The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m naming my horse Maid-of-the-Wave. Her coat is glittery like a mermaid, don’t you think? And sort of reddish, like a salmon?”

  He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “What will you be naming yours?”

  “Nothing.” He shot a glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be riding him only through tomorrow. He won’t have time to learn a name.”

  She shook her head mournfully, twisting the alien gold band on her finger. “All creatures need names. If you won’t name him, then I shall have to. Hmm…” Chilled, she gathered the edges of the cloak more closely around her. “Hamish,” she decided.

  “Hamish?” Jason slanted her a puzzled glance. “After who?”

  “The young farmer who married the Maid-of-the-Wave.”

  His lips quirked. “You never said his name was Hamish.”

  “Well, I don’t actually know the farmer’s name. But it seems to me that about one out of four men in Scotland is named Hamish, so I figure it’s a bonnie good bet.”

  She was blethering again.

  Since Jason appeared to be choking back laughter, she looked away and caught sight of a flutter in the sky. An excuse to change the subject. “Magpies,” she said, watching one of the black-and-white birds land in a tree. “Do you see their dome-shaped nest? I hope there are at least two in it.”

  Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder again. “Why?”

  “Less than two are supposed to be unlucky, aye? And doubly so if you see one alone before breakfast.” He was still looking behind them. “Are you counting the magpies?

  “Pardon? No. No, I’m not.”

  “I don’t believe the superstition, but I do know a verse.” She began quoting. “One for sorrow, two for luck, three for a wedding—”

  “Egad!”

  She gasped when he reached across and grabbed her reins. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he drove them both off the side of the road. His hat flew off.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled, holding on for dear life, one hand on her head to keep her own hat from flying away.

  “Just hold on!” His jaw set, he pressed on, and Cait wondered wildly what they could be running from. Six strange little round hills sat off the road a wee distance. Drawing close, he reined in and dragged both horses to a halt.

  He dismounted in a flash and reached to help her down, tugging her toward one of the mounds.

  “Will they stay?” she asked. “Maid-of-the-Wave and Hamish?”

  He shrugged, hurrying her along. “The horses are the least of our worries.”

  “Don’t tell me you think those brothers are after us again.”

  He shot a glance around the hill, back toward the road. “All right, I won’t tell you.”

  She followed his gaze. Her heart seized when she spotted Walter and Geoffrey Gothard astride two horses.

  “Get down!” With two hands on her shoulders, Jason pushed her to her knees.

  She shrieked, her hand going to her hurt arm.

  “Sorry,” he hissed. Her hat tumbled off as they scrambled behind the mound and out of sight. But there was no way to hide the beasts they’d been riding on. And Jason’s instincts had been right. The brothers were following them. She’d seen them with her own eyes.

  Quite suddenly she recalled a vivid memory of standing outside Scarborough’s house and overhearing their wicked plans. As then, she shivered. But her heart was pounding a good deal harder than that day, knowing the Gothards were now bent on killing not just Scarborough, but her and Jason, too.

  “Cooperate this time, will you?” Jason’s eyes burned with an intense green fire. “There’s nothing for it. I hope they’ll stay on the road, but if they ride round this hill and get a good look at our faces…”

  He grimaced, and his mouth covered hers.

  Her blood raced in both passion and fear. She felt boneless and aflame all at once, the conflicting emotions all-consuming.

  Was it grass-muted hoofbeats she heard drawing near, or her own heartbeat in her ears? Whichever, stark panic overcame the softer feelings, and her pulse jumped even faster as she imagined Jason stabbed in the back, or shot, or—

  “Pardon my impertinence,” he murmured, “but I've got to make this look good.” The next thing she knew, his body covered hers, warm and heavy, pinning her to the cushiony grass—

  And the hoofbeats came yet closer—

  “I say, Caroline,” a man’s voice drawled. “Someone’s found our favorite spot.”

  FORTY-NINE

  JASON OPENED one eye to get a look at the intruders, then sat up, muttering under his breath. Caithren lay limp in the grass, a hand pressed to her heart while she adjusted the tangled cloak.

  He glanced up at the young man and woman, both on horseback. Country folk, likely stealing away to court on the sly.

  Horror widened the girl’s round gray eyes. “Let’s go! Can’t you see they’re quality? Let’s go!” Her cheeks stained bright red, she dug in her heels and took off.

  The young man wheeled and rode after her, shouting, “Caroline!”

  Releasing a slow breath, Jason crawled around the mound to have a look, then returned to Caithren. “The Gothards…I guess they rode past.” He raked a rather shaky hand through his hair, only to realize it was the periwig, which he’d nearly dislodged. “We scared off that couple but good,” he said with a smile, offering a hand to help Caithren sit.

  She smiled back. “We did, didn’t we?” She burst into giggles, hugging her sides. The giddiness of relief, he guessed. “My mam always said, ‘guid claes and keys let you in.’”

  “Good what?”

  “Clothes. Dressing well can open doors for you the same as a key, aye? We’ve dressed the part, and they believed it, just like that.” She snapped her fingers and stood up, evidently not an easy task in the silver shoes. Her legs looked wobbly. “What are these wee hills? They look too regular to be natural.”

