The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  There’s a chance that shouldn’t be a problem, Samantha thought, curling the fingers of her hand that rested over her belly into a fist.

  “So, lass, what do ye say we put our differences aside, and rewrite the ending to Romeo and Juliet?”

  “You’re certainly no lovelorn Romeo, promising me the moon,” she muttered.

  “Aye, and ye’re no maidenly Juliette,” he volleyed back. “Besides, it looks to me like the moon appears to have enough holes in it. And ye’d just use it for target practice, anyway.”

  The smile he directed down at her summoned an unbidden answer from her own lips.

  “I just … can’t imagine myself as a countess.” She chuckled.

  “Me neither, bonny, and willna that be half the fun?” When his eyes sparkled just so, and his lips quirked in that way that caused his dimple to appear, Samantha thought it made him look very young and devastatingly handsome.

  How was she supposed to think straight? This wasn’t fair.

  “What—what does a countess even do?” she wondered aloud.

  “Whatever she likes, so long as she breeds the next generation of nobility,” he answered with a passionless nonchalance that drew her brows into a grimace.

  “That can’t be,” she argued. “Isn’t a wife beholden to her husband? Doesn’t she have to obey him? Where would she get the money to do what she likes, if everything she owns goes to him? I don’t think England and America are very different in that regard.”

  “Well … nay,” he admitted. “But in noble marriages, it is standard practice for the woman to have a certain allowance settled upon her, usually provided by a dowry.”

  “But … I have no dowry.”

  “Aye, but I’m no pauper, and I plan to vastly improve my fortune with the help of Erradale, which is sort of the same thing, is it not? If ye were to marry me, bonny, ye’d have your own annuity. Above that, once ye provided an heir, it is custom that a large sum is bestowed upon ye, as well. Ye could do with it what ye like. Travel the world, shop, rent yer own residency if Inverthorne isna to yer liking.” His features dropped, suddenly very solemn. “Ye’d have freedom, lass, once yer duty was done. And a lifetime of protection once the vows were spoken.”

  Suddenly breathing as though she’d run a long way, Samantha squeezed her eyes shut once again, not wanting the otherworldly sight of him to hold sway over her decision. She’d been staring at him with wide, unbelieving eyes for so long, the details of his face followed her into the darkness behind her lids, lingering in every possible color of shadow.

  Was she truly considering this? This madness, this lunacy?

  Not only was she considering it … there was really only one impediment to her acceptance.

  Alison. The real Alison Ross. She’d said in her letter that Samantha could remain as long as she liked at Erradale. That she planned to never return. She’d even offered to sell it to Samantha once the herd had turned enough profit to pay her with.

  I never want to see Erradale again. Do with it what you wish. Those had been her exact words.

  So long as it remains out of Mackenzie hands.

  A multitude of scenarios danced behind the words flowing through her mind as clearly as though Alison had spoken them into her ear.

  Had Samatha any of the cash left that Alison had given her, she’d consider running. This world was big and wide, and there had to be a place where Boyd and Bradley couldn’t reach her, right?

  Or would she, an excessively tall, exceedingly thin American woman stick out like a pervasive weed in a field of flowers no matter where she tried to hide herself?

  It didn’t matter now, she supposed. The money was gone.

  She was left with nothing but a false name, a wounded leg, and a child to care for and protect.

  And a choice.

  A frightening choice that could end in absolute disaster.

  What if she married Gavin, and Alison changed her mind and came back? What if Boyd and Bradley learned of her survival and came after her, themselves? Her ruse would be uncovered …

  Would Gavin still march them to the devil like he’d so passionately threatened to do?

  Both scenarios were unlikely, but not impossible. She knew the sum of money Boyd and Bradley had at their disposal and, while it was grand, it wasn’t enough to sustain a vendetta for long. Especially not if they needed to use it to escape the law. The Masters brothers were wanted criminals, their names and likenesses posted at ports and railway stations across the country.

  And Alison would be happily married by now.

