The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  Grace followed obediently. She focused on the shadow of his broad shoulders and back and realized that she’d fallen in love. That’s really why she would have done anything to save him. Anything.

  He’d come into her life and taken it over. Here, she’d thought she’d known her own mind, had become the woman she’d wanted to be, was complete and independent…and he’d shown her how empty she’d been.

  Richard Lynsted was making her believe in love again.

  The notion was frightening. She’d learned through Harry that she let down her guard when she was in love. That’s the way he’d reached her. She’d dreamed of babies and a noble man and everything turning out for the best.

  Life had taught her those happinesses didn’t exist…but then along came Richard, and Grace didn’t know if she had the courage to believe again.

  She should keep her distance. He’d already told her she wasn’t the sort of woman a man married. He’d been brutally honest. He’d never give her a marriage ring.

  Besides, what right did she have to covet one? She knew what the stakes were for the choices she had made. At that time, she hadn’t cared. She’d relished being defiant. All that had changed. Richard had robbed her of that defiance.

  Grace had to protect both her heart and her pride. They were all she had that was completely hers.

  She just wished he hadn’t already won her heart.

  Richard had almost kissed her. He wished he had—and kissed her with the wild, untamed need roiling inside him.

  Then she could be angrier with him than she was now, but at least Richard would know why she’d withdrawn.

  He sensed the tension in Grace. She was as distant as when they’d first met.

  God help with the mercurial moods of this woman. One moment she was as defenseless as a lamb and in the next she turned into some female warrior who wore her pride as her armor.

  Of course he understood pride.

  Any other man of his acquaintance, including his cousin Holburn, would have taken another kiss back there. But he hadn’t.

  He was more of a coward than he’d imagined.

  And so they walked on.

  Around dawn they reached a level stretch of road winding through woods. Richard noticed she was limping. He frowned at the kid leather slippers she wore. They were excellent for the dance floor or to set off a fashionable dress, but they weren’t good sturdy shoes for trudging over the Scottish landscape.

  What puzzled him was that she’d not said a thing. He’d carried on about socks and Grace was stoically walking her feet into nubs.

  “Sit down,” he ordered. “Let me see your feet.”

  “They are fine,” she said, the flash of defiance in her blue eyes warning him to keep his distance. Dear God, he’d felt the heat of those eyes for the last three hours. They’d been boring holes in his back.

  He sensed there was something she expected him to understand, and he didn’t, but he’d had enough. He was bloody tired and hungry. She had to be feeling the same, but her Scottish stubbornness wouldn’t let her admit it.

  Without another word, he took advantage of his superior size and swung her up in his arms. He deposited her unceremoniously on her bum upon an outcrop of rock. Before she could kick and carry on, he slipped her shoe off and swore softly under his breath.

  “The soles are almost worn through. You are practically walking barefoot. And your feet are bleeding.” He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She’d rubbed her feet raw. He knew how he felt with a blister, and this was much worse.

  She snatched the shoe out of his hand. “I’m not complaining.”

  “No, complaining would imply common sense. It is far more in your character to keep walking until your feet are nothing but stubs.”

  “No more talk about my character,” she warned, pointing her shoe at him—and yet, he noticed she didn’t put it on immediately.

  He knelt in front of her. “You have great character. You have wonderful character. I thought we’d settled that. I need a strip of your petticoat.”

  “Why?”

  Richard didn’t bother to explain himself but lifted the hem of her skirt and started tearing the thin white cotton.

  She leaned over to stop him but the material ripped easily and he had the amount he needed for one foot at least. Without asking for permission, which she would not grant anyway, he picked up her shoeless foot and began wrapping it.

  He tried to be careful and not hurt her. Her stocking was torn and bloodied. He couldn’t imagine the pain she’d suffered without a whimper, and all while he’d complained about his blisters.

  And the whole time he was bandaging her, she looked daggers at him.

  Finished with the one foot, he said, “I need another yard of petticoat.”

  “Are you asking this time?”

  Prickly Grace. He smiled in spite of his tiredness. “I can take again, but this time it will be higher up. I thought it only polite to say something before I rooted under your skirts.”

  He’d thrown the words out without considering their import. The heat of a blush rose becomingly to her cheeks and made him realize what he’d said. However, instead of being the old Richard and hiding behind formality, he tilted back his head and roared in laughter.

  Grace stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses, and that made him laugh all the harder.

  Laughter. He’d rarely indulged in it. There had been no laughter in his home or school. No laughter in business and little pleasure either.

  But here he was, penniless, out of the wilds of Scotland after almost being hanged, having battled his way through old nemeses and traitorous servants, and he felt more alive than he ever had before in his life.

  He was not only enjoying himself, he was also becoming the man he’d always thought he was.

  And then Grace began laughing, too.

  No music was sweeter than Grace MacEachin’s laugh. Not even her singing could compare. It caught his attention, held him spellbound. He could listen to it forever and n’er grow tired of the sound.

  She stopped laughing when she realized he watched her.

  Her expression turned sober.

