Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  Fuck.

  Rothsburgh took another step forward. If he could get close enough, he could knock the pistol out of the chancer’s hand.

  “James. Don’t.” He felt Beth’s hand on his arm and she stepped forward so that she was beside him.

  Christ, no.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, addressing the armed stranger. Her chin was raised and her eyes blazed with silver fire.

  Despite his gut-clenching, marrow-deep fear for her, Rothsburgh couldn’t help but admire her bravery, misplaced though it was.

  The chancer inclined his head. “You, of course, Lady Beauchamp.”

  What? How in the devil’s name had her bastard of a husband found her?

  They’d been so careful…

  Rothsburgh glanced at Beth. Except for two spots of high color on her cheeks, her face was ashen.

  “My husband hired you,” she stated flatly.

  “Aye. Lord Beauchamp’s carriage awaits fer ye in the Forecourt, milady.”

  Beth raised her chin a fraction higher. “And if I refuse to go?”

  “Weel…” Beauchamp’s hired thug shrugged. “Then yer friend gets a wee bullet in his rather wide chest.”

  Beth’s eyes blazed. “How dare you threaten Lord Rothsburgh?”

  “Beth. Don’t take another step.” Rothsburgh watched the chancer’s face—a muscle tightened in the man’s jaw. For all his outward bravado, the thug was tense, nervous. “He may be lying.”

  “I can’t take that chance, James. Not when…” She turned to him, her grey eyes shining with tears. “Not when your life is at stake.”

  “No.” Frustrated, impotent anger and despair tore at his gut. He grabbed her by the arm. He knew he was rough, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t let her leave.

  “I have to go. What else can I do?” she whispered. The stark expression on her face told him that this was tearing her apart as well.

  “Verra touchin’ you two. But I do no’ have time fer this. Lady Beauchamp, come with me now, or I swear I will put a hole through his lordship’s heart.”

  Rothsburgh forced his voice past the hard lump of anguish in his throat. “This isn’t over.”

  “I love you, James.” Beth stretched up and touched her trembling lips to his in a fleeting kiss. It was like being caressed by the breath of an angel.

  And then she withdrew her arm from his and walked toward her captors. And out of his life.

  For now.

  Holyrood Abbey might be a ruin, and his heart so black with anger, it was like the sun in eclipse, but with God as his witness, he would take her back.

  * * * *

  Every step Elizabeth took away from James felt like a stab in her heart. Like she was dying by degrees as her life’s blood leached out of her.

  Although James had misgivings, she didn’t doubt for a moment that Hugh had found her.

  The men filling the entrance to the Abbey were dressed similarly to the man with the pistol. Black coats, nondescript clothes beneath. But unlike the chancer—James’s smiling would-be assassin—their expressions were flat and stony, like the flags beneath her feet.

  On reaching them, one of the men grasped her upper arm tightly. She barely felt it. “This way, milady.”

  As he steered her through the arched doorway and along the path toward the Forecourt, she heard the chancer speak again, his voice clear as a death knell in the silence of the ruined church. “Lord Beauchamp said to make sure he doesna follow us, MacCrae.”

  No.

  Elizabeth’s blood froze and her heart stuttered to a halt as blind terror gripped. She twisted in the thug’s grasp, sucked in a breath to scream. But the thug had anticipated her reaction, and before even a shred of sound escaped her, she found his large meaty hand had been firmly clamped over her mouth and nose.

  She kicked and flailed. Screamed anyway and tried to bite her captor’s hand. Even over the sounds of her own futile struggles, she could still hear scuffling and grunting. A crunch and a dull thud.

  Nausea welled within her.

  Please, God, please. Let James be all right.

  “Enough,” the thug growled in her ear, “or I will have to silence you, milady.”

  She stopped thrashing, but hot tears blurred her vision and her breath came in short ragged gasps, like she couldn’t breathe. Like she was dying.

  No more sounds emanated from the Abbey.

