Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because once she’s gone, no one will stand betwixt ye and the laird. ’Twill be the dungeon wit’ ye then.”

  Thomas didn’t like the enthusiasm Mary was displaying as she lathered her hands, her expression determined, as though she were getting ready to attack an especially crusted and greasy pan.

  “’Twill be a fine banquet, indeed. There’s to be raspberry tarts, savory turtle soup, bread pudding—”

  “I’m sure ’twill be a fine feast.” He eyed her narrowly. “Mistress Mary, is there a reason you keep bringing up this banquet? I cannot help but notice that you are upset.”

  The maid’s lips quivered, and for a horrible moment he thought she might burst into tears. She gave a great sniff, wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, and then began to scrub his shoulder as if her life depended upon it. “I’m upset because the laird’s decided ’tis time to marry Fia off to Malcolm Davies.”

  “The laird of the clan?”

  “Pssht. His mother rules that clan, and everyone knows it. He’s the laird in name alone.”

  “God’s wounds, you cannot be serious.”

  “Aye, the ceremony is to be held before the week’s end.”

  “That’s rather sudden, isn’t it?”

  “In some ways, aye. The laird wishes his cousin to be safe. The Davies are a powerful clan and should be able to withstand any number of attacks, even in these coming times.”

  “Coming times?”

  “Aye. The troubles have come to Scotland. The queen—” Mary’s lips folded together in a straight line. “Howe’er ’tis, the laird’s decided Fia’s to marry Malcolm Davies and will no’ listen to reason.”

  Thomas couldn’t shake the thought of Fia getting married. Not that he wished to marry her himself, for he didn’t. Fia was not the type of woman one married; she was too impulsive, too wanton, too everything. When he married, it would be to a properly raised Englishwoman who would benefit his name and knew how to control her spirit. Nothing led to ruin faster than marriage to a woman of passion; his own history told him that.

  Still, he couldn’t help damning the fates. First they put that maddening Scottish wench in his path, with her tempting mouth and lush curves, and then they expected him to sit idly by while her giant cousin married her off. “When’s the wedding?”

  “Sunday.”

  “At one time, I thought Duncan and Fia were to be married.”

  “Whist, now! Shame on ye fer thinkin’ such a thing. The laird treats Fia like a sister, he does. And now he’s marryin’ her to that Malcolm Davies.”

  “And Fia is not pleased?”

  “She’d rather eat rusted nails.”

  Thomas frowned. “I do not hold with forced marriages. They benefit no one.”

  The maid looked at Thomas speculatively.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” she replied in a tone that said the opposite. The maid rubbed his shoulders with the warm cloth, her touch brisk and impersonal. “So . . . it seems that both ye and Lady Fia are in a mite of a fix. Once Lady Fia’s away with her new husband, there’s no reason fer the laird to keep ye alive. ’Tis only because of her that ye’re not restin’ in the damp cellar, trussed like a Michaelmas goose.”

  Many times in the last four days Thomas had heard from Mary the story of how Fia had intervened for him with her cousin, so he wisely didn’t say a word.

  “’Tis a good thing she put her foot down and demanded ye be given this chamber,” Mary continued. “Ye’d have not lived long in the damp cellar. Not to mention the laird’s been a bit distracted this week, and ’tis possible no one would have thought to feed ye.”

  So Fia had that much influence over MacLean. It was strange that Walsingham, with his endless web of information, hadn’t mentioned the laird’s taking cousin before now.

  “Aye,” Mary continued, “the laird loves only two things: Scotland and his cousin. Fia has been his charge since she was a wee mite. Lord MacLean had just begun to scrape the whiskers from his chin when the little lass was brought here at her parents’ deaths and placed in his care. I was a scrub maid at the time and I took to her right away, as we all did. She’s brought light and happiness to the household ’til we canno’ remember what ’twas like without her. Now she’s to be wed to a weak-kneed brute and I—” Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Och, now. Look what ye’ve made me do! I was goin’ to offer ye a way to escape from certain death, and instead ye got me weepin’ like a babe.”

