The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  His brow released last, drawing a smile from a scowl.

  He was like an actor about to step on the stage. His every movement practiced and meaningful, his every line memorized for the greatest effect.

  For a terrifying moment, Samantha wondered just whom she was marrying. The menacing man who’d seized her hand when she’d reached for his back? The one who’d just faced the door with all the readiness of a barbaric horde calling for blood.

  Or the charming hedonist he pretended to be?

  “English!” he greeted warmly, his wicked grin intensifying to devilish.

  English? Samantha limped forward another step. Just who was he speaking to?

  “Dear Thorne,” a husky feminine voice greeted, matching him in warmth. “What a thorough pleasure. I know this is mostly a formality, but I simply couldn’t miss your wedding day.”

  Samantha recognized that crisp, perfect British accent the split-second before Mena Mackenzie swept into view, draped in wine-red velvet, both her hands extended toward the apparently delighted Lord Thorne.

  Gavin pulled the marchioness scandalously close, and lowered his head to plant a kiss on the woman’s lush lips.

  Samantha’s unbidden sound of protest was covered by an equally inarticulate noise.

  A growl, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  To her credit, Lady Ravencroft turned her head just in time to receive his kiss on her cheek. In doing so, she caught sight of Samantha, and quickly stepped out of Gavin’s clutches.

  “Oh, hello again, Miss Ross.” She wiped at her cheek, looking a bit abashed, if not exactly guilty.

  “Lady Ravencroft.” The cold clip to her words surprised her as much as it did anyone else, Samantha figured. But sharp suspicion needled at her with surprising strength.

  Gavin’s head swiveled much like an owl’s, and he speared her with a look so bright with unidentifiable meaning, she swallowed and fought an instinctual step backward.

  “You’re not supposed to be down here,” he said through his teeth, all pretense of charm slipping for the space of a dangerous moment.

  Samantha had to pretend that his obvious displeasure at her presence didn’t sting.

  A dark brogue sounded from the doorway, thick with snide sarcasm. “If that’s a sample of yer famous charm, Thorne, then ’tis a good thing ye’re handsome.”

  “Liam, you told me you were going to behave,” Mena said over her shoulder to the man still hidden behind the stones. She glided toward Samantha while pulling black kid gloves from her fingers. “Surely Gavin meant he wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding. Not only is it bad luck, it’s rather wicked.”

  “See her in what? My mother’s nightgown? That hardly counts, nor does it necessarily inspire wicked thoughts.” Gavin made a dismissive gesture with his shoulders, his artificial smile reaffixed, though he swiftly overtook Mena in her quest to be at Samantha’s side. “Besides, luck has nothing to do with why we’re here today, so it’s better we just get on with it.”

  Get on with it, Samantha thought glumly. His words would have hurt if she didn’t entirely share the sentiment.

  His gaze confused her, though. In direct contrast to his cold words, it lingered where her shawl revealed her clavicles and a few open buttons. For a moment his veneer slipped, and something a little like hunger tightened his features and fists.

  “I’ll have you know, I came in search of something other than your mother’s nightgown to wear.” She’d have planted her hands on her hips if she were able to let go of her cane. “I assume my entire trousseau was burned in the fire, and if you want to marry me in this getup while you’re dressed like some French dandy then I’ll need— Oomph!”

  She didn’t know he’d planned to scoop her off her feet until he’d done just that. Hell, he didn’t even break stride. One moment she was on the ground, and the next she was draped over the swells of his biceps like a sandbag as he hauled her back up the spiral steps.

  “Put me down,” she demanded, a little breathlessly.

  “Nay.” His teeth had yet to separate, and Samantha knew somewhere back in that protective part of herself that a smarter woman would be afraid. But …

  “Don’t you fucking tell me nay.” She mimicked his word rather terribly. “And while we’re on the subject, where are my guns?”

  “Haud yer wheesht, woman.”

  “Hold your own wished.”