  “They’re Roman barrows.” Jason rose as well, brushing off his velvet breeches. “Burial mounds.”

  “Oh,” she said, making a face. “Faugh.”

  “Faugh? That’s it?” He leaned to pick up her hat. “No quote of your mother’s for this one?”

  “I’ll tell you, Jase. I don’t think Mam ever kissed anyone while lying on top of dead Romans.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  “I wouldn’t mind trying it again, though,” she added.

  That sobered him. “What?”

  “The kissing.” She shook out her skirts and pulled up on the hated stomacher. “You seem to enjoy the kissing enough, but you need to have an excuse.” She squared her shoulders and faced him daringly. “You’re attracted to me, aye?”

  He was startled speechless. It hit him that he’d vastly misjudged her. What he’d mistaken for pride was something else entirely—a fierce independence. She knew her own mind and didn’t shy from expressing it.

  “I suppose I am,” he said carefully. He’d be lying to deny it. “But heaven knows why. I mean,” he added quickly, realizing that could be taken as an insult, “not that you aren’t pretty! Although—not that I think you’re—” he broke off before he could dig himself in deeper. Had any other girl ever rattled him so?

  “Me, too,” she said, obviously stifling a laugh. She moved closer. “Why not kiss me again, then? I won’t tell a soul. And”—she frowned—“if you fear I’ll try to trap you into marriage, you needn’t worry. I mean to return to Scotland, and I won’t be expecting you to come with me. While we’re together, though…”

  Both her proximity and her earnestness made him tense. Turning her hat in his hands, he started walking back to the horses. “Yes?”

  She kept pace with him. “Well, if we both like kissing each other, why not enjoy ourselves? As lovers do?” She turned a becoming shade of pink. “That is, not lover lovers! I only meant…as sweethearts. As two people who can admit they like each other and kiss without having to pretend it’s a mis
take.”

  He halted mid-step. Caithren wanted to be his sweetheart? The notion made him feel an odd melting sensation in his belly.

  Unable to look at her, he studied the hat. “But it is a mistake,” he whispered.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Because serious, responsible Jason Chase would never kiss a girl just for the fun of it? Oh, I forgot, you know not the meaning of the word fun. You see, fun is where you—”

  “It’s not that,” he interrupted, but then didn’t know how to continue. She was partially right—it would be terribly irresponsible to go on kissing her ‘for the fun of it.’ But more than that, it would be foolhardy. He already felt panicky at the thought of her leaving, the thought of never seeing her again. If he let them grow even closer, how would he bear the separation?

  Her hand went to her amulet. “For once, could you listen to the Gypsy? Could you forget about responsibilities and just let yourself feel?” Her eyes were a gorgeous, hazy blue. Her lower lip trembled. “I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone before, you know. Before I met you.”

  Egad…

  For the longest moment, he stared at that plump, soft-looking lip. He could almost believe she was speaking sense, so badly did he want to believe it.

  But try as he might, he’d never been able to ignore his own better judgement.

  “I’m sorry, Emerald,” he said as politely as he could manage. “But I cannot do as you ask.”

  He stuck the hat on her head and resumed his stride toward the horses.

  Teetering in his wake, she called after him. “But you do want to. You as good as admitted it, and you cannot take it back!”

  When she caught up and planted herself in front him, he sighed. “Look, we’ve been tied at the hip for days now. All you really want from me is to get to London. And I’ll get you there, I promise. A Chase promise is not given lightly.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes turning a disappointed, indistinct color. “You have no idea what I want from you, Jason. And I don’t believe you ever will.” She was shivering.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “And the weather looks to be getting colder. Come along. We’re almost to Stevenage, where I can buy you a cloak.

  FIFTY

  THE CLOUDS HAD grown dark and menacing, and Jason found the interior of The Grange even darker. Brushing off the drizzle that had beaded on his cloak, he stepped into the taproom and blinked in the dimness.

  Caithren wasn’t at the table where he’d left her.

  Fear sprinted along his nerves before he got himself under control. He tossed the new wool cloak he’d bought over her chair and walked around the tavern, checking every corner of the oddly shaped room. Then back to the table, his heart beginning to beat unevenly. He’d left her with his portmanteau and the burlap bag with the backgammon set.

  All was gone.

  Geoffrey’s and Walter’s faces flashed in his mind. But no one in the taproom looked at all concerned, and it was inconceivable that Caithren would go with the brothers without a fight. While it was true she couldn’t shoot, she’d kneed that ruffian on the road, and she’d punched Wat Gothard. And there was no sign of a confrontation.

  Still, his pulse raced, his head felt woozy. What if they’d managed to lure her away? How would he find them? What would he do? He couldn’t think clearly when he kept seeing her standing in that courtyard with blood running down her arm. Blood from a Gothard’s blade.

  If anything more happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

  He paced around the tavern, stopping at tables, querying one patron after another. “My young wife was sitting there. Short, blond. Did she leave with anyone?”

  No one had seen a thing.

  When she came down the stairs, stepping gingerly on the heeled shoes, he spun around. His long legs ate up the distance between them.

  “Where on earth were you?”

