comments not only interesting but also enlightening.

  Of course they disagreed on the Irish question and she favored an independent Scotland, something he thought was idiocy. But she listened to his side of the argument, which few people ever did. Well, which his father and uncle rarely did.

  However, what she was really doing was making him realize exactly how lonely he’d been in his life. How much he’d yearned for someone he could openly express his opinions and even his doubts to.

  They talked late into the night. It was only after the innkeeper almost fell out of his chair, having fallen asleep waiting for them to finish, that Richard became conscious of the hour.

  “Here,” he said standing. “We should let that man go to his bed.”

  “His wife will wonder where he is,” she agreed, rising.

  They left the dining room. Richard wanted to offer her his arm, but held back, uncertain.

  A woman like Grace MacEachin could do so much better than his luggish self.

  They came to her room door first. He expected her to run inside. Instead, she lingered.

  “I enjoyed this evening,” she said.

  “I did, too.”

  “It’s not often people listen to me about my views of the world.”

  “I found them interesting,” he said.

  She smiled and Richard had an urge to pick her up in his arms and kiss her.

  But he didn’t. He wasn’t that big of a fool—yet.

  “Well, good night,” he murmured, forcing his feet to move toward his door down the hall.

  “Yes, good night,” she echoed softly.

  He tried not to look back at her. He didn’t want to be that much of a puppy, but in the end, he couldn’t resist. He had to toss a quick glance her way as he reached his door.

  She was watching him. “Good night,” she said again and then opened her door and went in.

  Herbert was not waiting up for Richard. It was not lost on Richard that the valet had assumed he had spent the night before in Miss MacEachin’s bed and had assumed he would do it again this evening. There had been too many winks and smug looks from Herbert and Dawson for Richard to miss the assumption.

  His uncle would be pleased.

  Richard didn’t mind that the valet had gone on to bed. In fact, he enjoyed the solitude, so that he could replay in his mind everything she’d said over dinner.

  The part of him that was still rational knew that all too soon this trip would come to an end. He needed to let go of his fascination with her—and yet, when he did fall asleep, his dreams were of Grace MacEachin.

  They were both up early for the next day’s travels.

  Richard had spent a good deal of thought, while he was dressing, on a topic to share over breakfast, and was gratified when Miss MacEachin seemed pleased with the discussion.

  Dawson informed him they would be rolling into Scotland by late morning. At the pace they were traveling, they would reach Inverness in two more days’ time.

  The day was a good one for travel, with a breezy sky and dry roads.

  Richard and Miss MacEachin once again whiled away travel time over cards. He didn’t even think about his satchel. He could always peruse accounts sheets…but he wouldn’t have her much longer. Two days would pass as if a blink.

  He knew he was being foolish. Miss MacEachin could destroy his family with her accusations.

  But he liked her. A lot.

  And for once, he was going to put common sense on hold and enjoy the moment.

  They stopped at a roadside inn for a luncheon and ate outside. The air was still chilly but it didn’t diminish their enjoyment of the food…or of each other.

  Richard could remind himself that Miss MacEachin was an actress, but he didn’t think she was acting when she laughed at his small jokes or listened intently to his opinions. And there were times when he caught her gaze drifting toward him as if reassuring herself he was there. He didn’t believe that was acting either.

  He thought she just might like him, even admire him a little.

  Certainly he found her wonderful.

  After several more hours on the road, Dawson pulled the coach over beside a swiftly moving river. “I thought we’d take a break here, sir,” he told Richard as he opened the door.

  “Good,” Richard answered. “I’m in the mood for a stretch of the legs.”

  “I am, too,” Miss MacEachin agreed as he helped her climb out of the coach. She looked around. “What a lovely spot.”

 
“It is,” Richard said, noting the lush greenery. The air was filled with the sound of rushing water from the river that could be seen through the trees. The road was not wide here. He turned to Dawson. “We aren’t on the main road, are we?”

  The driver smiled. “No, this route is more direct. Thought I’d save us some time.”

  “Excellent,” Richard replied with little enthusiasm. He wanted all the time he could have with Miss MacEachin. He smiled at her.

