The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Shouldering her out of the way, Jason strode to his chest of clothes to choose a few of his plainest shirts. “It’s not serious; the surgeon said so himself. The first days found me groggy from the laudanum, and I’ve let you coddle and care for me since. But now the blackguards have stolen my horses, and I’ve a lead where they’re headed. Nothing you say will keep me here. Lives are at stake, and apparently, for reasons I cannot fathom, I am involved.”

  Ford came in with Claxton, who had brought the portmanteau and moved to pack it. “I’d best choose my wardrobe myself,” Jason told him. “This is no ordinary journey.”

  His manservant blinked. “Then I shall ready myself for travel.”

  Jason shook his head. “I mean to go alone, dressed as a commoner. If Gothard thinks I’m dead, it makes no sense to call attention to myself.”

  “Alone, Jason?” Kendra railed as Claxton left the chamber. “Who will care for you?”

  He walked to the bed, opened one of the two leather bags, and tossed in the shirts. “The shoulder doesn’t pain me much,” he said, stretching the truth, “and there’s no sign of infection.” That at least was fact.

  And if his younger brother and sister were looking at him as though he’d gone around the bend, so be it. He would do what was expected of him. What he expected of himself.

  Kendra pulled the shirts back out and folded them neatly. “You should have let Claxton pack.”

  “I’m capable of packing for myself.” Selecting two fine lawn shirts and a snowy cravat from the chest at the foot of his bed, he bypassed his sister’s outstretched hands to demonstrate. Three pairs of his plainest breeches and a couple more workaday shirts came next. Then a dark blue velvet suit. The boots on his feet would do.

  “Geoffrey Gothard must be stopped.” Jason paused in his packing to gaze out the diamond-paned window. In the sunshine beyond lay his land, his people. “I cannot face my own villagers until it’s done.”

  “You sent broadsides near and far,” Kendra argued. “It’s common knowledge that Gothard is a wanted outlaw. For the hundred pounds you’ve offered—”

  “—that MacCallum woman will see it done,” Ford finished for her.

  “Emerald MacCallum? The Scot who wears men’s clothing and carries a pistol?” Jason blinked and dragged his gaze back to the dim room. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for that claptrap. A woman tracking outlaws for the reward money—why, you’d have to be maggot-brained to believe such fancies.”

  Ford shrugged noncommittally.

  “Then someone else will see it done.” Kendra crossed her arms.

  Jason could feel his face heating. Part of him agreed with her, but his father’s expectations of him overrode her cool logic. “I cannot wait for someone to see it done. Since the king abolished Cromwell’s Major General districts, there’s no one to see it done.” His sturdiest stockings joined the pile of clothing. “Didn’t we see that in Chichester? A man was murdered in the middle of a crowded square, and no one even knows who he was.”

  “Charles did well to abolish the districts,” Ford protested. “Clarendon says their main purpose was to tax us Royalists.” He raised a finger to make another point, then shook his head as though realizing this was not the time for a debate. “Jason, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  “I’ve never been more sure. Such lawlessness cannot be borne.” Jason paced the red and blue carpet, snatching up an ivory comb and his shaving kit as he went. “The counties don’t cooperate, don’t share information with one another. Gothard could be off somewhere leading a blasted parade and not draw any official’s notice!”

  Kendra came to stand before him. “And you could chase a violent lunatic to Constantinople and back without stopping to think about whether his crimes are your responsibility!” She tried to smile, a gentle smile that tugged at his heart. “Jason, the Gothards are gone from this area—you can be sure of it. You’ve done all you can. You’re injured. You have people here, people who need you.”

  He dropped to sit on the bed, fighting to marshal his temper. “He made me kill an innocent man. Perhaps the reward will bring him in, perhaps not. But I cannot just wait and see; I won’t be able to live with myself until Gothard is behind bars, never to murder again. And I’ll hear from him just what he thinks my part is in this debacle.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Kendra.”

  “You’re worse than Colin,” she grumbled, referring to their other brother, who said that all the time.

