The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Pay someone? What kind of a man hired people to do his work for him? When something needed doing at Leslie, she or Da or Cameron did it themselves.

  Still, leaving the money was so like Jason. He was a decent sort. Despite her uncertain feelings, she felt compelled to try to reach him one more time.

  “I want to thank you,” she started.

  “For what?”

  For what? She wracked her brains. Thank you for kissing me seemed a rather odd thing to say aloud.

  Finally she said, “For coming out in the storm to comfort me. And for being honest.” She clutched the quilt tighter, hoping he got her meaning. “I’ll never forget last night.”

  “I won’t forget it, either,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean it was right. Nothing like that will be happening again.”

  Without meeting her eyes, he tramped from the cottage.

  FIFTY-THREE

  HOURS LATER, somewhere between Highgate and Hampstead, Jason admitted to himself what he’d suspected for days and hadn’t wanted to face: He was in love with Caithren Leslie.

  He wasn’t ready for this.

  He’d tried so hard to prevent it.

  A pox on the Gypsy woman and her deuced prophecies!

  Truly, this could not have come at a more inconvenient time. Quite apart from the threat to their lives, Cait hadn’t an inkling of who Jason really was. And he had responsibilities to attend to. Urgent responsibilities: little Mary, her mother, the innocent man he’d killed. Gothard. Less urgent but nonetheless important responsibilities, such as seeing his sister settled.

  Distance. Until last night—until he’d taken leave of his senses—he’d maintained it. This morning he’d attempted to recover it. A disastrous attempt. And a hopeless one—he knew that. He knew he’d be unable to stay away.

  He wasn’t ready for this.

  And he knew he’d hurt her. His heart sinking, he took refuge beneath the shady cover of the trees overhead, thankful Cait couldn’t see his face. Silently they rode past small houses with their shutters closed against the wind, like his mind had been closed to the truth. Cows and sheep in the fields turned as they passed, pinning him with liquid, accusing eyes. Two magpies mocked him from a tree.

  He sneaked a glance in Caithren’s direction. She looked pale, miserable, her face pinched and her fingers white-knuckled on the reins. His fault.

  Tonight he would leave her safe at his London town house while he took care of Geoffrey and Walter Gothard. Another responsibility—keeping Cait safe. When the Gothards were behind bars, he’d help her find her brother. He’d tell her he believed every word she’d told him, and…

  He’d ask her to marry him.

  Though the mere thought pulled the breath from his body, quite suddenly he knew that nothing else would do but to keep her by his side forever. Never had he met anyone who could make him laugh and live like she did. His life before her seemed bleak in comparison.

  Leslie was a baronetcy—Scottish or no, the match would be considered suitable. Not that he really cared; the Chases didn’t go out of their way to placate society. His own brother had, with his blessing, wed a commoner.

  Another glance at Cait tore at him. He didn’t deserve her. He’d kept her off the coach, put her in jeopardy, called her a liar. Then he’d compounded his sins by giving in to his baser urges, rather than treating her with the respect and courtesy she was due.

  And then he’d gone and fallen in love with her. Now he would ask her to leave her home, her family, and the country she clearly missed, all because he couldn’t bear to lose her.

  She’d resist giving up her independence—she’d made that clear enough. But if she gave him the chance, he would make it up to her. He’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her—making her the happiest woman on earth.

  In the aftermath of the storm, the road was disastrous, a muddy mess. The day’s progress had been slow and aggravating—and silent, with Cait mired in gloom, Jason in guilt. It seemed a lifetime before they made it to the tollhouse.

  “We’re in Hampstead,” he told Caithren, hoping to cheer her up. “London is in reach.”

  “That’s good.” Her voice sounded weak.

  He handed a coin to the tollkeeper and motioned Cait down the hill toward the heath. “Soon I’ll be able to warn Scarborough,” he said. “That will be a weight off both our minds, won’t it?”

  Though she nodded and forced a smile, he could see her jaw was tight.

