The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance)

by Cameron, Collette

  Ailsa laced her fingers with hers. “Your hand is freezing,” she whispered. “That witch could turn the devil’s blood to ice, she could.”

  She tugged on Vangie’s hand. “Let’s go, my lady.”

  Vangie shook her head, shushing the maid with a stern look. She ventured forward several steps. What was Ian saying?

  “Bringing her to Somersfield was brilliant,” her ladyship said. Looking past Ian’s shoulder, she met Vangie’s eyes with her shrewd stare.

  “When are you going to tell her the marriage is a sham? That the rector was a drunkard, a boosey hired to perform the vows?”

  She smiled nastily. “I must say, it was a stroke of genius hiring Reverend Tipsyton. He could never resist a bribe or a bottle.”

  Vangie missed his reply as the breath left her lungs in a loud, painful hiss. Was that the Reverend’s name? Had she even been told his name? Blast her difficulty with names. She couldn’t remember.

  How would the dowager know his name unless Ian told her?

  Vangie stood horror-struck, unable to draw in even a wisp of air. The marriage was a sham? The rector—

  He had reeked of spirits.

  Oh dear, God.

  The ground wavered, undulating alarmingly. Vangie’s pulse slowed to an irregular tempo, and her head began to spin. She shook it fiercely. Not now. She couldn’t, wouldn’t have an episode now.

  Her gaze riveted on Ian, she said through stiff lips, “Ailsa, have a horse readied for me, not a sidesaddle either.”

  “But, my lady. . .”

  “Now, Ailsa!” The firm resolve in Vangie’s tone brooked no argument.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Ailsa spun around to do Vangie’s bidding, murmuring dire threats and uncouth allegations about the dowager’s character until she was out of earshot.

  “It would be the coup de grâce in our pursuit for vengeance if you knapped her with child before you turned the unworthy didikko out.” A sneer curled the dowager’s thin lips.

  Nausea speared Vangie. Ian meant to cast her off?

  Step-by-step, she began to retreat. She swallowed against another surge of nausea.

  The dowager’s gaze flicked to the barn’s shadows. “Mayhap she already carries your seed?”

  Ian ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. “Not yet; soon I hope.”

  Dear Lord.

  Devastation ravaged Vangie. Something irreplaceable shriveled in her center. She reached to steady herself against the barn’s rough siding. She’d allowed herself to love Ian. And he’d used her for his selfish gains. No, he’d used her in a premeditated scheme of spiteful revenge.

  To what end, her heart cried?

  Why did he detest her so? What had she done to earn such loathing? She sucked in a bracing breath, nearly gagging at the stench of rotting manure. She withdrew several more steps, her gaze trained on Ian the whole while.

  His rancor had something to do with his brother and sister. Had she ever met them? Closing her eyes, Vangie attempted to conjure Charlotte or Geoff’s face. She’d been introduced to so many people throughout the Season. Trying to recall a pair of faces was futile. Surely she’d remember Ian’s sister if something untoward occurred between them, wouldn’t she?

  And his brother? Did he look like Ian? There’d been no portrait on the gallery wall of him. Had she met a Geoff Hamilton? Blast and damn. She simply couldn’t remember. A sickening thought slithered into her mind. Mayhap he’d been one of the gentlemen whose advances she’d spurned.

  The familiar queasiness welled up again, its nauseating waves clawing at her throat. A child? Was that why Ian had been intimate with her last night? He wanted to get her with child before he abandoned her? Sucking in a tremulous breath, her eyes filled with tears, and her heart broke, sharp fragment by sharp fragment.

  She cupped her belly. Even now, did a poor, innocent babe lie there? How could God allow this?

  Vangie hardened her heart. From the moment she’d met him, Ian had been scheming for her ruination. Every caress and kind word, all part of his perverse ploy. He was no better than the dowager. No—he was worse. Pretending anger at being forced to marry her. Making her feel guilty. Feigning affection in order to seduce her . . . all with the intent of destroying her.

  Unconscionable, despicable knave.

  “You’ll hurt me no more, Ian Warrick.”

  With resolve, she turned away and barricaded her crushed heart, as well as her newfound love, from the man she once called husband. One could only forgive so much.

  “No matter what trials life brings, do not harden your heart, Nukkidai.”

  Vangie shook her head, purposefully turning deaf ears to the voice of wisdom whispering in her mind. Not this time, Puri Daj. One doesn’t cast pearls before swine, then complain when they are trampled upon.

  Ian stared at Lucinda. Why did her gaze keep traveling beyond him?

  Vangie.

  He knew before he half-turned and looked over his shoulder he’d see her there. He sucked in a great gulp of air. His gut burned when he saw her face before she darted around the other side of the barn.

  Bloody hell.

  How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard? What exactly had she heard? Her beautiful face was ravaged with desolation, and her eyes . . . God help him, her haunted, devastated eyes.

  “She believed me, Ian, every calculated lie. Yes, even that you asked me to meet you here.” Lucinda laughed then, an insane cackle reverberating amongst the early summer greenery.

  “I could see it in her eyes,” she gasped.

  Ian rounded on her, snarling, “Damn you, you evil, possessed bitch.”