  “That’s better.” The thug kept his hand over her mouth as he pulled her round the corner of Mary’s Tower and into the Forecourt where a plain black carriage waited.

  As they approached, another hired thug threw the door open, and she was bundled inside by her captor. And then the door slammed.

  Elizabeth could see little, heavy blinds were drawn across the windows and her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark interior. But as the carriage lumbered forward, and she all but fell onto a seat, she recognized her husband’s voice all the same.

  “My dear Elizabeth. So lovely to see you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Call off your thugs, Hugh. If Rothsburgh is harmed—”

  “Tsk, tsk, my dear. I really don’t think you are in any position to be dictating terms about how I should treat your lover do you? Not after the merry dance you’ve led me.”

  Hugh’s face was in deep shadow making it impossible for Elizabeth to read his expression. He seemed to be wearing a cloak with a high collar, a wide-brimmed hat tilted at such an angle that his eyes were hidden, and a thick scarf that obscured the lower half of his face. But she couldn’t mistake the heavy sarcasm in his voice. She imagined his lip curled into the aristocratic snarl she knew so well.

  When she didn’t immediately respond to his jibes, he continued—a cat playing with a mouse. “Besides, I promised Blaire that I would repay the bastard in kind. As a gesture of my…appreciation for his rather helpful information.”

  Although Elizabeth knew from experience that it was better not to react to Hugh’s taunting, she couldn’t help but gasp. So that’s how he had found her so quickly. Blaire had recognized her at Eilean Tor after all. He must have returned to London and told Hugh.

  But she couldn’t let Hugh get away with having Rothsburgh beaten to a pulp. She swallowed past the sickness rising in her throat. “Hugh. For the love of God. Hurt me if you must. But don’t hurt James.”

  “My God, Elizabeth. You love him? That sap? And who’d have thought such a thing was possible from a cold fish like you.” Hugh chuckled, and Elizabeth felt her cheeks flame, and her hands clenched into fists. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that had she been holding a weapon—a blade, a pistol, a cudgel, anything at all—she would have used it on Hugh then and there.

  But her fury quickly abated as Hugh’s laughter suddenly dissolved into a bout of coughing. He clutched the scarf to his mouth, and as the fit eased, she could hear him wheezing.

  “Hugh. I know that you—”

  “Shut it, Elizabeth…I don’t…want…to talk about it.” He paused, his shoulders heaving with the effort to suck in enough breath. When he spoke again, his voice was so breathy she could barely hear him. “But don’t worry. I won’t try to fuck you if that’s what you’re concerned about…Dr. Morton was very clear—I just…I want you to come home.”

  He knows why I left him.

  His assertion was crude, but for once, Elizabeth believed him. Despite her anger, her heart compressed then expanded oddly in her chest. She’d never seen Hugh like this before. Here in the confines of the carriage, his fear was suddenly a palpable thing.

  Isabelle had been struck down by a severe secondary attack of the pox. So severe she couldn’t bear it. What if Hugh was in the throes of it right now? He must be, if he was at last acknowledging the fact that physical contact with him was dangerous.

  She fisted her hands in her skirts, resisting the unfamiliar urge to reach out to her husband. Dr. Morton had warned her about the disease, of its stages and when it was most contagious. If Hugh had a rash…
even though she had gloves on, she was reticent to touch him. And he would probably reject any physical demonstration of kindness from her anyway. She sifted through the snarled mess of her wildly conflicting thoughts and emotions, trying to think of something to say that would comfort him even just a little. That he would accept.

  But at that moment, the carriage drew to a halt. They had barely travelled ten minutes from Holyrood. Hope surged. If she could slip away…

  Hugh reached out with a large gloved hand and gripped her forearm surprisingly tightly for someone so obviously sick and breathless. “Don’t even think about it, Elizabeth. You’re my wife, and never again are you going anywhere, unless I say so.”