  Rising from the bed, Jason grabbed a ball of hard-milled soap from his washstand, threw it into the portmanteau, flipped the bags closed, and secured the latches. “No more arguments.” He went to his sister and gave her a hard hug, ignoring the jolt to his shoulder. “They’ve singled me out—how can I turn away? What kind of man would that make me?”

  Kendra opened her mouth, but Jason cut her off. “You cannot stop me, little sister.” He gripped both her shoulders. “Just wish me Godspeed.”

  “If you won’t wait to heal, then at least wait an hour or two for Ford and me to get ready. You’ve never gone off without us. I can care for your wound—”

  “This isn’t a holiday, Kendra. You would slow me down.”

  He saw her take a deep breath before the fight drained out of her. When she nodded up at him, he turned to Ford. “Find out who I killed, will you? Ask around again in Chichester. Someone must know the identity of his two acquaintances. Then locate them, follow up. Send word to Pontefract if you hear anything.”

  “Jason, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Do it,” he ordered. He jammed his sword into his belt, tucked a small pistol into his boot top, and lifted the portmanteau. “Watch over Cainewood for me. With any luck, I won’t be long.”

  “And then we can lay this nightmare to rest?” Kendra asked.

  He stared at her a long time while the chamber filled with an oppressive silence. Then, unable to make that promise, he kissed her cheek and strode from the room.

  “Godspeed,” she whispered after him.

  EIGHT

  HER BACK TO the other passengers straggling in and queuing to rent rooms, Caithren stared at the innkeeper in disbelief. “Are you telling me there are no horses for hire in this town?”

  He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “That’s what I’m telling you, madam.”

  Mrs. Dochart took Cait by the arm. “Come along, lass. Maybe the situation will change on the morrow.” With her other hand she set down her valise and dug inside for coins. “We’ll take a room upstairs, Mr. Brown.”

  Caithren shook off the woman’s hand and leaned farther over the innkeeper’s desk. “Are there no hackney cabs, either?”

  “No hackney cabs.”

  “But Pontefract is a stage stop!”

  “We’ve extra horses for the public coach, naturally. But not for hire.”

  Behind her, Caithren heard feet shuffling impatiently on the gritty wood floor. “Hurry up, there,” someone grumbled.

  “Hold your tongue,” Cait shot over her shoulder. “I’ve spent eight days shut up in a hot coach”—with a crotchety, meddling old woman, she added silently—“just to get here and visit with my brother at the Scarborough estate in West Riding.”

  Rubbing his thin, reddish nose, the innkeeper slanted her a dubious look. “The Earl of Scarborough’s estate?”

  “Aye, the same.”

  He shrugged. “You can walk. It’s nice enough weather and naught but a mile or so.” The man opened a drawer and pulled out a thick, leather-bound registration book. “Out there, then head east. The road will take you straight past the Scarborough place. You’ll find it set back on the right side, perhaps a quarter mile from the road. An enormous stone mansion—you cannot miss it.” With a dismissive thump, he set the book on the desk and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. “You may leave your satchel if you wish. Should Scarborough invite you to stay”—his tone conveyed what he thought were the chances of that happening—“I
reckon he’ll send a footman to fetch it.”

  He waved her aside and the next person forward.

  “Come along, lass. We’ll be losing the light soon.” Mrs. Dochart set her own bag alongside Cait’s behind the desk. “Unless you’d prefer to wait for the morn?” she added hopefully.

  Cait reached up a finger to twirl one of her plaits. “Nay, I wish to go immediately.” Without a chaperone. “But I’m…I mean to say…well, I expected we’d part company here. Not that I haven’t enjoyed yours,” she rushed to add, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike with that lie.

  She couldn’t remember ever uttering a more blatant falsehood.

  The old bawface looked dubious. “Your cousin hired me to look after you, lass, and—”

  “Only so far as Pontefract. He was well aware I was getting off here, aye? My brother will hire a chaperone for the return journey.”

  Though Mrs. Dochart sniffed, it was clear she had no wish to tramp over the countryside. “If you’re certain, then—”

  “I’m certain.” For want of another way to end their association, Caithren executed a little curtsy. “It’s pleased I am to have met you, Mrs. Dochart, and I thank you for keeping me company.”

