The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Who? Dawson?” Grace managed to say as she tried to catch her breath.

  Mr. Lynsted whirled on her, his face a mask of fury. “We had it out here. He tried to keep me from going to you. I knew something was wrong and he wanted to stop me. I knocked him out and left him on the ground while I went to check on you. He must have regained consciousness and took off with the coach. He has everything. Our clothes. My money. God! I’m so stupid.”

  Only then did everything that had just happened to her sink in. “They were going to kill me.”

  He gave a bitter laugh of agreement, folding his arms against his chest as if just starting to realize how cold he was. His breath came out in gulps. “And they almost succeeded.”

  “Your father and uncle tried to kill me,” Grace repeated. “Just like they tried to have me killed in London.”

  “You don’t know they were behind the attack in London,” he argued, emphasizing his point by jabbing a finger in the air at her.

  “I do. They were.”

  “My father is not a part of this. But my uncle—”

  He broke off and started pacing as if the energy of his thoughts would not let him be still.

  “Herbert was your father’s valet,” she pointed out coldly. He had to see the truth. He must.

  “My father would not plot a murder,” he ground out, clenching his teeth as if trying not to let them chatter.

  Grace lost her temper. How could he be so blind? “Everyone knows the twins are close, that they finish each other’s sentences, are rarely physically more than ten minutes apart from each other. If one has an itch the other scratches it.”

  “How do you know?” He was shaking hard now, his lips blue and his complexion pale.

  “Because it’s what everyone knows—except you,” Grace repeated, determined to make him see the truth. “They almost married the same woman and some say they share her.”

  The last wasn’t the wisest thing to say. It was a description someone had once given her to describe the twins, and Mr. Lynsted seized it.

  “Now that is ridiculous. You are listening to rumor and innuendo from people who are jealous of my father and uncle’s success. My mother is a good, honorable woman. And my father is an honorable man.” There was an edge to his voice. She’d hit a raw nerve. Not all was as he wanted to believe.

  She understood. She’d spent a lifetime of pretending. “Then what of your uncle?” she asked.

  “Leave it,” he ordered. “Shut up about him.”

  “I wish I could, but the man has attempted to kill me twice.”

  “Only once,” Mr. Lynsted argued. His teeth were rattling in his head now with the force of his shaking. He turned away from her as if to shut her out.

  Grace stared at his back and decided she’d never met a more stubborn man. His refusal to see what was clear to her made her angry. However, instead of arguing, she went stomping back through the woods to where his coat and boots were. She didn’t find socks and remembered he’d jumped into the river with them on.

  Her cape was still where Herbert had tossed it aside. She had no idea where her cap was but did find her dirk. She slipped the knife back into the sheath still strapped to her wrist, the leather wet from its soaking in the river.

  Both her cape and his coats were damp from being on the ground. They’d just have to do. They were the only protection they had. The sun would set in another hour or so. The temperature would drop further.

  She heard a twig snap behind her. She jumped, fumbling for her dirk.

  “Me,” Mr. Lynsted said. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if struggling for control of his frozen body. “Dawson…could…come…back. No…wait.”

  He was right. She threw his greatcoat around his shoulders. He huddled underneath it.

  “Can you put on your boots?” she asked.

  He shook his head. She bent down and helped him put them on. His flesh was blue and his joints stiff. “Come, let’s find some help,” she told him.

  Cold air and wet clothes could kill. Every Highlander knew that. She watched him carefully as they walked a quarter mile or so along the river. Mr. Lynsted was a strong man but his strength couldn’t protect him against bone-chilling cold.

  Nor did she see sign of another human. No smoke from a chimney or light from a lamp. They needed to make other plans. Even the walking hadn’t helped to warm Mr. Lynsted.

  She looked around and spied a level place in the woods up from the bank with a good wall of thick bushes, their branches winter bare, surrounding it on three sides. “We’ll build a camp here.”

  He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was shaking too hard.

  Grace led him up the incline. “Stay here. I’ll gather wood.” She directed him to the haven provided by the bushes.

  Mr. Lynsted nodded and then sank into a shivering ball on the ground. Her years living from hand to mouth had taught her how to use wet wood and make a fire. Grace found enough kindling and a few good-sized branches. She gathered as much as she could. It would be a long night.

  She returned to their campsite. Mr. Lynsted didn’t look any better but he wanted to talk.

  “He wanted us alone,” he said.

  “Dawson?”

  Mr. Lynsted nodded. “A m-more d-direct route.” His tired voice was laced with bitterness.

  “It’s easy to catch someone off guard when they trust you,” Grace answered, laying out her fire. “Don’t think this is your fault.”

  “My u-uncle d-did this.”

  She chose not to argue. He’d learn the truth soon enough and she needed him to use his energy to save his life.

  “Known him all my l-life,” Mr. Lynsted chattered.

  “Herbert? The valet? Yes, well you know some rotten people,” she conceded, giving in to her own bad humor. She threw her cape over the top of the shrubs to create a three sided tent of sorts. She put on his jacket to keep herself warm.