  “Och, I like her.” The Laird’s chuckle followed them up the stairs and did exactly nothing for Gavin’s dark mood.

  “It’s not like ye need a real wedding dress,” he explained in the fashion of a parent running out of patience. Though how he could maintain his even breath while hauling her up three floors’ worth of stairs was beyond her. “Alice was supposed to set one of my mother’s pale frocks out for ye this morning and do the necessary alterations.”

  “Well, she didn’t,” Samantha spat, wriggling in his unyielding grip. “I haven’t seen a single soul but Eammon since yesterday. Including you,” she added for good measure, painfully aware she sounded like a plaintive lover. “I’ve had nothing but a sponge bath since the fire. There’s probably still soot in my hair, though you can’t smell it over the aroma of the bog mud Eammon keeps slathering on my leg. And I’m not asking for a wedding dress or anything, but a clean pair of knickers would be nice as I’m currently not wearing any at all.”

  The sure-footed Highlander stumbled, paused, and glowered down at her with enough fire to set the stones ablaze.

  “Shite,” he muttered under his breath, following that with a slew of words she’d never before heard but absolutely understood.

  Samantha decided right then and there to learn Gaelic. It was apparently a lovely language for cussing, as he was able to fill the tower hall with blistering curses, all the way to his chamber door.

  “Are you having an affair with the second Lady Ravencroft, as well?” As with many words, she regretted them the moment they’d escaped, and not only because he nearly dropped her a second time.

  “With Mena?” The dubious curl of his lip went a long way toward soothing her pride that shouldn’t have been ruffled in the first place. “Not that it’s yer business, but why the hell would ye think that? Because she’s my brother’s wife?”

  “Because the way you held and attempted to kiss her was the farthest thing from a show of brotherly affection.”

  “Not necessarily.” He smirked. “As my doing so was entirely for my brother’s benefit.”

  “Oh, you mean … you were merely antagonizing him?”

  “And I didna mean for ye to see it.” It wasn’t an apology, but close enough. Samantha couldn’t think of a time anyone had told her they were sorry, and it didn’t seem that the thread was about to break.

  Not that he owed her one, she reminded herself sternly.

  “He sounded antagonized to me, if that means anything,” she encouraged, summoning a half-smile for him. “He actually growled at you.”

  Thorne stopped in the middle of his vast chamber and tilted his chin to look down at her, the wisp of a genuine smile melting some of the sardonic ire in his smirk. She was beginning to tell when he was genuinely pleased with her, because a dimple appeared in his left cheek. “Aye, that he did.”

  Samantha’s neck shook with strain from holding it aloft in this position, and she gave in to the instinct to rest it on his shoulder before she realized the affection the gesture might convey. “My neck,” she explained quickly. Wondering why he hadn’t put her down.

  Wondering why she didn’t want him to.

  They stood like that for a silent moment. Well, he stood, and she nestled into the cradle of his arms feeling very small, and oddly safe.

  It was queer to explore another’s body with parts other than your fingertips.

  His shoulder against her cheek was round and firm beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. His biceps swelled beneath her back and the crooks of her legs, taut with the strain of her weight. His lean torso press
ed firmly against her sides, rippling with strength.

  When she next glanced up at him, his eyes flashed with a ferocious and savage green storm that seemed to brand her with equal parts trepidation and titillation. “Ye gods, but do I wish this day were done with,” he muttered fiercely.

  This day. Their wedding day.

  Something he apparently dreaded.

  When she was alone, she’d have to have a good long talk with herself about allowing his flippant words to make her chest ache. This was Gavin fucking St. James, the most famous libertine since Caligula. He’d tuckered out more French whores than Benjamin Franklin.

  Of course he didn’t want to get married. Not really. He just wanted to sign a land deal that came with a passably beddable heiress whom he could stash wherever and go right back to being whatever the Gaelic word for Lothario was.

  Which was fine with her. Really.