  The heath was wild land punctuated by weedy ponds—even slower going than the Great North Road. Narrow trodden paths wound through sprawling acres of wooded dells and fields of heather. Since they couldn’t ride side by side, Jason took the lead.

  “Could that be a real tree?” Wonder in her voice, Caithren uttered her first unsolicited words since they’d left the cottage that morning. “An elm, is it not? It’s amazing.”

  The gigantic elm was perhaps ten yards around, with steps inside leading to a wooden platform that rose above the topmost leaves. He turned to see a smile on her face—a smile he’d been afraid he might never see again. His heart warmed. “Would you like to go up?”

  For a moment she looked like she was seriously considering saying no. Then her eyes lit with determination. “Aye. I would like that very much. Will you come with me?”

  He eyed the platform apprehensively. It looked sturdy, and the steps didn’t look too daunting, housed as they were in the trunk of the tree.

  “It’s not so very far up,” she coaxed. “Not nearly as high as that tower outside Stamford.”

  There was nothing he wouldn’t do at this point to make her resent him a little less. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll be up in a moment.” At her doubtful look, he added, “I mean it this time. Just let me secure the horses.”

  He tethered the animals to a nearby tree that was large yet dwarfed by the elm. Then he gritted his teeth and started up, groaning when he saw the stairs were slatted instead of solid.

  The first few steps weren’t too bad, but then the staircase started spiraling inside the trunk, getting more and more narrow. Look up, he told himself, look up. Eyes on the goal, not the drop. His pulse skittered, his head whirled, the blood roared in his ears.

  Halfway up, he paused to lean against the hollowed interior and close his eyes. When he opened them, his vision was blurry, and he shook his head to clear it. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, and if he felt as though his dinner might come up, well, he’d just have to ignore that.

  Given her head start, he was surprised when he caught up to her. She seemed to be expending quite an effort in the climb. Being outside in the storm most of yesterday—not to mention last night—must have taken its toll on her. Another blade of guilt stabbed at his chest.

  She glanced back at him. “You look pale.”

  He blew out a breath and shrugged. His gaze on her back, he ordered his legs to stop shaking, and at last they made it to the platform.

  “Forty-two steps,” she announced. “By all the saints, will you look at that view!” She rushed to the rail, her gaze scanning from right to left and back again.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. The platform looked as though it might hold about twenty people. Wiping sweaty palms on his breeches, he stayed in the exact center. “We’re lucky to have a clear day. London’s often covered in fog.” His stomach did a flip-flop when she leaned over the rail. “Keep back, will you?”

  “London is incredible. It’s enormous! I’ve never seen so many buildings in one place.”

  The view stretched for miles and miles. From his spot behind her, he pointed out the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral, destroyed in last year’s Great Fire, and the hills of Kent south of the Thames.

  “And what could that be?” Cait asked, indicating something much closer, in the shrubby area at the far end of the heath. She turned to him. “A reservoir? With horses and carriages driving right through it?”

  “Whitestone Pond.” Jason nodded at a l
arge marker that sat near it. “Named for that old white milestone. King Henry the Eighth designed it to keep the City free of the countryside’s mud. All horses and wheels pass through it on the way in from Hampstead.” He laughed at her expression of disbelief. “We’ll be doing so ourselves in a short while.”

  “It still looks a long way to London,” she said quietly.

  He frowned at her tight features. “Just an hour or so.”

  “I-I’m hurting, Jason.” She dropped her gaze, plainly uncomfortable at the admission. “My arm,” she explained. “I thought I could make it through the day, but…”

  “Egad, and I didn’t take you foraging for plants.” Forgetting his dizziness, he moved closer and slung an arm around her shoulders. He remembered her clenched hands and the stoic set of her jaw as they rode. “Was that why you were so quiet?”

  She nodded miserably.

  Though he’d thought her silence had meant she resented him, he was too guilty to feel relieved. “You cannot make it another hour?”

