The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But his opponent’s breath came ragged and labored.

  All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason’s sword sent Gothard’s clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

  Jason’s teeth bit into his own lower lip. “I didn’t come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done.” He sucked in air and smelled the man’s desperation. “Are you ready to come peacefully?”

  Eyes wild, Gothard stumbled back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. His gaze lit on a fellow dressed in bright, conspicuous clothing who pushed his way to the front, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Grinstead!”

  Gothard’s eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, he hurled himself toward the crowd while reaching down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.

  Jason’s jaw went slack; his knees buckled. Time seemed to slow. He could hear the heated babble and smell the musky scent of the excited onlookers, feel the cool dimness in the shaded dome, see the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.

  As Gothard rose with the deadly pistol in hand, Jason’s sword arm went rigid, and he rushed headlong.

  Gothard yanked the dandy in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with shocking ease. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the dandy’s hazel eyes.

  The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason’s throat. The fellow collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason’s shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.

  Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man’s face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat.

  Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. “I’ll see you at the gates of hell,” Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.

  Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

  FOUR

  WAS THIS eternal torment? He felt so hot.

  Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.

  His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.

  Hot. He was so hot.

  Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny, deep red curls swam through his vision as someone moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.

  It was so hot in here.

  He blinked once, then again. “Where—where am I?” he rasped.

  The someone whirled. “At Cainewood, Jason. Home.” She rushed to his bedside and swabbed his brow with a warm, damp cloth. Her familiar lavender scent wafted around him. Her light green eyes were filled with concern.

  Kendra, his vibrant, exasperating sister Kendra. He was glad to see her—but the expression on her face worried him.

  And the heat.

  “Egad, I’m hot.” He pushed at the covers—two thick quilts and a velvet counterpane—and tried to sit up. Pain knifed through his body. He fell back, touching his shoulder and chest gingerly. Thick bandaging. “What happened?”

  A quick frown marred her wholesome features, then was gone. “Don’t you remember? You were shot.”

  It all came screaming back: the limestone Market Cross, the weight of the rapier in his hand, the shock as it sank into flesh. Gothard, that blackguard, pulling a young man from the crowd to use as a shield.

  “Heavens above,” Jason whispered.

  He’d killed an innocent man.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Kendra rushed to reassure him. “It was naught but a shoulder wound, and the ball came clean. The surgeon said you’ll be fine.”

  No, he wouldn’t. He would never be fine again.

  Jason shut his eyes and turned his head to hide the hot, unmanly tears that threatened. He was usually so level-headed; whatever had possessed him to take the law into his own hands?

  Rage, that was what. Black, unreasoning rage. The sight of Clarice Bradford’s ghost-white face and her motionless, battered little girl. Just remembering made his blood seethe anew.

  “Mary?” he croaked.

  “She still lives. But she’s no better.” Kendra smoothed her lemon-yellow skirts, a cheery color that seemed to clash with the sadness clouding her face. She put a hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot. You’re not feverish.” She swiped at her own damp brow. “How are you feeling?”

  “Awful. It’s too hot in here.”

  “The surgeon said to keep you warm.”

  “Surely you took him too literally.”

  She bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. “I’ll go get Ford.” Giving his hand a quick squeeze, she hurried from the room to fetch her twin.

  Jason lay still, gazing at the familiar stone walls of his bedchamber. Colorful tapestries lent the cavernous room an intimate feel and kept the drafts to a minimum. Cainewood Castle had always made him feel safe, peaceful.

  But not today.

  Pangs of guilt swept him in waves, only to be swamped by helpless anger. He had known the Gothard brothers would be long gone unless he acted immediately upon hearing word of their whereabouts—law enforcement in these parts was sorely lacking—just as he’d known Geoffrey Gothard was too dangerous to let go.

  And Jason hadn’t been wrong: a wretched coward who’d use an innocent bystander as a shield was obviously dangerous.

  But that innocent bystander would live today if Jason had chosen to wait for the authorities.

  The pain in his head intensified.

  He raised a hand to massage his brow. Why on earth did Gothard consider him an enemy?

  Ford sauntered in at Kendra’s heels, flashing a hopeful smile. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful,” Jason and Kendra said together, way too loudly.

  Wincing, Jason pushed the long black hair from his eyes.

  “It’s the laudanum.” Seventeen-year-old Ford stated the facts like the analyst he was. “The surgeon gave you enough to fell a middling-sized horse. Said you’d need it to survive the journey home, but that it may well give you a headache.”