  She smiled back, pulling her cape closer around her. “March is always such a fickle month. The sun can be shining but the wind is cold.”

  “I know this area well,” Dawson said. “If you need a moment of privacy, miss, there is a nice thicket down that path leading to the water that will protect you from the air.”

  “Thank you,” she said and started walking in that direction, picking her way around the trees.

  “Herbert, you go with her and keep watch,” Dawson ordered. He smiled at Richard. “In case some fishermen are wandering around here. They like fishing off the rocks.”

  “The rocks?” Richard took a step through the trees so he could have a better look at the river. Huge rocks formed rapids. “That water is too fast and too high for decent fishing,” he observed. “If someone fell in, he’d be hard-pressed to survive that current.”

  Dawson craned his neck as if taking his own measure of the water and said, “You are right, sir. It would be a danger to fall in. This is the River Tweed. Mountain streams feed into it all the way to the ocean. Right now the water is cold as snow. I have to watch the horses to be certain they don’t drink it too fast.”

  “Yes,” Richard murmured, but his attention wasn’t on Dawson. Miss MacEachin was no longer in sight. Nor was Herbert…and he didn’t feel comfortable about this place.

  Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite define what it was—except he sensed Miss MacEachin was in danger.

  It was an odd notion. He wasn’t a fanciful man, but the force of his suspicion was overwhelming.

  Richard started moving down the path she’d taken toward the river, throwing over his shoulder to Dawson, “I believe I’ll go check on Miss MacEachin.”

  Of course, if he found her, what would he say? That he had a strange feeling she might need his help?

  Sounded silly.

  “She’s all right, sir,” Dawson said, leaving the horses and coming down the path after him. “You know how ladies are. They take their time.”

  “I’m still going to check on her—”

  Dawson grabbed his arm and swung him, catching Richard off guard. “I can’t let you interfere, sir. It’s for your own good. My lord’s orders.”

  He pulled back his arm and threw his fist at Richard’s face.

  Chapter Ten

  The path beside the raging water was steeper and rockier than Grace could have imagined. Her kid slippers offered very little traction as she picked her way carefully, conscious that Herbert dogged her footsteps. He had served as a watch during different stops they’d made, but his presence had not been this invasive.

  The swirling rapids of the water seemed anything but peaceful and the air was cold and damp. Her hair curled tightly around her face. She wore her wool cape and the hem dragged the ground.

  She tripped over one of the rocks and grabbed the trunk of a small tree to regain her balance.

  “Are you all right, miss?” Herbert said, moving to stand even closer.

  “I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

  Herbert didn’t step back.

  “You can go back up the hill,” she said. “I’ll only need a moment.”

  “Yes, miss,” he replied dutifully, but when she took a step toward the sheltering thicket growing on the riverbank, he followed.

  An inner sense warned her that something wasn’t right. She stood no more than two feet away from the edge of the bank and could all too easily picture herself tumbling into the swollen river.

  The image was so graphic in her mind she took a step back and so was somewhat prepared when the valet gave her a sudden, violent push toward the angry water.

  Grace cried out in alarm and turned to run, but the valet caught her by arm and attempted to drag her toward the edge of the bank. However, she was no meek-and-mild miss. The blood of Highlanders pulsed through her veins. She’d spent the last five years of her life living by her wits and she wasn’t about to lose them now. Grace raised her knee and nailed him right between the legs.

  The valet doubled over, releasing her.

  She didn’t hesitate but pulled out the dirk strapped to her wrist. She’d bury it in the man’s heart.

  However, Herbert was prepared for the knife. As quickly as she had it in her fingers, he knocked it out of her hand. With a cry, she went scrambling for it but he grabbed her cape and started reeling her back toward him.

  Grace slid out of the cape and made a mad dash up the bank. Unfortunately, she was hampered by her long skirts and the smooth soles of her precious kid slippers. Herbert tackled her before she’d gone far, knocking the wind out of her. The rough grass, sticks, and rocks scratched her skin while the earth’s dampness seeped into her clothing.

  “Thought you’d escape, huh?” Herbert whispered in her ear. “Not from me. Not after that kick you gave me—”

  His voice broke off with a grunt of alarm as Mr. Lynsted grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off her.

