by Tarah Scott
Chastity didn’t like the rapidly rising lump on Jessica’s forehead, and felt certain her left eye was swelling as she watched. An injury that would have her sister resembling a freak show monster in mere hours. She just hoped no bones were broken.
She wished that Sir Stirling James was present. The man her sisters secretly called The Marriage Maker would have a merry time finding a husband for Jessica if his husband-candidate saw Jessica looking so ill-favored. Not to mention, such clear proof of her wayward comportment.
“Oh, kitten…” Chastity shifted on her knees and, with shaky fingers, she smoothed back Jessica’s hair, the curling mass as unruly as Jessica herself. “What have you done?”
“Aggggh…” A moan answered her, followed by unintelligible words as Jessica twisted her head away from Chastity’s hand.
“Do not move.” Chastity cupped her sister’s cheek. “Doctor Belch will be here soon.”
“Gah!” Jessica’s eyes snapped open. “I will belch if you let him touch me. He is two hundred years old and smells.”
“Shhhh.” Chastity touched Jessica’s lips. “He cannot help his name and he is an excellent physician. He will take care of you. He—”
“I am fine.” Jessica pushed into a sitting position. Chastity grasped her arm, but Jessica pulled free and scrambled to her feet. “See?” She swayed. “There is nothing wrong with me.”
Chastity shot up and grabbed Jessica’s elbow before she could topple onto the desk she’d lurched toward. With great care, Chastity maneuvered her into one of the nearby wing chairs.
“Do. Not. Move.”
“Rubbish.”
“Wait till you see yourself.” Chastity surveyed her face. “Your forehead and your eye are—”
“I might have bumped against the desk.” Jessica lifted a hand to her temple. “Oh!” Her fingers found the now egg-sized lump. “So what if I have a wee swollen head?”
“There is nothing ‘wee’ about it. Your eye is much worse, I fear.”
Jessica touched the offending eye and gasped. “Ouch.”
Chastity threw a glance at the library door as the sound of running footsteps approached. Turning quickly back to Jessica, she leaned close and whispered, “Be kind to Doctor Belch.”
“Of course.” Jessica closed her good eye—the bad one now swollen tight. She bit back a groan, unwilling to reveal how much her head hurt.
How odd that she hadn’t noticed the throbbing pain or her limited sight until Chastity mentioned Doctor Belch’s name. Had she not done so, Jessica was quite sure she’d have been just fine.
She did not have time to ponder such an ill turn of fate before her father and two recently wed sisters burst into the library and came running over to her and Chastity.
Rotund, shiny-pated Doctor Belch came hurrying in their wake with Sally close behind.
And—she should have known—the Marriage Maker himself pulled up the rear. No doubt the man smelled blood.
Hers.
“O-o-oh, Jessica.” Lucy, her younger sister, knelt beside her. “What have you done?”
“I fell.” Jessica scrunched her good eye to meet Lucy’s gaze. “I will be fine.”
“Poor lamb.” Olivia pressed a gentle kiss to her head. “You are hurt.”
“Nothing is broken,” Jessica said.
“I will decide that, lassie.” Doctor Belch set his black physician’s carry-all on the table in front of her as Lucy rose, then he carefully lowered himself to his knees to examine her. After a few moments of fierce scowling, running his hands over her arms and legs, and probing her ribs and midsection, he looked up at the duke. “She was most fortunate, Your Grace. Her bones indeed appear unharmed, though she requires bedrest, and I’d ask for your kitchen servants to fetch ice from your icehouse. We shall need it for her eye and forehead once she’s been settled abovestairs.”
“Sally…” The duke glanced at the maid who hovered nearby. “See Doctor Belch’s orders done,” he said, and the girl again dashed from the room. Turning back to the doctor and Jessica, he frowned. “Can she be moved?”
“Aye,” Doctor Belch agreed as he peered at Jessica’s forehead and swollen eye. “She needs to be handled with care. Can you trust one of your stable lads to lift her and—”
“I can carry her.” Sir Stirling stepped forward, resplendent in a finely-cut dark blue morning coat, fawn breeches, and—naturally—highly polished, entirely unmuddied boots.