  What would the young and lovely Alison Ross say if she knew of Samantha’s latest plight? What would she tell her to do if she knew she’d found herself both with child and in mortal danger? What if she knew Gavin no longer wished to be a Mackenzie? That he hated his father for what he’d done?

  Samantha had told a great many lies in her lifetime. She’d done so many dishonorable things.

  But could she really lead a man to believe that she bore him a child that wasn’t his, all for the sake of an annuity? For security?

  Once upon a time, she would have said no.

  Never.

  This decision, though, was about more than just security now. It was about survival … And should the worst happen, and Gavin learn of her deception, she could at least take what money the marriage afforded her and run.

  His heart wouldn’t be broken to see her go, and he’d still get what he wanted.

  Erradale.

  His hot breath fanned across her temple as he leaned to croon in her ear. “Doona tell me ye’re not tempted by my offer, bonny. That ye’re not tempted by me.”

  He silenced her sound of protest with a long, agile finger on her lips. “That kiss we shared proves our compatibility. At least here in bed. I’ll apply myself to my husbandly duties with singular focus. I’ll not let ye sleep until ye beg, limp with pleasure … I’ll fill you so often, ye’ll be with child in a week’s time. I’ll—”

  “All right!” she cried, only to stop the torrent of whispered words wreaking havoc on her insides and making her thighs clench together, which set her injured leg to throbbing. “I’ll marry you. But … I want the annuity in advance.”

  “Done,” he said without a breath of hesitation, his eyes gleaming with almost malevolent triumph.

  “Also,” she continued. “I’d like to be on with the wedding as soon as possible, if it’s all the same to you. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon.”

  A devilish grin spread across lips made for sin. “If I’d known it was bed play that would sway ye, I’d have opened negotiations with that.”

  “That wasn’t—I didn’t—no!—I just wanted you to stop talking.” It had been her delicate situation, not her desire, that had prompted her plea for expediency.

  Hadn’t it?

  “Whatever ye say, bonny, but I’ll do what I can to accommodate yer demands for an expedient claim to my name … and my body.” This he said in a tone that mocked her protestations.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she insisted. “My haste has nothing to do with your dirty insinuations and everything to do with the fact that living at Inverthorne without marrying you first would ruin my reputation.”

  He cast her a skeptical look. “Ye doona seem the type to worry overmuch about reputation, lass.”

  He had her there. “Well … no … but what would your mother think?”

  He frowned. “Ye raise an excellent point.”

  “Not to mention Callum and Locryn and … Calybrid!” The memory of her injured friend jolted her to her elbows, followed by the burn of guilt that she’d not given him a thought until now. Another fault she could possibly place at the feet of the unabashedly nude male trying to coax her back down.

  “Calybrid is resting comfortably, lass. Never ye worry,” Gavin soothed. “Eammon is trained to doctor animals, but around these parts he tends to stitch up us folks just as often.”

  She relaxed back to the bed, fighting lids
made heavy with equal parts relief, exhaustion, and trepidation. Her mind felt as though it wanted to race, but could only swim through a convoluted stew that was her muddled thoughts.

  “Ye get some sleep, bonny.” His warm mouth covered hers in a remarkably chaste kiss that felt anything but. “I’ll make arrangements. I imagine we can have papers signed in a few days’ time.”

  Sleep did sound like heaven. Her leg was beginning to ache, and oblivion called her down to a soft escape from the magnitude of her situation. Of what she’d just agreed to.

  A great weight shifted beside her, and she lifted a lid to watch him roll away from her and sit on the opposite edge of the bed.

  The unexpected sight peeled her eyes wide with dismay.

  Gavin St. James, the ever-smiling jackanapes, the notorious rake and infamous seducer, carried upon his shoulders and back the weight of unimaginably deep scars. Lashes, it looked like, stretched across his topography of bunched sinew and strength. They didn’t seem as though they’d been created by a whip. At least, not all of them. The lines of long-ago wounds were long, but blunted on the ends. Or angled just so. In the shape of a buckle or a belt.

  Breath escaped her at the sight. She imagined the lashes fresh and open, the skin flayed apart by vicious, repetitive violence.