  * * * *

  Hugh had taken rooms at Boyd’s Inn, a rather small but exclusive inn that had once been a Bishop’s residence. With a stab of irony, she realized it was not even half a mile to Holyrood Palace. If she’d been able to get past Hugh’s small army of hired henchmen, and his other staff, she could so easily have gone back to James.

  But Hugh was having her watched so closely. She would not even make it a few steps down the corridor before she would be seized again. She certainly hadn’t a hope in heaven of making it down the Canongate.

  If only she could discover how James was. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t suppress the image of him lying broken and bleeding in a cold, dark corner of the abbey ruins.

  And I haven’t even said goodbye.

  She surreptitiously brushed away the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks, and glanced over to Hugh who sat before the fire, drinking brandy. He still wore his scarf, but it couldn’t hide the ravages of the pox. An angry red rash covered his exposed cheeks and forehead, and she could see a scattering of bald patches across his scalp where clumps of his golden hair had fallen out. He still wore his gloves.

  What a shocking disease. Although the prick of her conscience was sharp, and the pull of long-neglected duty inexorable, she couldn’t suppress the urge to see James. To make sure he was all right.

  To say goodbye. And to tell him to forget her.

  She abandoned her seat in a far corner of the room, and steeled herself to approach Hugh. She wasn’t worried that he’d touch her—she still believed the declaration he’d made in the carriage. But since they’d arrived at the inn, he had barely said a word to her, had not even glanced her way. He was withdrawn, still so unlike himself that she hardly recognized him. She had expected more derisive sarcasm at the very least. But this quiet brooding…it unnerved her.

  She sat in the wing chair opposite him, and he flicked her the barest of looks.

  “If you’ve come to beg me to let you go back to Rothsburgh, you can just forget about it,” he said without looking at her.

  She clasped her gloved hands in her lap and let the silence stretch, trying to work out what to say that would make him change his mind. To give a little for once. But she had never understood this man, or the way his mind worked. He was an enigma. And she imagined she was the same to him. Like a mismatched lock and key, they had never fit together.

  She would never be able to work him out. But for her own piece of mind she had to try.

  “Hugh…” Her voice sounded raw, like her throat had been scraped out.

  He took a sip of brandy and continued to stare into the fire, as if she wasn’t there.

  She took a deep breath, tried again. “Hugh. What I did…what I’ve done…I can’t change it. Any of it. All I can do is offer you a promise that I won’t abandon you again.”

  Hugh shrugged. “Your promises don’t matter because I won’t let you go.”

  “I just want to make sure Rothsburgh’s all right, Hugh. And to say goodbye.”

  He gave a snort of laughter, the red livid rash standing out against the paleness of the skin beneath. “What, one last poke before you’re ripped apart forever?”

  “Stop it.” Elizabeth stood abruptly, her voice shaking with barely contained anger. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Hugh. Not after everything you did with Isabelle. For years and years.”

  Hugh’s blue eyes narrowed and he gave her a cool, speculative look. She couldn’t be certain but perhaps there was also a hint of respect in his expression. “You’ve changed, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, a smile suddenly lifting the corner of his mouth. “I think I like this version of you better.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Of all the things Hugh could have said, she had not expected that. “Do you know,” she said at last, “that’s the first time in our married life that you’ve said something to me that’s even close to a compliment?”

  Hugh lifted his brandy balloon and studied the amber-brown liquid before taking another sip. “I know you’ve been unhappy,” he said quietly. “But I’ve always been a sick bastard, Elizabeth. You should be pleased that I left you alone…for the most part.”

  Elizabeth sat again. This was also the first time that Hugh actually seemed to be engaging in something that approximated an honest conversation.

  “You should have married Isabelle,” she said softly, studying his face.

  He looked back at her. “Yes. I should have. But I was too young, and selfish, and stupid at the time.” He took a sip of brandy and she noticed the glint of a sapphire in the folds of his scarf. “How much did Rothsburgh tell you?”

  She considered his question for a moment but there seemed no point in lying. “Everything.”