Jessica looked up at him, refusing to appear impressed. Or nice. Did the man walk on air? Was that why his clothes never carried a speck of road dirt?
“I can walk.” She pushed aside the doctor’s hand and stood. The library tilted, the floor dipping beneath her so that she bumped into Olivia.
“You are not taking a single step.” Olivia grabbed her arm, holding her in place as she glanced at him.
The Marriage Maker.
“Take her now, Sir Stirling,” Olivia said. “And do not let her offend you.”
Sir Stirling reached her side in a flash, seemingly crossing the few feet between them without having moved. Did he fly as well as walk above Inverness’s ever-muddy ground? Jessica thinned her lips.
He winked at Jessica. “Such a fine lass could never offend me.”
“I am not a ‘fine lass,’” she whispered in the Marriage Maker’s ear as he lifted her. “I am a hoyden. Even Papa says so. Be warned.”
He smiled down at her and just as quietly said, “You shall soon be a wife, wild ways or no.”
“I will not.” She squirmed in his arms as he followed her father and sisters, and smelly old Doctor Belch, from the library. “No man will want me. Can you not tell that already?”
“Perhaps there is a man who needs you,” he said gently.
She stiffened. “You mean my father’s money and our lineage.”
“Nae, lass, you.” He flashed another irritating smile. “The man I have chosen for you might be just the husband you require.”
“I require to be left alone.” For emphasis, she kicked his thigh as he began mounting the stairs to her bedchamber.
To her annoyance, he didn’t break stride. Worse, he chuckled.
Once they reached her room and he settled her on her bed, he had the impertinence to remain in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the jamb, as Doctor Belch gave her one final examination and then dutifully placed a bag of crushed ice over her eye and forehead.
Could the man not simply leave? No gentleman would linger as he seemed determined to do. Even she knew that much.
“Sir Stirling…” Jessica lifted her voice. “Are you not needed elsewhere?”
“Jessica!” Lucy and Olivia spoke as one.
Chastity ducked her head to hide a smile.
“He is here to—” Lucy began.
“I know why he is here.” Jessica sat up, the sudden movement making the room spin and sending the ice bag onto the floor. “He has brought me a husband—an ogre I do not want and will not marry.”
“No one came here with me today, my lady,” Sir Stirling drawled in his smooth, deep voice. “Though I did bring your father the agreement of Lieutenant Patrick Chalmers to marry you.”
“An army man?” Jessica’s head spun, which forced her to settle back against the bed pillows. “I will accept him—because he will never be at home.”
“A navy man,” Sir Stirling corrected her. “And I regret to disappoint you,” he continued, not sounding sorry at all, “he will be ever at home. His estate of Baldain House, in the heart of the town and faces the River Ness.”
“Baldain House?” Chastity looked at her father and Doctor Belch. “That house has been deserted these last years—after the late owner, Mr. Chalmers, choked to death on a bit of mutton at a gaming establishment.” She shifted her attention to Sir Stirling. He didn’t flinch. “Is this Lieutenant Patrick Chalmers of Baldain House his son?”
“So he is, my lady.”
“Then he shall not marry my sister.” Chastity’s chin came
up. “Blood is blood. If he is anything like his father—”
“He is nothing like his father.” Sir Stirling straightened from the doorjamb, his polished boots gleaming like two black mirrors in the morning sunlight that streamed through the room’s tall windows. “He takes after his grandfather and enjoys an impeccable reputation. His character is beyond reproach, his manners refined, and as he served for many years in military and diplomatic assignments overseas, he desires nothing more now than a quiet life here in Inverness.”
“Then he and Jessica may not suit,” Lucy declared. “She is anything but quiet.”
“As I have been telling you.” Jessica swatted Doctor Belch’s hand when he tried to replace the now-dripping ice bag on her forehead. “Will you stop that, please? It’s cold and wet, and I need to see that man over there so long as he insists on lurking about. I do not trust him.” She gave Sir Stirling a mutinous glare. “I will not marry your friend.” She sent a scowl to her father, as well.