  Thomas straightened in the tub. “Escape? Do you know a secret way out of the castle? One that would avoid the men camped outside?” Many castles had such passageways; it was how their inhabitants restocked their stores or escaped when under seige.

  The maid nodded, her graying red curls bouncing along. “Aye, I know the secret way. But”—she eyed him with a somber expression—“there’s a price fer such help.”

  “Name it.”

  “Ye have to take the lass with ye.”

  “You mean Lady Fia?”

  “Ye heard me. Ye and the lass must escape, and soon. She canno’ marry Davies, and ye’re wantin’ to return to London, which is where she wishes to go. ’Tis the perfect solution.”

  “Mary, I can’t take Fia with me. The laird would come after us—perhaps all the way to London.”

  “Then ye’ll have to protect her,” Mary said stoutly. “Ye’ve no choice, me lad. Ye’ll be a dead man the minute Lady Fia sets foot outside the gates. Ye must to take her to London with ye or ye’ll die here—alone, a failure, yer life wasted.”

  A failure. The words echoed with the bitter salt of truth. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Though if he did take Fia to London, she might prove useful to Walsingham. If she was as close to her cousin as Mary suggested, then it was entirely possible that Fia knew MacLean’s position on the coming uprising.

  That could be very valuable information indeed. “Very well; if you will help me escape, I’ll take Lady Fia.”

  “And me and Angus, too.”

  “What? I can’t—”

  “Yes, ye can. I canno’ allow Lady Fia to go unchaperoned.”

  Thomas scowled. “Very well, but you’ll have to travel light.”

  Mary beamed. “Of course, me lord. Angus and I dinna own enough to fill a sack.”

  Thomas relaxed. “Very well. How many men does the laird have?”

  “MacLean put five of his best men to watchin’ ye. He has a hundred or more here within the castle walls, with the remainder of his men and those who came with the Davies clan camped without. Over three hundred in all.”

  It was worse than he’d thought. “Where’s the secret passageway?”

  “Lady Fia will come to ye when she can and ’tis safe to leave. She knows the way, she do.”

  “When will that be?”

  Mary frowned. “I dinna know. As soon as she can do so wit’out the laird knowin’ her intention.”

  “Mary, tell me the way out of this blasted castle. The sooner I know the route, the better.”

  “Lady Fia will tell ye,” Mary repeated more firmly. “I’ll not have ye leavin’ without her.”

  “I give you my word I will not do that—though ’twould be easier to escape without her.”

  Mary scrubbed with vigor. “Lady Fia may be a mite different from the fancy women ye’re accustomed to, but she’s a rare one fer all that.”

  “Aye. Rarely properly clothed, rarely where she ought to be, rarely thinking before she speaks, rarely anything other than cursed infuriating.”

  Mary’s lips thinned and she began scrubbing his arm with such effort that it made his skin red. “The mistress is as proper a lady as any!”

  Thomas winced at the strength of her touch. “If it weren’t for your mistress, I wouldn’t have been captured,” he stated. “She’s too flighty by half. I don’t mind taking the lot of you with me, but I won’t leave the details of this endeavor in her hands. I will be the one in cha
rge of the escape.”

  Mary threw the washcloth into the tub, splashing sudsy water in Thomas’s face. “Fine! Ye can be in charge, but dinna be a fool and forget that the lass grew up in this place and knows every nook and cranny.”

  Thomas wiped the water from his face. God save me from all Scots, he thought. They’re all cursed lackwits. ’Tis a wonder the country exists at all. “Fine. I’ll listen to Lady Fia, so long as you both know I’m in charge of this venture.”

  Mary looked slightly mollified. “Ye promise?”

  “Aye. I promise.” Thomas lifted his shoulders and winced in exaggerated pain. “My back is sore; I would appreciate it if you’d scrub it for me.”

  She nodded stiffly and then grasped his shoulder and shoved him forward until his head was but inches from the water. He managed to swallow his grunt of pain, holding himself at the ready for her not-so-gentle touch. But to his surprise, Mary dropped the cloth and began to knead his back with exquisite thoroughness, every movement easing his sore muscles.