  “Hmm.” His gaze returned to her. “So you know about Annabelle?”

  She swallowed. “Yes. I met her today. She looks just like you, Hugh.”

  “Well that’s something, isn’t it?” There was a decided trace of bitterness in his voice. “There’ll be someone on this earth who carries my blood, even if she can’t bear my name.” He closed his eyes and she fancied that she saw a glimmer of tears in the long lashes that fanned across his pock-marked cheeks.

  Although she knew she was being unkind by pressing him for information when he was so clearly upset, there was something she needed to know. Something that had been plaguing her ever since she had left him. “Hugh, that last night when you came to my room…did…did you know you had syphilis?”

  He put down his brandy and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “No…maybe…” He drew in a shaky breath and lifted his gaze to hers. “I was an arrogant prick, Elizabeth, and I didn’t want to know. I just never thought something like this could happen to me. It wasn’t until I’d heard that Isabelle had died…and then you left…I started to feel unwell and I went to see Dr. Morton. That’s when I found out for certain.”

  His face suddenly contorted into a rictus of anguish. “I killed her, didn’t I, Elizabeth? Isabelle died because of me.” He dropped his face into his gloved hands and his shoulders began to heave with wracking sobs.

  Despite everything she’d endured during their marriage—his indifference, his cruel comments, his rampant infidelity—Elizabeth’s heart ached to see her husband brought so low. And there was nothing she could say that would help to mitigate his culpability. Even so, she sank to her knees beside him and placed a gloved hand on his back, on his coat.

  “No…stay away from me.” Hugh shrugged her off. “The rash…it’s contagious.”

  “I know,” she said softly, replacing her hand. “But I’m sure it’s all right to touch you like this.”

  They stayed that way for some time until Hugh’s sobs eased and all that could be heard was the quiet crackle of logs in the grate.

  Hugh was the first to break the almost companionable silence. “It was probably for the best that you got away, Elizabeth…before I took you to bed…because I would have you know. With the shock of hearing that Isabelle had died, I wanted an heir. But you of all people…you don’t deserve this…any of this.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry. What if she’d stayed? What if she’d tried harder to make him see reason? Insisted that he see the doctor. Shown him the letter. “I tried to talk to you
about it Hugh…after I found out—”

  “I know.” He suddenly frowned and shot her a searching look. “How did you find out, by the way? It couldn’t just have been the sore on my hand that made you suspicious.”

  Her breath caught. Guilt felt like a heavy stone in her chest. How would he react to her disclosure? “I received a letter, warning me. The writer claimed to be your mistress. I only found out recently that it was penned by Isabelle. After I showed it to James.”

  A tense silence followed. Hugh bowed his head and his gloved hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

  God, had she been too quick to judge her husband? “If I’d shown you—”

  “I would have told you it was rubbish.” He fixed his bloodshot eyes on her. “I told Isabelle the same thing when she accused me of having the pox, the last time I ever saw her. It was in London, just after we got back from the Continent, after Waterloo. We fought, and she went back to Scotland. Like I said, Elizabeth, I didn’t want to know. I understand that you felt you had no other option but to leave. But what I don’t understand,” and his gaze suddenly became disdainful, “is what you see in that soft-cock Rothsburgh. It certainly didn’t take you too long to lift your skirts for him.”

  Elizabeth winced. “You probably won’t believe me, but when I left you, Hugh, I never set out to be unfaithful. I just wanted to be…safe. It was pure chance that led me to Scotland. I applied for the governess’s post at Eilean Tor. I heard about it through the Trust.”

  Hugh ran his eyes over her. “Hence the guise of virtuous widow…I’m sure that appealed no end to Rothsburgh. I always thought he was a self-righteous prig.”

  Elizabeth stood up, her cheeks burning. “That’s enough, Hugh,” she bit out. “You have no right to judge him.”

  “Are you pregnant?” His gaze dropped to her belly.

  Her cheeks grew even hotter, but she held his gaze. “I don’t know…perhaps.”