  He lunged at her, itching to shake some sense into her.

  Stumbling backward a pace, she threw one hand to her throat, the other palm out to ward him off.

  He stopped, breathing heavily, his fists clenched. “You’re not worth it. Confine yourself to the dower house and grounds, or I’ll banish you.”

  Ian swiveled around, intent on pursuing Vangie. Lucinda grabbed his arm. He tried to shake her off, but her grip was surprisingly strong. Even through the fabric of his coat, her long nails bit into his flesh.

  “I want what’s mine,” she hissed, madness reflected in her glassy eyes.

  “You don’t deserve the settlement I brought to my marriage with Roger. Charlotte must have it.” Spittle gathered at the corner of Lucinda’s mouth as she clawed his arm. “She’s from my loins, not you. My monies, my lands, my holdings must go to my offspring, not Roger’s spawn.”

  She scratched frantically at his coat. “They’re mine, not yours.”

  Her last words ended on a shriek as Ian roughly shook her off. He stepped away from her.

  “You’re mad. Father long since sold the properties you brought to the marriage, and he wasted your settlement away. Every last guinea of it.”

  “No, you lie!” She shook her head vehemently, causing several pins to come loose. Her graying hair hanging haphazardly around her head and shoulders made her appear even more demented.

  “He couldn’t have. It’s not possible. I’ve planned for so long. . .” She peered at him, her eyes glazed.

  She muttered, to herself. “No one else would have me after. . . my father paid Roger a fortune to marry me. The settlement terms were enormous.”

  “Lucinda, I cannot change what’s been done.”

  Wringing her hands, she didn’t seem to hear him. “It can’t be gone. Charlotte must have it.”

  “Charlotte is married. . .”

  A glimpse of lucidity shone through. “To a penniless cork-brain!” she snapped. “No, she must have position, wealth—a title.”

  Lucinda glanced at Ian. An eerie light glimmered in her eye. “Men al
ways get everything.”

  Damn and blast. He didn’t have time for this. “Lucinda, go to the dower house, and stay there, or I swear to you, I’ll have you arrested today for imprisoning my wife.”

  With a final hate-filled glare, she shuffled away, grumbling beneath her breath.

  Watching her, he ran a hand through his hair and drew in a calming breath. The woman was unhinged. She needed to be kept under constant surveillance. He’d banish her to his cottage in the northernmost part of Scotland. She’d either live out the remainder of her days there . . . or in Bedlam.

  A more urgent matter consumed him. He must find Vangie.

  Was she yet nearby? Had she returned to the house? He ran to the stables. One of the stable hands, the new lad, stood at the entrance, staring at Lucinda’s retreating form. He spit on the ground, then turned to go inside the barn.

  “You there. . .” Ian called.

  The young man flushed and paused. “Ben, sir.”

  “Have you seen, Lady—”

  Two riders exploded from the paddock. Their stockinged legs were exposed as they galloped their horses across the pasture.

  Sprinting to the paddock’s fence, Ian jumped onto the lower rail and yelled, “Vangie, stop! Let me explain.”

  Chapter 27

  The wings of the gentle breeze sweeping across the clearing carried Ian’s words away. In frustrated horror, he watched Vangie’s horse rear. Good God, had his shouting spooked the beast? She slid off the horse’s broad rump, tumbling to the ground. She lay in a heap, unmoving.

  His heart stopped, terror numbing his mind. “Van—gie!”

  He didn’t recognize the tormented voice that ripped from his throat.

  He watched Ailsa swing her horse around, evidently intent on rescuing her mistress. Before she reached Vangie, a gypsy on horseback emerged from the trees and pounded to her side.

  The man at the pond.

  Vangie obviously knew him. She stumbled to her feet, holding her side. The Roma reached down, and in one smooth movement, swung her behind him on his sorrel gelding. Vangie turned to look over her shoulder.

  Across the distance, her gaze met Ian’s. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes, before laying her head on the gypsy’s broad back. With a yip, the unknown man kneed his gelding. He and Ailsa raced their horses over a knoll and out of sight.

  Ian gazed at the stunned audience assembled in the paddock. A couple stable hands coughed and averted their gazes. In full view of a dozen of his staff, his bride had fled with another man. Ian’s face heated in humiliation, but he ignored his pride.

  They didn’t know about Lucinda’s lies.

  Neither did Vangie.

  Her mare dutifully trotted back to the enclosure. Ben snared the reigns, then led the horse into the barn. Close on his heels, Ian began saddling Pericles. He was going after his wife.

  Glancing up, he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Blast and damn. Pretending to adjust the saddle, he walked around the other side of the stallion, keeping his gaze trained on Ben.

  The groom loosened the mare’s girth strap, then deftly edged his fingers beneath the saddle before slipping his fist into his pocket. Ian lashed out, gripping the groom’s smaller hand in his own.

  “Give it over.” Ian demanded, rage lacing each syllable.

  Ben dared bravado. “S—sir?”

  He gulped, terrified. His eyes, already bulging in fright, widened further when his gaze swept the barn.