  For a long moment they stared at each other. “What did I do, Grace, to make you angry? I had thought by now we would trust each other. Instead, I find you suffering in pain rather than turning to me for help. Why is it? And what can I do to make it right?”

  “You’ve done nothing,” she said. “It’s me. It’s what I want to do that has been giving me fits.”

  “What is it then?” he said. “Do you want to slap the mouth off my face for being the ungrateful scoundrel I was to you back there? You were right, Grace. I don’t know you and I had my say. I am judgmental. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—”

  He stopped. He was about to say that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

  Then she’d really laugh.

  “Mean what?” she asked.

  “Mean that I don’t worry about your feet,” he answered.

  “My feet?” Grace repeated.

  “Your feet,” he agreed.

  There was a beat of silence, and then Grace said, “We aren’t talking about feet.”

  “No.” He barely whispered the words.

  Something was in the air around them. Something powerful, wondrous…and then she started to lean forward and he realized that, miracle of all miracles, she was going to kiss him.

  But before their lips could connect, there was the jangle of harness tracings and the thud of hooves.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A dray stacked with cages of chickens and pulled by a chestnut horse spoiled the kiss. The driver of the wagon sat up, a sign he’d seen them, and Grace lost her nerve. She pulled back.

  Richard released a frustrated breath. “We are not finished with this,” he said.

  “No, we aren’t,” she agreed.

  He kissed her nose. “Stay here.” He rolled up to his feet and stepped out into the road to meet the wagon
.

  Grace turned and hastily ripped another strip of her petticoat to wrap her other foot. She didn’t make it neat as Richard had but it would serve. Carefully, she stood. This was so much better. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of doing this before.

  The driver had pulled to a halt a good distance away from them. Grace knew why. The sight of such a large man with a two days’ growth of beard on a lonely stretch of road would give even a saint pause. The driver was an open-faced fellow with a wide-brimmed hat and a good amount of Scottish reserve.

  Holding his hand out to show he meant no ill, Richard approached him. “Excuse me, good sir, we wonder if we could trouble you for a ride?”

  The driver’s distrust didn’t ebb. “I’m not running a ferry,” he said and picked up the reins. He would have gone on without a second look except Richard refused to step out of his way.

  “Please, sir, it’s my wife. We’ve been traveling to see her family in Inverness, but our horse fell and had to be put down. We’ve been walking for hours…and she is in the family way.”

  Wife. It was a loaded word. One that brought her closer to him. She folded her hands demurely in her lap, appreciative of her cape that hid her slim figure.

  But his claim also brought about a change inside her, too. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, experienced a sense of pride.

  She chose to ignore how easily the small fibs slipped off his tongue. He, a man who had once refused to lie, and she knew then he’d do anything to keep her safe.

  Safe. Her life had always been a struggle…because she’d been alone.

  Richard knew exactly what words to say and they worked on the driver. He began walking to her, a huge smile on his face. “We have a ride,” he informed her with pride. “Can you walk? Did wrapping your feet help?”

  “Let’s see,” she answered, reaching for the hand he offered. Her feet were still sensitive but felt much better.

  He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the dray. The driver was rearranging his load to prepare a space for her. “Here you are, missus,” he said. “It’s not the most comfortable but it will save you a walk.”

  Placing his hands on her waist, Richard helped her up onto the dray. “If you lean this way, you won’t be in danger of tumbling out,” he said.

  Grace looked over her shoulder as one of the hens reached out to peck at her cape. She wasn’t fond of chickens, and yet her body appreciated this chance to rest. She rested her head on her folded arm. “I shall be fine. Where will you be?” she asked Richard.

  “Walking alongside,” he told her.

  “Come up here and sit beside me,” the driver ordered. Like most Scots, once he’d offered a helping hand, his reserve quickly thawed. “You are a brawny man, but Sweet Bonnie can pull us and four more men your size if she sets her mind to it.”

  “Yes, ride,” Grace said. Richard must be exhausted, too. He’d endured far more trauma than she had over the last day.

  He took their advice and climbed up beside the driver. In fact, the two of them made a comical pair—the tall, broad-shouldered Richard and the short, skinny Scot.

  With a clucking noise to Sweet Bonnie that set all the chickens clucking in reply, they were on their way, and that was the last Grace remembered until Richard’s hand on her shoulder gently shook her awake. She didn’t want to open her eyes but he was insistent.

  “Grace, we must unload the wagon.”

  She would have turned away except that a hen reached her beak through the cage slats and tried to peck her hair. Grace forced herself to rise. She looked around, disoriented. There were crowds of people passing them by, many of them carrying bundles.

  “Where are we?”

  “A town called Lanark. It’s market day. Our friend Malcolm is bringing his chickens to sale. Come along, Grace, we need to unload the dray, and that includes you.”

  She let him help her out of the wagon, smiling shyly at their driver as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Did I sleep long?”

  “Three hours at least,” Malcolm said.

  Richard directed her to sit on a stone mounting block while he helped Malcolm with his chickens. After a shaking of hands, Richard took Grace’s arm and they started walking through the stalls and wagons set up for market.

