The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Relief relaxed his features. “Done.”

  He left the room before she quite digested the offer she’d made. Cut the Englishman’s hair? She wanted nothing to do with him. What had she been thinking?

  She paced around the large chamber. The carved oak furniture all matched, and the counterpane and bedhangings looked to be of silk. Once again, she wondered how he could afford such a place. But apparently he’d been thinking ahead. He’d needed a mirror to accomplish this transformation, and not many small inns would provide one.

  She jumped when he barged back in, holding the scissors. “Did you think I was a ghost again?”

  “Nothing that benign.” She dragged a chair over to face the mirror and waved him into it.

  He sat and looked at her reflection in the glass, handing her the scissors over one shoulder. “Go ahead,” he urged.

  The black waves felt soft in her hands. Fighting shyness at being this close to him, touching him, she measured and cut, measured and cut, a wee bit at a time. Soon she was engrossed in the careful work, but not so much that she didn’t steal glances at him in the mirror.

  As his curtain of hair fell away, his fine features seemed even more striking. She noticed the long black lashes crowning his leaf-green eyes. And those chiseled, mustacheless lips. He had such a beautiful mouth.

  With her hands in his hair, her nose full of his spicy, masculine scent, he suddenly wasn’t quite so irritating. As his dark locks slipped through her fingers, it seemed as though a different person were emerging. Surely not, but she felt differently toward him all the same. And chided herself for it.

  He studied her in the mirror as well. “What color are your eyes?” he asked.

  “My eyes?” She clipped, then glanced up. “Hazel. Why?”

  “They looked green earlier today, but now they look blue.”

  She frowned. “Well, they’re hazel.” Placing the last silky sheared hank on the dressing table, she stepped away to assess her handiwork. His hair now neatly skimmed his shoulders.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. “It’s a much better job than I would have done.”

  She glanced at his knife on the table’s marble surface. “I expect so,” she said, a wry smile teasing at her lips.

  Despite all her reservations, she was feeling rather kindly toward him—until he stood, stretched, then unlaced the top of his shirt and pulled it free from his breeches.

  “What are you doing now?” she burst out.

  He sat back on the chair to pull off his boots. “Getting comfortable for bed. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We’re planning to ‘ride like the dickens,’ if you remember.”

  “I remember,” she said. “But—”

  “Are you not going to take off your outerclothes?” His second boot fell to the floor with a loud plop. “I’m still not planning to attack you.”

  “I have nothing else to wear, thanks to you. My night rail is in my satchel. In the—”

  “—public coach.” He peeled off a stocking. “I know. That thing beneath your bodice, the garment that looks like a blouse? I’m no expert on girl’s clothing, but it’s quite long, is it not? A shift, is it called?”

  “Aye, it’s a shift.” She plucked distractedly at its sleeves. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  She stalked to the bed and tucked the shirts and breeches she’d folded back into his portmanteau, then moved it to a table. Pulling back the lovely counterpane, she found a thick quilt resting beneath. She lifted one corner and climbed into bed.

  “Sleep well,” she said, in a tone meant to speak of finality.

  He rose and moved to look down on her. “You’re going to suffocate,” he predicted. “At least loosen your bodice. And what of this? Won’t it poke you?” He reached for the amulet.

  “This stays,” she said firmly, her hand closing around the stone protectively. “I never take it off.” To appease him—and because the bodice really was rather tight—she pulled the quilt up to her chin and began loosening her laces underneath.

  He shrugged and moved to the foot of the bed to pull off her shoes. She was so surprised at his touching her feet—even through leather shoes and wool stockings—that she didn’t move or make a sound.

  “Now you’ll rest easier.” He flipped the quilt back to cover her.

  Glaring at him, she lay silent as he walked around the room snuffing the candles. In increments, the chamber descended into darkness. He slid in on the other side of the bed, his substantial weight depressing the feather mattress, making her nearly roll into him. She gripped the quilt in tense fists, holding herself in place.