  Starting the fire was frustrating. Her fingers were cold and didn’t want to cooperate. She used a piece of sharp rock, the blade of her dirk, and a piece of her petticoat. It was almost dark by the time she managed a spark. The flame grew and she felt hope.

  She threw wood on the fire and sat back.

  Mr. Lynsted crawled up beside her, holding his hands out.

  “Dawson all. M-money, c-clothes, everything.”

  “I’ve been without money before,” she said. “We’ll survive.”

  His jaw tightened with anger. “G-go to Inverness. We will. Beforeuncleknowsdead.”

  She didn’t like the way he slurred his words together and his chin rested on his chest as if his head was too heavy to hold up. Both were not good signs. She needed to keep him talking while she frantically tried to think what to do. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Two…four.” He swallowed. He hadn’t the strength to say the word “days,” and Grace knew she couldn’t let him continue this way. He gave his head a sharp shake as if trying to clear his mind. “Dawson hasn’t c-come b-back with the coach?”

  “No. I haven’t heard a sound.”

  “H-he’s gone to my uncle. M-my uncle’s m-man.” He made a disgusted sound.

  At least he hadn’t grown disoriented—yet.

  Grace reached over and put her arms around him. He was shivering again. Her fire wouldn’t be enough to warm him up, and she was growing cold herself.

  “B-bloody f-fool,” he said.

  “No, you aren’t,” Grace said. “You are the strongest, most couragest, noblest man I know. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” She hugged him for encouragement before saying, “Now, take off your clothes, and don’t argue with me.”

  Richard was absolutely certain the cold had gone to his ears and he wasn’t hearing clearly.

  Miss MacEachin knelt in front of him. “Do you understand me?” she said in her wonderful, lilting accent. “It’s growing colder. Wet clothes kill. You must take them off.”

  “No.”

  �
��Please.”

  There was urgency in her voice, and he knew she was right. Or perhaps he was just too tired to care. His limbs had turned to lead. The simplest move called for great concentration.

  She was already undressing him.

  He let her. He couldn’t help. He felt a babe, unable to perform the simplest task for himself—and deep in the recesses of his mind, he knew she was right. He was in trouble.

  “Lie back,” she whispered.

  Richard collapsed onto his back. He was conscious of her unbuttoning his breeches but he felt no reaction, and that was more of a concern than his ceaseless shivering or how dull his mind had become.

  Miss MacEachin threw his greatcoat over him. He huddled naked beneath it, turned toward the fire and anxious for any warmth it might offer. She threw a log on the flames.

  “I need to go for more wood,” she whispered, or at least, he thought she was whispering. Her voice sounded as if it came from a great distance.

  He nodded.

  “Try and stay awake.”

  Richard heard the plea in her voice. He’d try, but he was very tired.

  He closed his eyes. He hoped she understood. He had no choice. His lids wouldn’t stay open.

  If only he could shake off this terrible cold. Then he’d stay awake. He’d do anything for her—

  Another body snuggled up to his, pulling the coat so it covered both of them. Miss MacEachin. She was stretched out beside him, her legs along his. Her hips nestled his buttocks while her arms wrapped themselves around him.

  It took several minutes before he realized, she was as naked as himself. Her bare flesh was against his.

  Richard couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

  “This will help,” she murmured. “We’ll beat this. Together.”

  Slowly, Richard released his breath. The violent shivering ebbed but he felt colder than ever. She held him tighter. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine, but his lips couldn’t form words.

  For long moments she spoke to him, repeated, “It will be fine. All will be well.”

  And then he felt her hand on the most private part of his anatomy.

  She cupped him, held him. “This will help,” she whispered. She kissed his shoulder, his back, his arm.

  Richard stared at the fire as her skilled hand brought him amazingly to life. He rolled over to face her, stunned, his confused mind not comprehending.

  She looked down at him, so lovely in the firelight it almost hurt his eyes to look at her.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered.

  Her hair curled around her bare shoulders. His gaze fixed on her naked breasts. They were as he’d imagined, full and round, but the nipples were rosebud pink and tight from the cold.

  He grew harder. Her hand tightened on the length and shape. The movement felt good…alive.

  She rose above him, his black greatcoat around her shoulders. The firelight highlighted the curve of her waist. He caught a glimpse of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs. He raised his gaze to her breasts. Her beautiful breasts—

  Miss MacEachin lowered herself upon his arousal, the intensity of her body heat overwhelming him.

  He felt his release. It seemed to flow from every vein, every pore of his body, and filled hers. It shocked him with its intensity, its power.

  So this was what drove men to madness.

  At last he understood.

  His heart pounded in his chest, pushing the blood through his veins and bringing him back to life.

  Miss MacEachin leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. He closed his eyes, still assessing what had just happened. He could feel her watching him, knew her concern.

  And then he felt himself harden again.

  He was still inside her. He stretched, grew powerful, filled her.

  Richard’s hands went to her waist, holding her as he began thrusting himself up inside her. She leaned back. She knew what he needed far better than he knew himself.