  Drawn by a well of sympathy so deep it threatened to drown her, Samantha’s hand drifted up from the bed with dreamlike sluggishness, and reached for him. She felt driven to trace the strange, exacting angles, and smooth the offending scars away.

  How had he come by these? His hated father? Were they the reason for his—

  The moment her fingertips found the ridge of one scar close to his spine, her wrist was caught in a painful grip, the spell of compassion broken.

  Startled, she blinked up at Lord Thorne …

  And found someone else.

  Someone fierce and wild and violent. His green eyes burned down at her, his nostrils flared, and his shoulders—his broad, disfigured shoulders—heaved with the rhythm of furious breaths.

  She wanted to tell him to unhand her, almost as badly as she wanted to apologize. She hadn’t been thinking when she’d reached for him.

  Only feeling.

  What she read behind the verdant inferno in his eyes caught any breath that would feed her voice behind a lump in her throat. The pain was as naked as the rest of him. And wariness resided there, too. Along with a strange vulnerability behind the hostility that would be easy to miss if one didn’t look closely enough.

  “Do. Not.” His words were enunciated with a low, muttered exactitude that reverberated through her entire being.

  He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to. She knew exactly what he meant.

  Do not touch. Do not ask. Do not mention.

  This was a wound he didn’t share, an experience he didn’t discuss.

  She had a few of those, herself.

  “I won’t,” she said evenly, having learned long ago that the best way to avoid a topic was to redirect it. “Is there a church close by? I haven’t really seen one since I’ve been here.”

  “There’s a chapel at Ravencroft.” The sardonic twist of his lips took on a cruel cast, but he released her. “My father ran off the priest before I was born, but we only need a justice of the peace to make our nuptials official.”

  “But you’re the…”

  “That’s right, though Liam will have to perform the ceremony, as I canna perform my own.” An unholy darkness cooled the heat in his eyes.

  “Are you sure that’s wise? Would he even agree to it?”

  “He has to.” He shrugged shoulders that she made a very concerted effort not to even glance at. “It’s his responsibility as Laird and as one of the magistrates. He canna very well refuse.”

  “But … I mean … there’s bad blood between you, isn’t there? You’re emancipating yourself from him, after all.”

  “Aye, there’s bad blood, Mackenzie blood, but that willna stop Liam from doing what has to be done. I’ll say that much for my brother.” Pausing, he scrutinized her from beneath a suspicious brow. “What do ye ken of it, lass? Ye went to Ravencroft. What did ye learn of the bad Mackenzie blood?”

  She didn’t know what compelled her to be honest. The challenge she read in the set of his jaw, or the anxiety beneath the dark anticipation in his eyes.

  “I—I heard you had an affair with his late wife, Colleen.”

  She didn’t miss that he visibly flinched when she said the name.

  “Is it true?”

  “Aye,” he clipped.

  “Was it because you loved her? Or because you hated him?” The question escaped her before she could call it back. And oh, how she wished to when the darkness he’d summoned to his features became absolute.

  “If we are to marry, ye’ll have to accept that there are three things I will never discuss with ye. My scars, my father, and Colleen Mackenzie. Do ye understand?”

  “I understand.” She had her own terrible secrets; she could leave him his, safe and somehow comforted with the knowledge that both of their souls were stained with sins.

  Maybe they were both beyond forgiveness.

  Maybe … they deserved each other.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gavin didn’t stay and hold her precisely because he wanted to do just that.

  And because … the lass saw too much.

  It struck him anew, while he’d subdued Alison’s wildly trembling body, how intensely vulnerable someone was whilst asleep.

  How strange, then, that he’d invite so many into his bed, or join them in theirs. Perhaps because he didn’t see women as a threat.

  Or hadn’t, until recently.

  After dressing with all haste, Gavin made for the stables, looking forward to another hard ride with which to work away whatever seemed to be searing and fizzing in his blood.

  It didn’t surprise him to find Callum there, seeing to the faithful horse, Rowan, that’d conveyed Alison as far as she could go, and then did not desert her once she fell.