  “He may well have been right.” Jason closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath before opening them again. The candlelight seemed brighter than usual. Too bright. He blinked at the cobalt blue canopy overhead. “What day is it?”

  “Friday. Evening.” Ford cleared his throat and leaned against one carved, twisted bedpost. “You were out for more than a day. Egad, it’s hot in here.”

  Kendra glared at her twin. “I’ll open a window.”

  “The door as well. And for heaven’s sake, bank that fire.” Ford turned to Jason, smiling at their sister’s overzealousness. Then his expression sobered. “I expect Gothard thinks you’re dead. You were covered in blood—”

  “That of the person I…killed.” Jason’s chest constricted painfully. “Who was he?”

  Ford blinked. “I don’t know. I rushed to care for you, and when I looked up, he was gone.”

  “He wasn’t alone. His friends must have taken him. We’ll have to make inquiries—”

  “In due time.” One hand on her hip, Kendra frantically fanned the door open and closed. “Cooler now?”

  Her face was flushed to match her dark red hair. Jason smiled, though even that movement hurt his head. “Sit down, Kendra.”

  The bed ropes creaked as she sat gingerly on the mattress. “I rode into the village thi
s morning.” One of her fingers traced idle circles on the blue velvet counterpane. “I talked to Clarice.”

  “She’s talking?” After the attack, Clarice had uttered nothing but Gothard’s name. Jason struggled up on his elbows, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the throbbing in his head. He had to go to Clarice, to offer her what comfort he could, to see if she knew any more about—

  “Take it easy,” Ford warned.

  Ignoring his brother, Jason tried to swing his legs off the bed, then stopped with a defeated groan. “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, his head dropping back to the pillow. “What have you learned?” He looked to Kendra. “How did Clarice know Gothard?”

  “She’d seen him around the village.”

  “The brothers made no attempt to hide their identities while they were here,” Ford added.

  “True enough.” Jason frowned. “They registered at the inn. They talked to people; I was able to get descriptions for the broadsides and the sketch from Martinson.” The blacksmith was known for his clever characterizations.

  Ford paced the carpeted floor. “It seems clear the Gothards didn’t come here intending to do this.”

  Kendra nodded. “Clarice told me that when all was said and done, they were each furious with the other. And frightened at the consequences. That’s why they ran before committing the…”

  “Rape,” Jason ground out. “You can say it, Kendra. Thank heavens at least Clarice was spared that.” She’d been badly hurt, though, and frightened out of her wits. His hands clamped down on the counterpane. No woman under his protection would ever suffer the like again—not while Jason had breath in his body. “But why? Why did they do it?”

  Kendra’s gaze dropped to her folded hands. “Clarice said he told her…”

  “If he couldn’t have your castle, instead he’d have your girl,” Ford finished for her.

  “My girl?” Jason’s head felt blank, until suddenly it dawned on him. “My mistress?” he said incredulously, his face heating although the room had cooled. “He thought Clarice was my mistress?”

  “She’s pretty enough.” Ford shrugged. “He saw you hugging Mary and handing her to Clarice. He believed she was your daughter.”

  “My daughter?” Gothard had thought him a father? How ludicrous—he was only twenty-three! He shook his head, then immediately regretted the motion. “How…what happened…with Mary?”

  “She wouldn’t stay quiet. Geoffrey threw her against the wall to shut her up.” Kendra drew a shuddering breath. “Forever, it seems. The doctor says only a miracle will bring her back.”

  Jason grasped her hand. “Then we must pray for a miracle.”

  But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was a vision of the sweet little girl he’d come to know, limp and motionless, slowly slipping into death.

  And somehow, he was responsible.

  FIVE

  Leslie, Scotland

  “MARRIED? I’m not getting married!”

  The last strains of the funeral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie’s ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father’s desk.

  As though it weren’t enough she had to bury Da today, now this. She rubbed her eyes, still itchy from this morning’s tears. “Have I misheard you?”

  Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. All of Leslie is Adam’s…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the next year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you’ll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren’t sufficient to support a man.”

  “At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed,” Cait’s cousin Cameron put in dryly.

  “Heaven forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his own pleasure,” Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark-blond plaits. “It’s been five years since he’s been home for more than a visit.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Crivvens, this cannot be.”