  “Sleep well, now,” he called in a voice that was annoyingly unperturbed. Apparently giving him the evil eye had had no effect on him at all. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

  When he leaned to blow out the candle on the small table by the bed, Caithren raised herself to an elbow to do the same on her side. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she lay back down and stared into the darkness. It didn’t seem as though he planned to attack her, and yet…

  She realized suddenly that her pulse wasn’t racing from fear, but from something else.

  Da had fed and clothed her, Cameron had offered protection and companionship, and more than one unwelcome suitor had connived to steal a kiss. But no man had ever made it his business to care for her in a physical sense. The Englishman’s hands on her had felt different than Da’s or Cam’s or those fumbling courting lads’.

  She wasn’t at all sure whether she cared for the feeling. And why did it matter, aye? Her hand went up and gripped her amulet. She’d be rid of him after tonight.

  Rigid, she lay beside him, willing herself to stay awake while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Had they crossed their arms over their chests, she imagined she and the Englishman would resemble one of the marble effigies in her village kirk, a lord and lady frozen together in time. But she was no titled lady, and the Englishman was certainly no lord.

  He wasn’t even a gentleman. Gentlemen didn’t make lasses miss their coaches against their will, now, did they?

  She had to get away from him. Back to the coach, where she hoped and prayed they were still carrying her belongings. It would be a miracle to find her money there as well, but she couldn’t worry about that now.

  It seemed like forever before his breathing evened out in sleep. She waited a few minutes until she was sure, then jogged his shoulder to double-check. He groaned as though in pain, then settled down with a soft snore. She leaned over him, remembering other moments he’d seemed to be hurting. Suddenly she wondered if he could have been injured last night as well. Helping her.

  Rising, she swept her shoes off the floor, then caught herself looking back to him. But even if he’d been hurt, it was no fault of hers. She couldn’t let herself be swayed.

  Slowly she backed away, then turned and opened the door. With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the corridor and eased the door closed behind her.

  Leaning against the wall, she calmed her pounding heart while she straightened her bodice and relaced it snugly. Then she slid into her shoes, marched downstairs, through the taproom, and out into the night, trying her best to look as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  It was chilly and drizzling. She had no money to hire a horse, no alternative other than to start walking. But the coach would have stopped in one of the towns they’d passed, so if she followed the road, she’d be sure to get back to it by morning.

  She set off into the long night that loomed ahead.

  TWENTY

  “MAMA, MUST you go? You’ve been home nary a month.”

  “I must, wee Alison.” Flora MacCallum moved to her youngest’s bed and bent to kiss her little forehead. She smoothed the fine, chestnut hair from her daughter’s face. “Maybe, with a little luck, this time will be the last.”

  Malcolm crawled over his sister and down to the floor to hug his mother around the knees. “Are you going to be
Emerald again?”

  “Aye. I’m going to be Emerald one more time.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Nay, dawn approaches. And others are doubtless on the Gothards’ trail already.” She knelt to give her bonnie lad a fierce hug, breathing in his scent to sustain her through the days and weeks ahead. Soap and milk, underscored by a faint trace of the dirt she could never quite get out from under his fingernails. She wished she could bottle the aroma and take it with her.

  Unwinding his small arms from around her neck, she stood to shrug into a man’s surcoat.

  “It’s lucky you two were of a height.” Hearing her mother’s voice, Flora turned to see her leaning against the doorway that separated the two rooms of their cottage. “Not many women can wear their husband’s clothes.”

  “Aye?” A strand of long gray hair had escaped her mother’s plait; Flora walked over and pushed it behind her ear. “It was the only lucky thing between us.”

  “Now, Flora—”

  “Don’t go defending him, Mama.” Though her words were firm, she pressed a kiss to the top of her tiny mother’s head. All of Flora’s height—and she was the tallest woman in Galloway—had come from her father. “I’ll never forgive my husband for pledging our home in a game of dice and then getting himself killed in that border raid. Blasted halliracket.”