  “Hold your tongue. Everyone is looking at us.” She walked to their table, set down the burlap bag, shrugged the portmanteau off her shoulder. “I took everything with me so nothing would go missing. I was gone but a minute.”

  “You have an odd idea of a minute. Where did you go? How dare you disappear on me! I thought the Gothards had—”

  “I had to…you know. Use the privy.” Frowning, she peered into his eyes, and then, unbelievably, her lips turned up in a hint of a smile. “I’ve never seen you really angry before. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I’ve never thought you were missing before,” he snapped out.

  She crossed her arms and leveled him with a stare. “How about when I tried to escape you? Or when I fell asleep in the kirk?”

  “Things were different then. Then I didn’t—oh, hang it.”

  “Then you didn’t care?” she supplied. “You cannot say it, can you? That you care.”

  “I care,” he said. “I care about making things right. I care about replacing what you lost on my account. I care that you get to London in one piece, not carved up by a Gothard’s blade.”

  The sound of raucous laughter came from another table. Pewter tankards clanked on wood. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, either,” Caithren said softly.

  “Why?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Because I care.” Her gaze dropped to her crossed arms. “And I don’t mean about getting to London or the money you owe me.”

  “Emerald—”

  “And no matter what you call me, I care because of this—” She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

  Confound it. Calling her Emerald wasn’t working. There seemed nothing for it. He closed his eyes and kissed her back. Though he’d said he wouldn’t kiss her without an excuse, he was kissing her with no excuse in sight—and quite suddenly he knew he’d keep kissing her every chance he got.

  His arms went around her, and the sounds of the tavern receded as she squeezed herself so close he felt her ancient amulet between them. Her lips were warm velvet; her flowery scent assaulted his senses.

  How could such an exasperating girl be so sweet?

  At the sound of a whistle, he pulled away to much applause.

  “We see you found your wife,” someone yelled.

  Caithren’s cheeks went from the pink of passion to the red of embarrassment. But that didn’t stop her from saying, “I got you to kiss me,” in a self-satisfied tone.

  “Shall we go?” he asked with a laugh. He drew the new cloak from her chair and settled it over her shoulders. “It’s seven miles to Welwyn and beginning to rain already.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  “WE’RE NOT going to make it, Jase!” Caithren yelled through the storm. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel so wet. Her new cloak was all but useless against the downpour. “If this gown soaks up any more water, poor Maid-of-the-Wave will be driven to her knees.”

  A huge crash of thunder made both horses shy. The sky opened up and spewed twice as much water, a feat Cait hadn’t thought possible. Rain came down in blinding sheets. She couldn’t see as much as two feet ahead.

  She felt Jason’s leg bump up against hers before his hand came through the downpour to grab her reins. “Shelter!” he hollered over the next crack of lightning. “Come with me!”

  He led them off the road along a barely visible trail. Hidden in the trees sat an old thatched cottage. How he’d found the place she’d never know, but the mere sight of it lifted her heart.

  She held both horses while Jason pounded on the door. No one came to answer. The shutters were all latched from the interior, and the door was locked. Water streaming into her eyes, Cait waited while he walked all the way around the one-room building.

  “Closed up!” he called through the pounding rain.

  She wanted to cry.

  He stood stock-still for a spell, then disappeared behind the cottage and returned with a hefty log. Bracing it against his good shoulder, he stepped back and ran at the door.

  It didn’t
give, and she winced at his anguished yell. “You’re going to kill yourself,” she called. “You’re in no shape for this!”

  But he tried it twice more, until the door crashed in. He nearly fell on his face after it, and, miserable as she was, Cait had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Go inside,” he told her, and she did, gratefully. After tethering the horses beneath some trees, he took their things and followed her, propping the door into its space behind them.

  They stood there, dripping, for a long minute. Rain pounded on the roof. The cottage looked clean enough and boasted a bed with a thick quilt, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a brick fireplace. No wood, no candles, no oil lamps. The warped shutters let in a little light and a lot of rain that puddled near the glassless windows. But it was shelter, and Caithren couldn’t remember being more appreciative in her life.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Jason gestured helplessly. “It will be cold come night. And dark. All the wood outside is soaking wet.” He looked at the table and chairs.

  Her gaze followed his. “You’re not thinking of burning them?” When he shrugged, she shook her head. “They’re not yours to burn. Besides, where would we continue our backgammon tournament?”

  “That’s right.” Grinning, he pulled off his hat. Water poured from the wide brim. “I’m ahead.”

  “You are not.” She set her own drenched hat on the table. “We’re dead even. Seventeen matches each.”

  He dragged off the wet wig. His own hair underneath was just as soaked, sleekly black and plastered to his head.

  “You look like a selkie,” Cait said.

  He unfastened his cloak and let it drop to the floor in a sodden heap. “A what?”

  “A selkie. A creature that takes on the form of a seal in the sea and a man on the land.”

  “How flattering.” Amusement lit his eyes as they raked her from head to toe. “You on the other hand, look the picture of perfection.”

  “Aye?” Laughing, she turned to shrug free of her cloak. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this gown weighs more than I do.” Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair and twisted it. Water streamed out onto the wooden floor.