  So why the hell wasn’t he putting her down?

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and Samantha grasped on to Gavin as he whirled around.

  Lady Ravencroft tentatively pushed the door open, and Samantha was surprised to see a footman with a trunk lingering behind her.

  “I hope I’m not intruding, but when I heard about what happened to Erradale yesterday, I very much worried that you might have lost your belongings in the fire.” She ventured into the chamber, her jade gaze touching on everything and registering the same surprise at the simple, masculine contents as Samantha herself had shown.

  Samantha couldn’t say why, but it pleased her to note this was obviously the first time Mena Mackenzie had been in this room.

  The marchioness motioned for the footman to set the trunk down.

  “Of course, everything in my wardrobe would look as large as a circus tent on you, but my husband has a grown daughter, Rhianna, who inherited the Mackenzie height. I brought some of her skirts and blouses and such from before she … matured. She’s not quite so lean as you are, but I have a few sashes and belts that would help ensure everything fits.”

  In a few long strides, Gavin took Samantha to the bed and gingerly set her down before turning back to the expectant marchioness.

  “Ye are an angel, English,” he declared. “Much too good for the likes of the Demon Highlander.”

  “So they keep telling me,” she replied with an impish wink. “Now do go away and leave us girls alone. I’ll have your bride presentable within the half hour.”

  “I’ll return to collect her when ye send for me,” he vowed, and closed the door behind him.

  Presentable. That’s as good as she could ever hope for. Most especially in contrast to Mena’s stunning and voluptuous beauty. The marchioness reminded her of some of the sensational paintings she’d seen at the opera house in Denver the one time she’d gone with Bennett. Lush and luxurious, with soft curves and a come-hither gaze, painted in vivid color from her vibrant red hair to her green eyes.

  Even her ivory skin seemed illuminated by some inner light. What, Samantha wondered, created such an effect? Money, maybe? Expensive creams and haberdashery. Happiness?

  Love?

  “I’ll leave her in your … capable hands.” Gavin took one of those hands and kissed it before shutting the door behind him.

  Christ, was she going to have to endure him flirting like this with all women?

  Or just the uncommonly lovely ones with the impressive breasts?

  The moment they were alone, Mena rushed to her, claiming a place on the mattress beside her, and taking her hand. “I’ve been worried sick about you ever since Thorne galloped to Ravencroft at dawn yesterday. He said you’d been shot! That Erradale burned to the ground. My God, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. The bullet grazed a bit into the muscle, but I was lucky.”

  “Thank heavens,” Mena continued emphatically. “But then, Thorne announced that he was marrying you today and Liam had to be the one to perform the ceremony or he’d have to wait for a license from Glasgow. I could have fainted, I tell you. I almost did! Liam only agreed out of sheer stupefied curiosity.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Samantha muttered.

  Mena gave her a probing look. “You can imagine my surprise at the news, especially after our previous visit not so very long ago.”

  Samantha considered how best to proceed. She didn’t want to make the marchioness suspicious, but neither did she want to seem like she’d fallen under Gavin’s spell like so many idiot ninnies before her. “A lot has happened since we talked last,” she said carefully.

  “If this is about money, or a place to stay, I’ll have you know that I’ve gathered a great many men who are not only willing, but eager to help with your cattle. I was going to call upon you to give you the news. Likewise, you could always come to stay at Ravencroft until Erradale can be inhabited again. Indefinitely, if you need. I’ve already spoken to Liam about it and he’s more than willing.”

  “To save me from marriage to his brother, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Mena looked away guiltily.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “It’s just that … I’ve seen marriages for the sake of land and legacy go very wrong, indeed. Thorne is a good man, but … troubled. There are rifts in this family that…”

  “I know about Colleen,” Samantha said softly. “Hell, Gavin’s father killed mine. This situation couldn’t get more complicated.”

  Would that were a lie. Things could get much, much messier in a hurry.