Now, Jessica…” Her father stepped closer to the bed, took the ice bag from Doctor Belch and placed it on her head, keeping a hand there so she couldn’t dislodge it. “Sir Stirling never said Chalmers is his friend. We had an arrangement, if you recall.” Jessica noted the steel in her father’s eyes.
“Aye, he is a friend.” Sir Stirling appeared pleased by the admission. “I know him well, so can commend him highly.”
Olivia shook her head. “Forgive me, sir, but I am not convinced. I appreciate that you have arranged wonderful marriages for myself and Lucy. But Jessica walks her own path. A man as you have described will not be happy with her.”
Sir Stirling’s air of confidence did not fade.
“I agree.” Chastity joined Olivia and Lucy. “You will have to find a different candidate.”
Sir Stirling’s eyes shifted to the duke. “Your father shares my opinion. We agreed to a wedding in three days.”
Chastity’s eyes shifted to him and Jessica was sure her sister’s gaze caught on the man’s shoulders before her eyes locked with his. “That is much too soon,” Chastity said. “Just look at my sister. She cannot marry with a swollen and discolored face.”
“Ah, well…” Sir Stirling rubbed his chin, considering. “We can postpone the marriage for a week, but no more. Just until the worst of the bruising lessens.”
“It won’t matter.” Lucy smiled. “She will get herself into some other pickle before then.”
“What were you doing on the library ladder?” the duke asked. “Have I not warned all of you to stay off them? There are servants who are skilled in climbing ladders to retrieve volumes on the higher shelves.”
“I can climb a ladder well enough,” Jessica said—though she couldn’t prove that at the moment, and didn’t want to explain why she’d fallen. “I couldn’t ask for help,” she said in an attempt to change the subject. “I did not want anyone to know what I was researching.”
“Researching?” He folded his arms, waiting.
“Of course.” Jessica met his stare. “A few scraggly barnacle geese have been congregating at the pond behind the stables. They are clearly hungry. There is an old book on caring for wild birds on the top shelf. It is a journal, really, written by your great-aunt Maisie, who cared for birds all over Inverness. She—”
“I know who my great-auntie was.” The duke sighed. “She was said to be out with the faeries.”
“She wasn’t addled and neither am I.” Jessica narrowed her eyes. “I wanted to be sure the barnacle geese can eat the wild bird food we scatter.”
“We?” Chastity looked amused. “You are the only one who collects kitchen fat, bacon rinds, and stale bread and cake for birds.”
“You were warned not to do so after your collection bin drew water rats and foxes,” Olivia reminded her. “Foxes got some of our chickens, if you recall.”
“So, Lady Jessica, you have a heart for those in need?” Sir Stirling tugged on his cuff, speaking without looking at her.
Jessica eyed him suspiciously. “That is a trick question.”
He laughed.
“Marry her off to a stray cat and she’ll be happy,” Lucy teased.
“She will wed Lieutenant Chalmers in seven days,” the duke said.
“And if he doesn’t like her?” Lucy persisted.
“He will be smitten.” The Marriage Maker’s smile flashed again.
“What if she refuses him?” Olivia asked.
Silence answered from the bed, and when all gazes turned there, Doctor Belch held up a small vial of laudanum. “She needs rest.” He tucked the bottle back into his medicinal carry-all. “Bring her a good stout broth for supper and have someone sit with her through the night. Allow her a spot of whisky. Perhaps—” he glanced at Chastity “—have your cook give you some fresh liver slices and place them over her forehead and eye for the swelling. By morning, she should be feeling much better.”
“We shall hope so, Doctor.” Chastity smiled at him.