  Lanark itself was a bustling town. At one end of the street was a huge stone church that gave the shopping and haggling around it a stately air.

  Grace’s stomach rumbled.

  “I’m hungry, too,” Richard said as if she’d spoken. He stopped. “We need money.”

  “We could sell the buttons off your coat,” she said, lifting them up for him to see. “Someone would pay a pretty penny for them.” She yawned and apologized, “I can’t help myself.”

  He frowned at the black horn buttons. “We need lots of money. Dawson must be in London by now. My uncle will be on his way.”

  “What makes you believe he’ll come? Dawson may tell him he’d fixed you good.”

  “My uncle is a thorough man. He’ll want to see with his own eyes. I also believe my father would want to know the facts.”

  His father. Grace kept her opinion to herself. “Lanark isn’t far from Glasgow. We are maybe two days’ ride from Inverness.”

  “Good. My fear is that my uncle will try to reach your father. And he may learn you are alive. He’ll want to shut the two of you up.”

  Grace raised a hand to her head. “Shut us up?”

  “He’s already tried it twice, Grace.”

  She nodded dumbly. She’d not considered that her quest for justice would endanger her father. “We must reach Father first.”

  “We will,” Richard assured her. “But we won’t do it walking…” His voice trailed off. “How much do you believe I can receive for these buttons?”

  Grace took a moment to inspect the buttons and Richard was amazed to discover he hardly considered Grace’s looks any longer. Oh, yes, he saw those clear blue eyes, creamy skin, and shining black curls but what he valued was her honesty. Her goodness. Her courage. He admired her as well as loved her.

  “They might bring a guinea for all five,” she decided.

  “Then let’s sell them,” Richard said. “And the coat while we are at it.”

  Grace nodded agreement and went plowing her way through the marketplace with an air of authority. Richard followed and marveled at her bargaining skills. She visited several stalls and two tinkers’ wagons before she found her price.

  The tinker also purchased his coat for another three pounds. Richard hated to part with it but they’d discovered such a fine coat was not in great demand at this fair. Grace tried her best but could not find a better price.

  Next, they broke their fast with sweet ale, piping hot buns, and a wedge of hard, tart cheddar.

  The food made Richard sleepy.

  “I believe we need some sleep before we try to book passage to Inverness,” Grace said.

  Richard didn’t argue. He was exhausted.

  She took his hand and led him to the church, where they found a secluded corner and sat in a pew next to the wall. He stretched out his arm and Grace nestled up to his side. Within seconds he was asleep.

  Richard woke to having his shoulders shaken. A bit groggy, he looked around and saw the vicar, a gray-haired, bushy-eyed gent, frowning down on them. “No sleeping in this church. Move on, move on.” His breath carried the whiff of gin fumes.

  Grace was still asleep. He woke her gently. “Come on, love, we need to leave.”

  She didn’t want to wake and tried to snuggle deeper.

  Richard gave an apologetic frown to the vicar before saying, “Gracie, wake.”

  This time, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. He didn’t think there was anything more lovely than Grace opening her eyes and looking around the world. She smiled at him, the lazy expression setting all his senses on the alert.

  Even the vicar appeared bemused.

  Richard took her arm. “We’ve overstaye
d our welcome,” he whispered.

  Her lips formed a soft “oh” and she came to her feet with him. Together they walked out of the church’s cool darkness and into the marketplace. The trade had picked up quite a bit over the last two hours or so that Richard estimated they’d been asleep. The walkways were crowded with shoppers and the number had easily doubled.

  Grace stood at his side and yawned. “I want to go back to sleep.”

  “Come on, lass. We have to figure out a way to Inverness. We have what to our name? Almost four pounds? That should pay our fare on the Mail, hopefully sitting inside the coach.” He took her hand.

  Grace moved closer to him, leaning her head against his arm lest she be overheard as she suggested, “We could steal a horse.”

  He knew she was teasing. “We already have that crime chalked up to our name. Been there,” he said briskly, “and I’m not willing to try it again. One sentence over my head is enough.”

  “I could sing,” she offered.

  “Aye, and everyone would pay to hear you,” he agreed, distracted by a bill some boys were going through the crowd and handing out. The name “McGowan” had caught his eye. McGowan was the Scottish fighter who had won the bout he’d heard about their first night out of London.

  “Here there,” he called to the boy. “Let me see that.”

  The lad ran over and handed him a sheet before moving on.

  “What is it?” Grace asked.

  “An advertisement for a fighting contest. Remember McGowan, the Scot who won his match that first night out of London?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. Of course the name wouldn’t mean anything to her. Women didn’t follow boxing.

  “He’s taking on all comers this afternoon,” Richard explained. “It says here, the person who could last three minutes in a prizefighting contest with him would win twenty-five pounds. If he is knocked out, the purse goes up to fifty pounds.”

  “A fifty?” Grace frowned. “He must not plan to lose.”

  “I’m certain he doesn’t. He’s very good, if what I overheard that night in the inn is correct.”