  This time, his release wasn’t immediate. The heat between them grew more intense. Richard was driven to push himself further. He could hear his labored breathing. He opened his eyes, saw her above him, riding him. Her eyes were closed now and he didn’t think there was a more beautiful sight than she, naked and moving to his rhythm.

  He said her name. Grace. What a beautiful name! He repeated it, over and over until words were lost to him. The release began building in him. Hot, furious, demanding.

  And now, poor wretched man that he was, he had no choice but to hold her fast and complete what his Maker had designed him to do.

  Her muscles tightened, holding him—and he was lost. Blissfully, completely, utterly lost.

  He held her waist as he emptied himself into her. The force of life flowed between them—and Richard felt alive.

  She’d done it. She’d saved him. He collapsed to earth.

  Grace’s body fell onto him. He brought his arms around her, cradling her close. Her head rested on his shoulder.

  He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Part of him was too humbled for speech; another part overwhelmed.

  She’d changed him. Made him a man. God help them both.

  Richard drew her with him as he rolled on his side toward the fire. He shut his eyes and within minutes his battered body fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Grace lay very still, her heart pounding against her chest.

  Dear God, what had she done?

  She had no doubt she’d saved his life. His shaking had stopped and the color had returned to his skin.

  But at what cost?

  And she realized she was afraid of what he would think on the morrow. Men were funny creatures. She’d started to like Mr. Lynsted. Richard. Even his given name felt good to her.

  She’d wanted to believe he admired her, too.

  They’d started off enemies, but he’d earned her respect. Now, she didn’t know what would happen.

  He cradled her body with his own. His right hand rested between her breasts.

  Mr. Lynsted was a well-formed man. Grace could count on one hand the men she’d been with…but she’d reached a point where there was no mystery, no power to the act of joining. It had become perfunctory, a matter of survival. She didn’t desire men, they desired her.

  However, tonight, the tables had been turned. She’d felt the quickening in her loins, experienced the sharp, fine edge of desire and been lost to the sensual satisfaction of release.

  He’d taken her there, this giant, courageous man…whom she sensed had been celibate before this night. A moral man who’d unwittingly revealed the purpose to God’s design to a jaded woman as herself, and she felt shame.

  Certainly he would think the worst of her.

  That’s the way men were. Once they lost respect for a woman, they became demanding, uncaring, or a host of tiny insults that cut at the heart.

  And what did all this say about her? Was there something between her and Richard…something her actions this evening may have just destroyed?

  Or had she, at last, gone completely wanton?

  He stirred. Without waking, he grew hard again. His arousal pressed against her back.

  Grace lay still, uncertain. He shifted. She felt him searching. She turned to him. He entered her swiftly, filled her, began moving inside her, and God help her, she was lost to the current of sweet, pure sensation.

  Tomorrow she’d worry. Tomorrow, she’d protect herself from hurt…and from being destroyed the way only a man who’d slipped past her defenses could.

  Chapter Eleven

  Richard woke to the smell of cooking meat. He opened his eyes to see Grace holding a spit of meat over the fire. She was completely dressed, even wearing her wool cape, her hair curly, loose, and wild around her shoulders, the way he liked it best.

  Vivid memories came rushing back to him. They weren’t dreams. He was naked beneath his greatcoat. His body felt well used, content, alive. She’d saved his life. Her method had been unusual but very effectiv
e.

  Grace noticed he was awake. Her gaze didn’t quite meet his as she said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he answered, his voice rough with sleep.

  “I assume you are hungry?” she said. She looked clean and fresh, while parts of him smelled of sex.

  “Starving.”

  “Then, you’d best dress. Breakfast will be ready any moment. I folded your clothes and put them beside you.”

  A vision of her sitting astride him rose in his mind. “Thank you,” he said, sitting up and pulling his greatcoat around him. He was no longer self-conscious about his nakedness. In fact, he wished she was still naked. His body immediately eagerly approved the idea.

  On second thought, he was self-conscious. He wasn’t about to parade himself around aroused, especially since she had yet to make eye contact.

  He rose to his feet, turning his back to slip his hands through the arms of his great coat. He gathered his folded clothes and picked up his boots. “I’ll be back.”

  Grace didn’t respond.

  Richard made his way down to the river. With each step, he reminded himself he was a dunderhead.

  He’d had sex. He, Richard Lynsted. And not just any sex. He’d had sex with the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, and instead of being at ease, intelligent, sophisticated about it, he spoke in simple sentences. He didn’t even know what a man should say to a woman after she’d turned his life inside out.

  Thank you?

  Please, may I have more? More, more, more.

  A splash of cold water in the face brought him to his senses.

  Richard scrubbed himself clean while frantically working up the courage to climb back up the bank and face her. He imagined it would be easier with clothes on but once he’d dressed, he still felt awkward and shy. His confusion was compounded by the understanding that Grace let him have a “poke,” as his uncle would say, not out of attraction but out of mercy.

  He’d had a mercy poke.

  God, the thought was humbling…and yet, they’d had sex several times. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her.

  Heat rose to his face. No wonder she wasn’t communicative with him. He’d been a randy fool.