  “Yer beast can have his pick of oats, barley, and grain,” Gavin said as Callum glanced at him over the slight curve of the horse’s back. “He deserves the best.”

  “I’m grateful to you,” the Mac Tíre replied, not missing one rhythmic stroke of his brush across the glossy coat. “Are you after investigating Erradale at dawn?” he asked mildly. “Is that where you’re off to at this ungodly hour?”

  “I’ll go to Erradale directly after Ravencroft,” Gavin said shortly. “Is Eammon abed?”

  “Aye, me old man had a dram or three after doing what he could to sew Calybrid’s guts together and is snoring in his chair.” Flicking Gavin a look of speaking curiosity, Callum asked, “Why are you going to Ravencroft an hour before dawn?”

  “I told Alison that Calybrid was going to be all right…” Gavin let his silence ask the question, even as he evaded Callum’s.

  “Aye, he’ll live, so long as the stitches hold and don’t turn putrid.”

  “Good.”

  Callum patted his steed on the withers and stepped out of the stall, brushing dust and hair from his old, fingerless gloves. “I’ve cooled Demetrius down, but I’ll saddle ye another to take to Ravencroft.”

  “I can do it.” Gavin turned away from his friend’s eerily perceptive gaze to gather saddle and tack, and worked alongside his friend as dim striations of gray began to filter into the open stable doors.

  Lifting his saddle onto a light-footed Arabian-thoroughbred mix, Gavin suddenly remembered something he’d long forgotten. “Callum.” He turned to his friend. “Didna ye know Alison Ross well when she was a wee girl at Erradale?”

  His friend’s impassivity slipped for only a moment, one too quick to read what emotion filtered through.

  “Aye. I knew her.”

  Were the Mac Tíre’s lips tighter than usual, or was that his imagination? Damn the man’s unruly beard.

  “Ye used to complain about the lass ceaselessly bothering ye. In
fact, ye’d come to Ravencroft to escape her, did ye not?”

  “I did.”

  “Is she at all like ye remember?”

  Had Gavin been paying closer attention to his friend, instead of cinching the saddle, he’d have noticed Callum took longer than necessary to reply. “The woman you know is nothing like the Alison Ross who left Erradale all those years ago.”

  A thoughtful sound escaped on a long breath. “Life has a way of turning us into strangers, even to ourselves.”

  “Aye, that it does.”

  Gavin broke a long, inexplicably glum moment by swinging into the saddle. “I’ve found a way to gain Erradale,” he announced.

  “Oh?” Callum’s brows lifted. “And just how will ye convince Sam not to shoot ye, first?”

  “Easy.” Gavin bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, but felt a little too wild to maintain the distinction. “I convinced her to marry me, instead.”

  With a swift kick, he shot into the bracing predawn chill, leaving his friend gaping after him in an openmouthed stupor. The ground crunched beneath his mount’s hooves, the winter path kissed by delicate frost. It would sparkle when the sun rose, clinging to the winter foliage and turning Wester Ross into something out of a Faerie Tale.

  Except he was no Prince Charming. No Romeo.

  And Alison Ross was certainly no damsel.

  The past chased him all the way to Ravencroft. How many times had he made this trip in the middle of the night? How many times had he been summoned to the secret door off the north wing, and fought not to answer?

  As many times as he’d given in.

  It was in front of that door, they’d found Colleen’s body, when she’d thrown herself from the ramparts rather than run away with him.

  He thought about the wild, torturous ride he’d taken to Ravencroft a decade ago when word had reached him. He thought about it every time he took this road.

  This time, though, different tragedies tore after him.

  All of them linked to the place where Alison Ross’s fingertips still seared the uneven flesh of his back.

  Of course, she wasn’t the first to see his scars. One couldn’t bed so many women without baring one’s skin. Sometimes, if he was feeling unwilling to discuss it, he’d leave off the lights, leave on his shirt, or blindfold the lass. Other times, when he was less brittle, he’d concoct a wild story, one just farfetched enough to be believable.