  “Wheesht! The bairns are listenin’.”

  “And right they should be.” Flora twisted her unruly red hair and piled it on her head, then jammed her deceased husband’s hat on top. “It’s fair they know why I have to leave them.”

  “Flora—”

  “Just give me peace till this is finished, Mama. One last time. With the reward posted for Gothard, I can pay off Kincaid and then some. We’ll be able to breathe. Give the farm our attention. Maybe even get wee Alison her own bed. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Nice, Mama!” Alison repeated.

  Flora’s mother bent to sweep a length of broken reed off the floor. The roof needed replacing as well. “I blame your daftie of a father for ever takin’ you tracking,” she muttered. “Thought you were the son he never had.”

  “Neither of us chose our men well.” Flora stuck a pistol into her boot top and snatched up the sword that was propped in the corner. “Still and all, if Da hadn’t taken me, I wouldn’t be able to get us out of the mess we’re in today.” She kissed her mother’s parchment cheek. “Take care of the bairns, Mama. God willing, I’ll be back to stay.”

  Hard kisses for Alison and Malcolm, and she was off to do what needed to be done.

  Once and for all.

  JASON JERKED awake. Emerald was gone. Again.

  Dawn’s hazy gray light seeped through the window. He slept soundly these days, the bone-deep weariness of a healing body coupled with hard hours on the road. But still…how was it that she had risen, gathered her things, and left without waking him?

  Cursing himself—which was getting to be quite a habit—he pulled on his boots and went downstairs, hoping she’d only gone in search of something to break her fast. But the Crown’s cheerful taproom was eerily empty. Too early yet for guests to be up and about.

  And Emerald was gone, really gone.

  He winced at the thought of her out there alone. But there was nothing for it. He could ill afford to waste precious time searching for her, even supposing it were possible he’d be successful. It had been a different matter when she was on a lumbering coach taking a specific route. She could be anywhere by now, and he didn’t know the first thing about tracking—that was her talent, not his.

  He would simply have to make it his business to get to London first. How long was her head start? Had she found a horse? With no money, she’d have a hard time of it—

  Panicking, he pulled out his coin pouch and spilled the contents into his hand.

  Nothing was missing.

  Idiot girl.

  Slipping the pouch back into his pocket, he tramped out into the gray morning and went to wake the stable boy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  FOUR HOURS had passed since Caithren had seen a soul. Soaked to the skin, she shivered with a bone-deep cold. She’d passed through three wee villages—if one could even call them that—but only one had boasted an inn, and no coach had been parked in its courtyard.

  It felt as though she’d descended into an evil land where no one existed save herself.

  As dawn approached, a talkative family rumbled by in an ox-drawn cart. She would have loved to beg a ride, but they were going the opposite direction. Regardless, just the sight of them brought a tiny smile of relief.

  Walking backward, she watched them fade into the distance, their cheerful voices becoming fainter and fainter until all was quiet, save for the steady beat of the rain. A lonely sound.

  Summoning her last reserves of energy, Cait turned and walked faster. She had to be near the coach by now. Squinting her eyes, she thought she could see a village ahead, a silhouetted irregular line of rooftops. A church spire, or maybe it was only more trees. She couldn’t be sure, and rain suddenly pelted from the sky, obliterating the hazy view and making her shiver even more.

  Water sluiced down the gently sloping road, hiding the deep, slushy ruts. She tripped into one of them and fell to her knees in the mud, wrenching a foot as she went. The tears that had been threatening all the long night pricked hot behind her eyelids.

  No, not the tears. Not again. She blinked hard and took a deep breath, then dragged herself up.