  “It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you.” MacLeod’s arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. “While it’s rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn’t unprecedented. Your father’s wishes will stand against a challenge.”

  “Nay, that wasn’t what I meant.” Caithren stared at her father’s desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. “Da told me that if Adam didn’t mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part isn’t surprising.” She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He’d always been there to lean on. “It’s the marriage requirement that makes no sense.”

  Cam perched his tall form on the arm of her chair, slipping his own arm around her shoulders. He looked toward the lawyer. “Might you read that wee portion of the will again? I don’t think Cait quite heard it.”

  MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. “’I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you’re sixteen now—’” The lawyer broke off and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. “He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—”

  “Aye, while I was naught but a bairn.” Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung restlessly back and forth as she talked. “Now, having attained the advanced age of seventeen, I imagine I’m a confirmed spinster—”

  “’As you’re sixteen now,’” MacLeod rushed to continue, “’it’s time you looked to securing your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you’re hearing these words, it’s apparent I failed to live long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother’s wishes are granted. I know you’ll do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother’s incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know it’s for your own good.’”

  Silence enveloped the small study, the pitter-patter of the rain unnaturally loud against the window. Caithren stared up at the timber-beamed ceiling.

  Cameron’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “It’s sorry I am for you, sweet. This is a hard day for you, I know.”

  “Da suffered. It’s a blessing he’s passed on. Didn’t everyone tell me that today?”

  But despite having decided she was done crying, her throat seemed to close painfully, and her eyes grew hot as well as itchy.

  She blinked hard. “I have no intention of marrying.”

  Rising to tower over her, Cameron straightened the dark blue and green Leslie kilt he’d worn for the funeral. “Never?”

  “Ever.”

  “But you’ll have your pick of the young men.” Cam ran a hand back through his straight, wheaten hair. “Surely there must be some fellow…” He frowned, then smiled. “Duncan. Maybe you’d consider Duncan? He has land of his own, and the village maidens are forever tittering over his good looks—”

  “He’s a fool.” When Caithren stood, Cam took a step back. “He’d be no better for Leslie than Adam. And he’d never let me have a hand in running things, or you, for that matter.”

  “James, then. James is no fool.”

  “Aye, you’ve the right of it there. But James isn’t one for the land. He keeps his nose in a book all the day. He’d be no better than Adam, either.”

  Cam walked to the window and gazed out at the pouring rain. “Surely there must be someone.” His voice bounced muffled off the uneven glass. “What sort of life would you live, then? Your folks were so happy…don’t you want as much for yourself?”

  She joined him there and watched familiar gray clouds glide slowly over the green rolling hills where her family had lived for generations. Beyo
nd a stone wall, the ponies she and Cameron were breeding fed in a nearby field, swishing their long tails. Tenant farmers worked in the distance—people she knew as well as her own kin.

  She’d lived her entire life in this fortified house that looked like a wee, turreted castle. Da had built it for her mother—he’d always treated Mam like a queen. Love owercomes the reasons o’ mind, Mam used to murmur when she walked up the path to her home; the heart always rules the head. But she’d said it with a laugh and a blush of pleasure.

  Aye, Mam had been loved. But she’d still been the property of a man.

  “For all Da loved her, Mam had nothing to call her own. I want no master. And I want us to run Leslie together, Cam, the way we’ve been doing it since Da fell ill. Any husband of mine would inherit my property upon marriage, and no man would allow you an equal partnership.” One of her fingers traced the crooked line of a raindrop as it trailed down the pane. “We’d never realize our grand plans. Even my own father plotted to manipulate me from the grave. All men are the same.”

  “Not all men, Cait.”

  When she turned to him, Cam’s eyes held a challenge.

  “Maybe not all,” she conceded. “Not you.” Turning back to the window, she traced another raindrop…two…three.

  Sudden hope made her gasp. “You!” She whirled to face him. “I shall marry you! Leslie should be yours in any case—how many times have I said it?”

  Cameron stared, incredulous. “Me? Are you daft? We’re kin.”

  “So? Kin often marry. We’re cousins, not brother and sister.”

  “First cousins.” MacLeod’s voice came stern across the room. Caithren had forgotten all about him. “I’ve heard it said that such inbreeding can result in diseased children.”

  “Inbreeding?” Cam was still sputtering beside her. “Cait, I…I love you, but not that way. Not the, er, breeding sort of way. More like a sister.” He was red as a cherry.