  That lie might have topped the first one; Cait wasn’t sure. Feeling a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, she crossed the inn’s taproom and headed out into the waning sunshine and down the road.

  She hadn’t progressed ten feet when the woman’s voice shrilled into the quiet street. “Ah, Caithren, lass!”

  With a sigh, Cait composed her face and turned back to the inn. “Aye, Mrs. Dochart?” The bawface stood framed in the doorway. A cracked wooden sign swung in the light wind, creaking over her head. “I told you I shall be fine.”

  “But the innkeeper said east. It’s west you’re walking.”

  “Oh!” Cait’s cheeks heated. “Right.”

  “Nay, left.”

  “Right. I mean to say, aye. Left, east.”

  Reversing her direction, Cait hurried past, murmuring “Thank you” over her shoulder. She heard the woman mutter under her breath and was soon relieved to be out of earshot.

  The evening was warm, and the slight breeze felt wonderful after the stuffy, confining coach. It was passably pretty country, the land green and flatter than at home. She much preferred the harsh contours of Scotland—the beautiful glens, the blues and purples of the wooded mountains, the little lochs and streams and waterfalls everywhere. But she didn’t have to live here, after all. She could enjoy the land for what beauty could be found.

  Her heart sang to be free at last, on her way to meet Adam and perhaps rest a few days, depending on the returning public coach’s schedule. In two weeks’ time she’d be back at Leslie, signed papers in hand, giving Cameron the tongue-lashing he deserved for saddling her with that irritating old woman.

  Glancing down, she spotted the distinctive red-green leaves of meadow rue poking from the edge of a ditch. With a gasp of delight, she knelt to pick some, wrinkling her nose at the strong, unpleasant scent. Bruised and applied, it was good to heal sores and difficult to find near home. Pleased, she tucked the meadow rue into her pocket and continued on her way.

  She rubbed a hand across her forehead and tried not to think about how tired she was. Instead she focused on the hours ahead. Following what promised to be her first decent meal in weeks, tonight she’d luxuriate in a big tub of clean, steaming water. She couldn’t wait to wash off the dust of the road. And she couldn’t wait until tomorrow morn, when she’d be snug in a soft feather bed at Scarborough’s, imagining the public coach rattling down the road toward London with that bawface tucked inside.

  The thought was so vivid and appealing, she nearly missed the gravel drive that led to a yellowish stone mansion in the distance.

  The building threw a long shadow. The sun was setting. She tucked her plaid tighter around her black bodice and skirt. When Adam saw her dressed in mourning, he’d understand right off how completely he’d neglected his family and home. It would be a simple matter to persuade him to sign the papers MacLeod had drawn up.

  In the fading light she hurried along the path, marveling at the way the gravel was so raked and pristine. Scarborough must employ an army of servants. But they weren’t here now, she realized as she drew close.

  The mansion was shut up tight as a jar of Aunt Moira’s preserves!

  The sun sank over the horizon as Caithren stared at the heavy, bolted oak door. Hearing the call of a single hawk overhead, apparently the only living creature in the vicinity, she stifled a sob.

  So much for her happy daydreams. She would have to stay the night in Pontefract, steel herself to climb back on the coach in the morning, then somehow survive the nine days it would take to reach London.

  She counted on her fingers. She should arrive on the day of Lord Darnley’s wedding, just in time to present herself as an uninvited guest. It was the only place she knew for certain she’d be able to find Adam.

  Touching her amulet, she prayed there’d be no summer storm or anything else to delay the coach, because she hadn’t the slightest idea where Adam would be headed the morning of August thirty-first.

  A scuffling sound on the roof made her glance up. Probably some sort of wee animal. Or rats.

  Cait shuddered. “Set a stout heart to a steep hillside,” she said aloud, imagining her mother saying the words. She squared her shoulders and was turning back toward the road when there came the snort of a horse and an answering neigh.