  A warm lassitude seeped through him. “You are washing away every ache.”

  “The mistress will have more bruises than this if she’s made to wed Malcolm Davies.”

  Frowning, Thomas lifted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s evil,” Mary said in a tight voice, her gaze direct and unflinching.

  “You think he will hurt her?”

  “He’s been known to beat the women servants.”

  Thomas’s jaw tightened. “Surely he wouldn’t do such a thing to Fia. MacLean would kill him.”

  “If he knew, aye. But after she marries it may be months before the laird sees her again, and by then—” Mary shook her head, worry darkening her blue eyes.

  “What sort of an animal is this Malcolm Davies?”

  “He’s a wee, mean, shallow youth protected by a doting mother who thinks he’s too important to be corrected.” She leaned closer. “Only male servants are allowed in Malcolm’s rooms, fer fear he’ll kill the next female he puts his hands on. He has a terrible temper, he do.”

  Thomas’s jaw ached at the thought of Fia—winsome, fey Fia, who could not walk past a half-dead animal without adopting it as a pet—at the hands of such brutality. “That would kill her spirit, if not her body.”

  Mary’s lip quivered. “Sassenach, she must escape.”

  Thomas nodded. “I will take her to London with me and put her under Queen Elizabeth’s protection.”

  A smile burst upon Mary’s face. “Ye’re many things, but ye’re not a wee, mean-hearted man.”

  “Thank you,” Thomas said drily.

  She had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Och, I’m sorry to speak so bluntly, but this is Lady Fia we’re talkin’ about. She has to go to London and produce her plays. ’Tis what she was born to do.”

  Ah yes, the plays. He’d almost forgotten them. “Are these plays so important to her, then?”

  “Have ye ever wanted somethin’ so badly ye were willin’ to give up everythin’ ye had to possess it?”

  In the flicker of an eye, Thomas remembered when he’d been but a child of six, the agony of the days after his mother had fled. His father had been a madman, stalking about the house, screaming at the smallest of things, raging loud and long at everyone, including Thomas.

  Thomas had been devastated by his mother’s desertion. He’d ripped apart her room, looking for a note, a letter, some sign that she would return, but he’d found nothing.

  His father’s reaction had frightened Thomas, but he understood the feelings behind it better than anyone else. He became determined to show his father that he would never leave, and he had stopped at nothing to please his remaining parent.

  Much later, he realized that he had taken on an impossible task, but at the time, oh how he’d yearned for his father’s approval.

  Gruffly, he said, “Aye, I know how it feels to want something badly.”

  “Then ye understand that she’s made it her goal to reach London and see her plays upon the stage. Mistress Fia has a gift fer writin’. ’Twould be folly not to pursue her dreams.”

  Thomas sighed. “It is a bigger folly to pursue them. No woman of good birth would allow her name to appear on a playbill. ’Twould be an enormous scandal.”

  Mary clambered to her feet. “I dinna care what society thinks, and neither should you.” She collected the washcloths and put them over the edge of the tub. Then she placed the large towel near the tub and made her way to the door. “Lady Fia will come fer ye as soon as ’tis safe, so be prepared anytime. ’Twill be soon; a day or two at most.”

  “Very well. I will be waiting.”

  Mary whisked herself out the door, closing it solidly behind her, and the rattle of a key told him the guards had once again secured the lock.

  Chapter Eight

  Two days passed and still no Fia. The wait was maddening, made worse since he was tortured by the unmistakable sound of her voice floating up from the courtyard, ordering the servants to various duties as more of the Davies clan arrived.

  Each time he heard that lilting voice, Thomas rushed his sore body to the window, but to no avail: he never caught sight of her. It was infuriating.

  Now ’twas late at night. Thomas piled another log onto the fire as the clock struck two.