Their father thanked the doctor as he hurried to the door, clearly wishing to escape any consultation on desired—or undesired—marriages. And sure enough, as soon as Doctor Belch’s footsteps no longer echoed up from the nearby stairwell, Lucy hurried to where the duke stood near the window and grasped his arm. “You must do something, Papa. The lieutenant will despise Jessica. He will make her so unhappy, then run off to sail the world. He will—”
“He will do no such thing, Lady Lucy.” Sir Stirling drew all eyes to him. “Have you so little faith in me? Patrick will not return to the navy. His last ship took a cannon blast and shrapnel hit his thigh. You wouldn’t know it to see him, he refuses to limp. Most times, anyway. But he is now wholly devoted to Baldain, and he shall be solely engaged in beginning a family with his new wife.” His gaze shifted to the bed where Jessica slept. “I cannot think of a more suitable woman for him.”
The duke turned toward the window, but his three daughters glimpsed the hard set of his mouth in the instant before he tugged aside the drapery to reveal the newly falling rain pattering against the glass.
The sisters exchanged glances.
Yet again, their father sided with Sir Stirling. No matter how fervently they argued, they would lose. The Marriage Maker had struck again and, despite his past successes, poor Jessica was doomed.
Chapter Three
“I will get you, you wee bugger!” a woman shrieked.
The cry and leaf rustling came from a yew grove to the right of Gledstone estate’s bridle path. Patrick urged his horse toward the noise.
“Be still, you fool beastie!” the woman screeched again, sounding younger than the spectral washer-woman she screamed like. “I will get you!”
A hiss answered her this time, then followed more thrashing of leaves and snapping of twigs. The afflicted yew came into view. It was a gorgeous and huge specimen, though just now, the branches trembled and creaked as if possessed by demons.
“Gah! You bit me!” the lass cried, then much to Patrick’s surprise, she laughed. “Come here, you. I only want what’s best for you. I will take good care of you,” she finished, her tone soft and soothing now. “I love you already.”
Love? Patrick brought his horse to a halt. He had arrived at the ducal home early with the intention of convening with the duke before he and his betrothed met in front of the vicar. But upon arriving an hour ago, he’d felt a ferocious need for air before he met his fate. He had no intention of being caught by a banshee deep in the woodland of his soon-to-be-father-in-law’s property at a time he should be sipping morning tea and making polite conversation with the man—a duke, by all that was holy.
Any other time he would have laughed. After all, Baldain House had its green lady. Why shouldn’t Gledstone have a banshee? Patrick considered leaving, but the opportunity to at least glimpse the Gledstone banshee won over. He dismounted and entered the shadows of the yew grove. Did a man’s wedding day somehow evoke a strange magic? For he’d felt only a slight twinge in his injured leg. Perhaps
, as his grandmother always said, the Scottish Highlands were a magical place.
Even the yew seemed enchanted, the needle-like leaves no longer rattling. Patrick ducked beneath the low hanging branches and looked up. Then he froze at sight of two shapely legs straddling a branch. Patrick broke from his stare, realizing the impropriety, and yanked his gaze upward to the righteous mass of auburn hair that framed a dirt stained face. Wild green eyes stared at the gray-striped kitten she clutched.
Patrick scrunched his eyes, then looked again. She was still there. He hadn’t imagined her. He also hadn’t been mistaken about her legs. Her feet were covered by muddied half-boots, but those legs— young—and beautiful. She was the last soul he would call a banshee. Hoyden, was a better description for this lass—beauty or no.
“Pardon me,” he called.
Her head snapped in his direction and the pale morning sunlight briefly lit her face. The dark smudges he’d taken for dirt were bruises. Shock reverberated through him. Some ruffian had mishandled her. The knowledge slammed into him harder than anything he’d felt in a long time.
He reined in his anger and stepped closer to the yew’s thick, red-shining trunk. “Can I help you down?” He opened his arms. “Let yourself drop and I’ll catch you.”
“I do not need help.” She eyed him suspiciously. “This wee kitten is the one who required rescuing.”
“Come down.” Patrick reverted to the stern tone he used with unruly sailors. He wanted her firmly on the ground and then he’d see her safely to Gledstone’s kitchens, the wash-house, brewery, or wherever she worked. “Drop her first,” he ordered. “Then jump into my arms.”