  Clouded with pain, her eyes met his. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “All the day I’ve been—”

  “London can wait,” he decided, alarmed. Caithren was nothing if not strong and steady. “We’ll ride back up the hill, to Spaniards Inn. You saw it, by the tollgate?”

  She nodded again.

  “It’s not far at all.” He swung her up into his arms, as one would carry a small child. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Jason!” Despite her distress, she giggled, making his heart lift a bit. “Put me down!”

  “I’ll hear none of it,” he told her with mock sternness, starting down the steps and forcing himself to ignore the rush of vertigo. “We’ll have you in a room in no time. Can you sit your own horse?”

  “Of course I can. I rode all the day, did I not?” Warm laughter rang through the hollowed trunk, bringing him waves of relief.

  But the feeling was short-lived once he looked down the steep, winding stairs.

  There was nothing for it, he told himself sternly. One step after another, he ordered his feet to comply. With the drop looming before him, the way down was always worse than the way up. And doubly worse carrying Caithren, leaving no hand free to balance against the wall.

  His breath came in embarrassingly short pants, and the arms that cradled her were shaking. Mercifully, she didn’t comment on any of that or his lack of speed. “Put me down,” she repeated quietly instead. “I’m not an invalid. I only wish to rest.”

  He didn’t put her down, and somehow he made it to the bottom. He didn’t have the luxury to let his knees buckle or to sit a spell and recover his composure. Silently congratulating himself, he perched her on her reddish mare and mounted his own black steed.

  Afraid to jar her, he led her slowly back over the heath and up the hill to the white, weatherboarded inn. Securing a room seemed a process that took forever. And he knew that forever to him must have seemed forever and an eternity to her.

  At last he closed the door of their oak-paneled room, and she dropped onto a chair, white-faced.

  “That bad?” he asked.

  She put on a brave smile. “It hurts. But mostly because I’m so tired, I’m sure. We should have gone on to London. I’m sorry I made you stop.”

  He wasn’t falling for her false bravado. “Let me have a look.”

  Without waiting for her agreement, he crouched before her and detached the tabs of her stomacher. As he began loosening the gown’s laces, a flush came to her skin. From embarrassment…or something else? He discarded that train of thought and forged ahead, carefully helping her pull her arm from the sleeve. She pressed the gown to her chest with her free hand and held out her injured limb.

  A soft moan escaped her lips when he lifted the edge of the linen bandage.

  “Egad.” Jason unwound the fabric as gently as he could. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Cait whispered. “I know you don’t mean to hurt me.”

  He smiled a little, then grimaced as the wound was revealed. Not long, but deep. Deeper than he remembered and surrounded by angry, dark pink flesh. A drop of red blood seeped out when the bandage fell away, and he could see a sickening taint of white inside.

  “I should have been checking on this.” Yet another way in which he’d mistreated her.

  “You wanted to last night—”

  “It’s getting infected.”

  She glanced down, then averted her gaze. “It looks very bad.” He watched her jaw tighten with determination. “I’ll be fine, Jason. Don’t worry for me. It will heal. I’ll make a poultice.” Her face brightened. “So close to London, there might even be a shop. I can tell you what I need.”

  He rose and paced away, then turned back. “I’d best fetch a surgeon. I believe it should be stitched.”

  “Stitched?” Her pretty forehead wrinkled, making his gut twist with sympathy.

  “It’s getting worse rather than better.” He stared at her colorless face. “The doctor will know for sure. I’m sorry.”

  Cursing himself for failing her yet again, he went downstairs to send for a surgeon.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  JASON RETURNED a few minutes later with a goblet and handed it to Caithren. She sniffed at the contents suspiciously.

  “What is it?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “I thought as much.” She handed it back. “Nay, but I thank you for the thought.”

  He frowned. “You don’t like whiskey?”

  “Have you seen me drink whiskey before now?”

  “No, but…you’re Scottish.”

  “And…?”