  Horses meant people. Her spirits lifted. Maybe Adam and his friends were here after all, and they’d just been out hunting. And even if it were strangers, maybe they could spare her the long walk—

  She heard a muted thump and the crunch of gravel, as someone apparently dropped from the roof. Then another thump.

  “Sealed up. Cannot even get inside and snatch a few trinkets to pay our way.” Coming from around the side of the mansion, the man’s voice sounded cultured. But he was cursing a string of oaths the likes of which Cait had never heard.

  She scooted into the archway that housed the front door and pressed herself against the cold stone wall.

  “I’m glad it’s sealed up.” The second man’s voice was whiny. “I don’t fancy taking things, Geoffrey.”

  “Everything here is ours, Wat. Or should be. You crackbrain.”

  The man called Wat didn’t respond to the insult. “But Cainewood’s horses? What about those?”

  “The horses are rightly mine.” The first man kicked at the ground, or at least Caithren thought he did. It was difficult to tell from around the corner. “We had to take them. We were low on funds with no way to get here. Can’t you get that through your thick skull? Did you want to walk? Sleep in the open and beg for our supper?”

  “We could have found work.”

  “Work? When hens make holy water. Should we stoop to chopping wood for a living? Baking bread? Shoeing horses?”

  “Geoff—”

  “Enough!”

  Caithren heard the crunch of gravel beneath someone’s shuffling feet. “So. Lucas is gone. What now, Geoffrey?”

  “He’ll be at the London town house, I reckon.”

  Cait heard the sound of pacing. Then a prolonged silence, followed by a low whistle.

  “What are you thinking?” Wat sounded wary. “I don’t care for the look in your eyes.”

  “We’ll go to London.” Next came a significant pause. “And we’ll get what belongs to us.”

  A chill shot through Caithren, though the night was still warm. Apparently Wat felt the same way. “You cannot mean to hurt him?”

  “Whatever it takes. He’s got it coming, and you’re next in line. When you’re the earl, we’ll be sitting pretty.”

  “When I’m the earl?” Cait could hear her heart pounding while Wat mulled that over. “Geoffrey,” he said slowly, “you’re not…you’re not talking…murder?”

  “Maybe I am.”

  They were plann
ing to murder someone? Cait’s breath seemed stuck in her chest.

  “You would kill him?” Wat squeaked.

  “I don’t believe it will come to that. But it would be his fault for kicking us out. Just as it’s his fault we’re in this trouble. And his money we’ll be using to get out of it.”

  Wat had nothing to say to that.

  Or maybe he was shocked speechless.

  “With Cainewood’s death on our hands, we’ve nothing to lose,” Geoffrey added gruffly. “Come along.”

  As she listened to them mount their horses, Cait began to tremble. It wasn’t long before they rode around the corner of the mansion at a slow walk, heading straight past the front door where she hid. She scurried into a corner of the arched entry.

  “I cannot do it.” Even through Cait’s fear, Wat’s whine was grating on her. It was a wonder his bloodthirsty friend hadn’t killed him.

  But evidently Geoffrey chose not to listen, because he ignored the protest. “We have enough coin left to pay for a night at the inn. We’ll let everyone see us.”

  “See us?”

  “We’ll leave for London come morning. People will remember us here, and if we ride like the dickens, no one will believe we could have arrived there in time. We won’t be suspected of hurting our dear brother.”

  “But Geoffrey…” Wat’s voice was so drawn out and plaintive, Caithren almost felt sorry for him. As they rode before her and then past, she risked inching forward to get a look at them.

  Two men, both rumpled and sunburned. They spoke like quality, and looked it, too—overly proud, even if their clothes could use a washing. But they were robbing, murdering scum. English scum.

  Cameron had been right about Englishmen.

  “Now let’s find some girls.” As they moved down the drive, the last of Geoffrey’s words drifted back, faint but intelligible. “The last kitchen maid the housekeeper hired on before we left—she was a comely one. If she’s not visiting her mama while Lucas is gone, she must be staying in Pontefract.”

  Girls. The scum were in search of girls. Caithren hugged the tops of her crossed arms in a futile attempt to stop herself from shaking.