  Though she’d twisted only her ankle, her whole leg throbbed. Her teeth were chattering, and the hand clenching her amulet was shaking and white-knuckled with strain. When she heard a horse approaching from behind, she couldn’t find the strength to turn around and see who it was. Why did it matter, really? Maybe the traveler would help her. More likely he’d simply ignore her.

  But just in case, she pulled the amulet off over her head and shoved it up her soggy sleeve.

  Not a second too soon. The heavy thud of someone dropping from a horse made her force herself to turn and look.

  Leading an obviously ill-treated nag by the reins, a man was trudging toward her, his boots squishing in the mud. Black eyes leered wildly from his rough-hewn face, which was dark with unshaven stubble that didn’t look anywhere near as bonnie as it had on the Englishman.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  Caithren backed up. “I-I have no money,” she managed to stutter out. To demonstrate, she turned her pockets inside out, revealing naught but the miniature portrait of Adam, which she hastily shoved back inside.

  Undaunted, the man dropped his mount’s reins and stepped closer. The horse looked too worn out to bother going anywhere. Even through the scents of rain and mud, the man’s stale, liquor-tinged breath choked Cait as he came near and peered into her face.

  “P-please, sir. I haven’t anything you’d want.”

  “We’ll see about that.” With a lunge, he tried to plunge one grimy hand down her bodice.

  Horrified, she seized his wrist. “I have nothing! Unhand me!” Bile rose in her throat as panic tightened her chest. “Stop! Unhand me! Now!”

  “No money in there?” The arm twisted in her grip. “Ah, but I wouldn’t say you have nothing.”

  Anger and indignation boiled up. Cait’s other hand clenched round his thick neck, but though her vision blurred with the effort, he didn’t seem to notice. She yelled, kicking at his shins, but her injured ankle threw her off balance, and he was managing to back her up into the trees at the edge of the road.

  His free hand reached down for her skirts as they stumbled together in the mud, a writhing mass of combat. Gathering her wits, she brought one knee up—hard. With a stunned grunt, the man pulled away and hunched over. But she knew he was only stymied, not beaten. She’d never outrun him with her hurt ankle.

  If only she could get to his horse.

  She sprang for the animal, but the man managed to snag her by the elbow. Still crouched, he whipped
her back around. Thinking quickly, she gritted her teeth and thrust a hand inside his soggy, smelly coat, searching for a gun, a blade—

  Her fingers closed on the grip of a knife. As she tugged it from its sheath, the man growled in rage and wrenched himself upright.

  “Keep back!” Bravely, she brandished the knife in his face.

  And a gunshot rang out.

  The sheer shock of it forced her backward into the mud. As her bottom met the ground, her breath expelled in a rush and the knife dropped from her hand.

  But the bullet hadn’t hit her. It had come from another direction.

  The man turned and bolted for his horse. Hammering hoofbeats were drawing near—indeed, were it not for the pounding rain and the veil of her own fear, Cait knew she’d have heard the sound earlier.

  Her attacker was mounted and moving before her rescuer arrived, slid from the saddle, and reached a hand to help her rise.

  She looked up into the face of the Englishman.

  She stared at him in disbelief. No matter where she went, he insisted on showing up. But she found herself incredibly grateful he’d shown up now. While she didn’t understand him, at least he’d never tried to take advantage.

  She wiped her hands on her skirts, trying to erase the feel of the monstrous man who was riding away. With a lingering glance at the man’s retreating back, the Englishman pulled her into his arms.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Shuddering, she shook her head. It was the only answer she could manage. But she took comfort from his nearness, his warm body against hers.

  “I can scarcely credit how much trouble you are,” he muttered, the words laced with a quiet fury.

  She’d have felt better if he’d have just yelled at her. “What did you say?”

  “I said, are you hurt?”

  That wasn’t what he’d said. Certain they both knew it, she raised her chin. “Nay, only shaken a bit,” she said in a voice that indeed sounded shaken. She wished she could say it more bravely. Though she wanted nothing more than to stand on her own, her hands clamped around him convulsively.