  “It’s whiskey, which the Scots invented if my—”

  Caithren burst out laughing—until the movement pained her arm. “We don’t all fancy whiskey, Jase. It’s not a law. And here you accuse me of painting all the English with one brush.” She watched him slowly turn red. “Some ale wouldn’t be amiss—”

  A sharp knock came at the door, and Jason went to answer it.

  Cait felt the blood drain from her face as the surgeon marched in, a burly man clutching a bag of implements. But she told herself to be brave. She didn’t want to embarrass herself before Jason.

  He thought little enough of her as it was.

  “I’m told of an injury,” the surgeon said. “A slash wound, is it?”

  “Aye.” Clutching her bodice to her chest, she held forth her bare arm.

  The surgeon came closer, yet gave it but a cursory glance. He looked to the goblet in Jason’s hand. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Whiskey.” Jason’s voice sounded weak to Cait’s ears. Or maybe the blood pounding in her head was muffling the sound. “Here,” he said more clearly and offered the goblet to the doctor.

  The man took it and downed a healthy gulp. “Decent stuff,” he declared, then poured a thick stream over Caithren’s wound.

  Her breath hissed in, but she wouldn’t cry. She would shed no more tears in front of Jason.

  “Wh-what did you do that for?” she managed to stutter.

  “To cleanse it. Stop infection.”

  “What?” It stung like blazes. “My cousin Cam would skin you alive if he saw you wasting good whiskey like that. Give it here.” She snatched the goblet from the surgeon’s hand and gulped greedily, feeling the liquor burn a hot path down her gullet and into her empty stomach.

  Jason appeared to be holding back a laugh. A dark glare took care of that.

  “I have always practiced gentle healing,” she told him. “I cannot believe he did that.”

  She sipped again. The stuff wasn’t nearly as nasty as she’d thought.

  “It’s not unheard of, sweet. Ford did the same for my bullet wound, and he’s no surgeon, though he does fancy himself a scientist.”

  “Ford?” She drank again. The warmth in her stomach was spreading, and her arm seemed to hurt less. Her head was beginning to feel as though it might detach itself and float away.

  “My you
ngest brother, Ford.” Jason crouched down and gazed into her eyes. A tiny smile emerged on his face. “Never mind.”

  He stood and motioned the surgeon closer.

  She sipped once more, then set her jaw and angled her arm out. “Have at it,” she declared.

  The man rummaged in his bag and came out with a needle and black thread.

  Caithren winced and looked up at Jason. “Are you sure he has to do this?”

  “I’m sure. Drink.” He shoved the goblet closer to her lips, and she complied. “It won’t take long.”

  She nodded and steeled herself for the pain. When it came, a sharp prick and a scraping sting as the raw edges of flesh were bound together, it wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated. Not nearly as hurtful as when the surgeon had doused her arm with the whiskey. Or maybe the whiskey had numbed it some.

  Jason put a hand on her good shoulder. “You’re doing fine.” His voice sounded proud, or maybe impressed. It made the whiskey curl warmer in her belly. It seemed all she wanted was his trust, his approval.

  Nay, not all, not if she were to be honest with herself. She also wanted his arms around her, his lips on hers.

  His love.

  Everything—her whole world—seemed so confused. When had her goals changed? Where had this wanting come from, and why was it so overwhelming?

  She didn’t know. She knew only that it was wrong—wrong for her, for her plans, for her life. She belonged at home with Cameron, tending their land, their heritage. Not far away in England with this fickle, over-serious, infuriatingly attractive miller.

  Her thoughts turned to Jason more every day…her thoughts and her heart. But staying with him was impossible. Even if Jason wanted her, it would be impossible. And he didn’t want her—at least, not all the time—which should have made it easier to turn away from him. But it didn’t make it easier; it made it worse.

  Much, much worse.

  The hated tears flooded her eyes, and one rolled warm down her cheek. She dashed it away with her good hand.

  “Nearly there,” Jason soothed, stroking her hair. “He’s almost finished.”