  Some, if not all, of her jealous ire at Lady Ravencroft evaporated at the earnest look of concern on her face. Would she still make the same offer, Samantha wondered, once her belly began to swell? Or would she turn her out to the cold, as she’d seen so many do, including the Smiths with their own daughter, Clara. The fourteen-year-old pregnant girl had only been welcomed back into the fold when she’d married the reluctant father and “repented her sins.”

  Samantha had a feeling the Scots, the English, and the Americans were not so very different in their regard of unmarried mothers.

  “This wedding is … to our mutual benefit,” she reassured them both. “I need protection, and help with Erradale.”

  “But Liam would happily provide—”

  “I need a husband,” she said firmly. “And the annuity he promised. Inverthorne needs an heir. Frankly, I vowed to keep Erradale out of the hands of the Mackenzie Laird, your husband, which is where it will likely go if I let the court proceedings take place. So today I am marrying Gavin St. James.”

  “All right, dear.” Mena squeezed her hand after anxiously searching her face and finding nothing but rote determination. “Then let’s get you dressed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It occurred to Gavin that the first thought a groom had upon spying his bride shouldn’t be to wonder whether or not she wore knickers. By his troth, it’d been all he’d thought about since the admission had left her mouth.

  He’d felt like an utter shite for not considering such details before, and was then made a greater bastard for wondering how long he could keep his wee wife’s nethers accessibly bare beneath her skirts.

  In a room full of people, the knowledge was unbelievably erotic.

  Mena preceded Alison into the study where a motley assortment of folks had gathered for the occasion.

  Gavin stood to the right of his brother, in a sort of intimation of what an actual wedding would look like. Callum and Eammon in shabby, if clean, Irish colors gathered at his left elbow as witnesses.

  His mother was down with a migraine, though he knew Liam’s presence to be the true reason for her absence. Ravencroft had inherited the baritone growl of Hamish Mackenzie, and the sound of it gave her heart dangerous palpitations.

  “Ye were supposed to send for me to fetch my bride,” Gavin scowled at Lady Ravencroft.

  “We managed.” Mena opened the door wider. “A woman is owed an entrance on her wedding day.”

  Gavin had always been rather derisive of any
romantic clichés, but the sudden burn in his chest for lack of oxygen had him reassessing his position. For if his breath had been stolen, his bride was undoubtedly the reluctant thief.

  The dress was simple, though the woman inside was anything but. A high-necked silk blouse the color of the velvet Highland mists was tucked into an indigo skirt adorned with so many layers, it resembled a waterfall. A wide belt accentuated her impossibly narrow waist, the pewter buckle adorned in the front with the emblem of the Scottish thistle. She wore no other jewelry, though Mena had worked some sort of magic with her luxuriant dark hair, pinning it beneath a simple triangle of long white lace that trailed down her back in place of a veil.

  She needed no jewels, for her eyes shone more luminous than any sapphires. Her lips would have shamed rubies. A fresh, unfettered glow seemed to illuminate her sun-kissed skin from beneath.

  She wasn’t the most classically beautiful woman Gavin had ever seen. Nor was she the most elegant, seductive, nor flawless. She’d a cane instead of a bouquet. Calluses on her fingers instead of diamonds. More challenge in her eyes than seduction. And more sass than honey on her tongue.

  But gods, he’d never wanted anyone more.

  When she entered the study, her features lit with a brilliance he’d not expected, and for an incandescent moment, his entire being glowed with the pleasure of it.

  Until he realized she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Calybrid!” she exclaimed, limping over to the left to where Locryn stood behind the wheelchair they’d once used for Gavin’s mother. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed.”

  Calybrid’s pallid face split into an unrepentant grimace that could have passed for a grin. “If ye’re well enough to be married, then I’m well enough to watch Locryn give ye away. Besides, I taught these two bog trotters to throw knives when they were wee lads, so that entitles me to a wedding invitation.” He motioned to Gavin and Callum.