  “Leave her be,” he ordered, shoving Herbert to the side. He then turned to her. “Are you all right?”

  But Herbert wasn’t giving up that easily. Before she could answer, he rushed Mr. Lynsted and threw all his weight on him. Both men fell to the ground and came up swinging.

  Mr. Lynsted had height and size but the valet was a scrappy fighter who didn’t play by a gentleman’s rules. He slammed his fist into Mr. Lynsted’s abdomen with enough force to knock the air out of him and followed it up with a blow to the chin.

  Two things went through Grace’s mind—the first was relief that Mr. Lynsted had come to her rescue. She did not want to think him a party to her murder.

  The second was that she’d best do something to help him.

  Spying a good, stout branch not far from her hand, Grace picked it up, rose to her feet, and held it high, looking for an opportune time to crack it over Herbert’s head.

  She thought she’d found a good moment and swung the branch hard at the valet. However, Mr. Lynsted had been quicker and moved in for a jab so that the branch whacked him in the shoulder instead.

  He grunted in pain and shot her a look that spoke volumes for what he thought of her help. It was at this time the valet slammed his fist in Mr. Lynsted’s his face.

  Grace didn’t stop to think; she reacted. As Mr. Lynsted’s head turned from the force of the blow, Herbert stepped aside, ready to deliver another punch. She threw the branch at Herbert, hitting him squarely in the chest.

  The branch threw Herbert off balance. He lost his footing, staggered back toward the river, and then, for one awful moment, looked right at her in surprise before tumbling headfirst into the water.

  Grace stared after him, shocked he’d fallen in. She heard Herbert thrashing in the madly rushing water, screaming for help, and then he was gone, carried away by the murderous rapids.

  Mr. Lynsted threw off his greatcoat and his jacket. He began tugging off his boots.

  “What are you doing?” Grace demanded.

  “Going after him. He’ll drown if I don’t.”

  “You’ll drown if you do.”

  “I have to try and save him” were Mr. Lynsted’s last words before he jumped into the water.

  Grace ran to the bank’s edge. She looked to where she’d last seen the coachman’s head. There was no sign of him—but now Mr. Lynsted was riding the racing current and Grace knew she had to do what she could to help him. She started running along the bank, crashing through bushes and stumbling over rocks to keep up with him.

  Her cloak caught on tree limbs and small shrubs. She untie
d it and left it on the ground. She swore at her silly kid slippers and promised never to travel in anything but sensible shoes again.

  Herbert’s body popped up again in the water, fortunately on her side of the bank. She shouted to Mr. Lynsted, catching his attention and pointing in the direction of where she saw the valet.

  Mr. Lynsted began swimming with the current. Grace found herself rooted in place, watching the drama unfolding before her. Herbert had come up against an outcropping of rocks that held him fast. Mr. Lynsted caught up with him. He grabbed the neck of the man’s coat and pulled him forward, only to have the current tear the body out of his arms.

  This time, Mr. Lynsted let him go and Grace knew the man was dead.

  For a moment it appeared the raging water would claim Mr. Lynsted, too, but he held fast to the rocks and Grace overcame her shock to run over and help him.

  She balanced herself on a huge rock and bent down, grabbing a handful of his shirt at the nape. “Come on, Mr. Lynsted. Help me. You are too brawny of a man for me to do it myself.”

  He started to climb up but fell back, almost pulling Grace in with him. This next time, she lay flat on her stomach and used both hands to help support him as he tried again to crawl out of the water.

  Her rescue was successful. He hefted himself upon the rock where she lay and fell beside her, breathing heavily.

  It took Grace a moment to have the strength to sit up. When she did, she was shocked to see how badly his face was battered.

  “Did Herbert do all that?”

  “No,” he said, the word little more than a groan. “Dawson and I had a round—Dawson.” He climbed to his feet and began running back in the direction they’d come. Grace took off after him the best she could in her frivolous kid slippers.

  Of course he was way ahead of her, charging through the brush and the trees, seemingly heedless of his wet clothes and his bare feet. He led her to the road and the coach—or where the coach should have been.

  Seeing the empty space, he threw his hands up, his fists clenched in frustration. “He ran.”