  He leaned against the mantel, rerolling the sleeve that had fallen over his hand. The clothing Fia had sent was laughable. The doublet was so large that it was more like a cape with sleeves and the hosen so loose that they threatened to fall to the floor. He’d twisted the waist and tied a knot to keep them from slipping over his hips. Bloody hell, Duncan was a giant.

  Damn it, when will she come? He ground his teeth and paced his way about the room.

  What was she waiting for? Was she attempting to procure supplies for their escape? Or had something happened? Was it possible that Duncan had discovered the plan?

  Surely not. Surely she’d have sent someone to tell him. And if Fia had been caught, would her cousin take his ire out on her? Thomas could only hope not, though his jaw clenched at the thought.

  He shook his head. God’s wounds, but he was tied in knots over a mere slip of a girl with a penchant for collecting mangy animals like most women collected jewels. She’s an unruly, undisciplined, disheveled, impulsive, un—

  Voices rose in the hallway, followed by the sound of Fia’s voice. She was chuckling, the guards laughing with her. He heard her say, “Aye, ’tis late; I should be abed. Good night, gentlemen. ’Til the morrow.”

  Then there was only silence. He curled his hands into fists, unable to believe that she’d left. Why hadn’t she at least tried to see him or—

  Several thuds in the hallway sounded, like heavy bodies falling down. After a long moment, the door slowly creaked opened. “Sassenach?” came Fia’s low whisper.

  Thomas took an eager step forward just as Zeus stuck his head into the room. Fia glanced down at her dog and held the door wide. “Stand guard.”

  The dog cast a longing look at the fire but walked into the hall, his crooked tail sagging between his legs, and Fia shut the door. “He’ll bark if he sees anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Thomas said drily. “Where are the guards?”

  “Sleeping like babes. I gave them a wee dram of whiskey with their dinner, and I mixed a good dose of sleeping draught in it to make sure they’d sleep heavily.”

  “Mary says you know a way from the castle.”

  “Aye, I do.” Her gaze flickered over him, resting on the knotted hosen. She grinned.

  “I’m glad you’re amused; I am not. I’ve been waiting for two days to leave this godforsaken place and my temper is thin.”

  “I couldn’t come while the Davies clan was still arriving. The last few came this evening, so now the focus will be upon the banquet hall and kitchens.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Mary’s down the hall, serving lookout. Are you ready to leave?”

  “I’ve but to pull on m
y boots.” Thomas limped to retrieve them, pushing his stiff leg to one side as he bent over. As he did so, he lost his balance.

  Fia was there in a trice, pressing a bracing shoulder to his, and in the space of a shocked second, Thomas found himself staring into the her eyes, surrounded by a wildness of sooty lashes. His body came alive with a burning heat.

  Thomas couldn’t tear his attention from the curve of her lips, wondering if she remembered the kiss in the forest as well as he did.

  “We . . . we must go,” she said huskily. The richness of her voice swirled through his stomach and below. He shifted restlessly, and Fia’s gaze locked onto his thigh.

  He knew she was wondering about his bruises, but some imp of mischief made him flex the muscle. She wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue and his body tightened with desire. He ached for a touch, a kiss. Just one, he told himself. A very quick one.

  So he kissed her—this fascinating, frustrating, innocently wanton woman-child who’d captured his imagination far too much. He kissed her with a thoroughness that allowed for no thought beyond the feel and taste of her. All of his earlier arousal returned in triple force and he caught her against him. She twined her arms about his neck and pressed against him, instantly as aroused as he.

  He wanted more. He parted her lips and gently ran his tongue across the smooth edge of her teeth. She moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer, and Thomas knew she was his. Then Zeus scratched at the door.

  It took every bit of his self-control, but Thomas freed himself from her luxuriously sensual embrace, panting as he said, “Mary awaits.”

  Fia flushed, stepping back even farther. “Aye. That wasn’t—” She bit her lip.

  He captured her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. “As soon as we reach London, comfit, those plays of yours will have their sponsor. I swear it.”

  Her embarrassment fled before a visible wave of happiness. “Thank you.” She looked delightfully, sinfully mussed, her black eyes awash with passion.