  Ian glanced over his right shoulder. His men formed a semicircle behind him. Their loyalty in the wake of Vangie’s flight was balm to his wounded pride. He squeezed Ben’s hand mercilessly, ignoring the cur’s gasp of pain.

  “Ye better hand it over, lad. It will, go better for ye if ye do,” Gerard advised solemnly, then spit.

  With a cry of defeat, Ben relaxed his hand.

  Ian snatched the horseshoe nail from the groom. Blood and hair matted its length. Seizing Ben’s lapels, Ian jerked the groom eye level with him. “You ought to be thanking God my wife was able to ride away.”

  He shook the groom. “And you’d better be praying she isn’t injured, or so help me God, I’ll. . .”

  Ben went ashen beneath the light fuzz smattering his pimply face.

  “Hell.” Ian shoved him away.

  Ben staggered backward, almost falling. Not a single man offered him a hand.

  “The only reason I’m not beating you to within an inch of your miserable life, is because I don’t have the time to waste.”

  Ian returned his attention to hastily saddling his horse. Teeth clenched, he grated, “You have exactly fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and get off Somersfield lands.”

  He pointed to Ben. “Venture within twenty miles of Somersfield again and I’ll have charges brought against you—after you’ve felt the lash.”

  Ian swung his gaze to Gerard. “You’ll see to it, and notify the magistrate?”

  Not that notifying Sir Doyle amounted to a whole lot. The man was an incompetent, dishonest buffoon.

  Nodding his head, Gerard spit again. “Aye, yer lordship, with pleasure. Never took to the boy. Her ladyship insisted I hire the corn-faced lad. Distant relative, she said.”

  He snorted. “Get on with ye, then, ye bloody cur.”

  Tell-tale moisture darkening the front of trousers, Ben scurried to do Gerard’s bidding.

  Hours later, after making numerous inquiries, Ian located the Romani encampment. Sitting atop a hill, he peered down on the deceptively peaceful scene. He was unarmed except for a dagger concealed in his boot. In his haste to reach Vangie, he hadn’t thought his plan through with his usual logic. Truth be told, he didn’t have a plan.

  He’d been befogged with fury and worry. It was only within the past half hour he had begun to think rationally again. He couldn’t very well ride into the encampment and demand they hand over his wife. Could he?

  The Roma were notorious for both their hospitality and their skill with knives. He wiped his brow with his forearm as his gaze swept the encampment once more. What had Vangie told them? Would he be received as friend or foe?

  He released a gusty breath. It mattered not. They had something of his. Something he’d not leave without.

  He highly doubted the fiercely loyal, and occasionally hot-tempered, gypsies would see it his way. He oughtn’t to have come devoid of reinforcements, but it was too late to remedy the oversight now. Perhaps riding into the camp unaccompanied would be less threatening to the leery travelers. Perchance it would work in his favor.

  Ian sent a silent prayer heavenward that it be so. He’d done more praying since meeting his wife, than he had the whole of his life prior. Shaking his head, he grunted. He was becoming soft.

  No, love was subduing him.

  He smiled. Ah, the truth will out.

  Pericles took a couple prancing steps. Ian patted his neck. He didn’t doubt there’d been a short nail or two impaling the horse’s back beneath the saddle when he’d tossed Ian weeks ago. Poor beast.

  Standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs, Ian froze.

  One broken curricle wheel.

  His rump hit the saddle with a sharp thud.

  Two thrown riders.

  Pericles side-stepped and snorted his displeasure.

  Three random robbery attempts.

  Job’s own luck? Coincidence?

  Not bloody-well likely.

  Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Lucinda had always been obsessed with power and position. Her erratic behavior and even more irrational speech this morning pointed to one thing; she meant him harm. An image of Vangie’s pale face in the south tower loomed to the forefront of his mind.

  Not only him, but Vangie.

  Confound it all. “How
could I have been so blind?” he muttered aloud.

  Because, altogether foreign sentiments had crept into every fiber of his being. Fiend seize it. They’d muddled his good sense and distorted his sound judgment, making him impervious to everything but winning his beautiful wife’s affections.

  Rot and rubbish?

  Not anymore, the devil take it.

  Love was indeed hazardous.

  Pericles snorted and impatiently shifted his stance as if to say, let’s get on with it, shall we?

  “Aye, my friend, let’s be about it then.”

  Ian clicked his tongue while giving a light twitch of the reins. Pericles lunged forward eager to run, but Ian held him to a slow canter, still mulling over his epiphany.

  The pieces snapped neatly into place now. Lucinda’s intent at last became glaringly apparent. His stepmother sought to secure through any means, what in her unhinged mind she thought of as rightfully belonging to her. Another nasty niggling taunted the recesses of his mind, but he dismissed it as the Romani camp loomed before him.

  His practiced gaze efficiently scanned the clearing. Vangie wasn’t in sight. A score of brightly painted wooden caravans and several simple tents were arranged beneath the towering trees. An equal number of laughing children and barking dogs played beside the wagons or cavorted throughout the encampment.

  Two larger vardos, one at either end of the glen, drew Ian’s attention. A handsome woman sat within the opening of one of them, watching him with keen, assessing eyes. She tilted her head when their gazes met, almost as if she were greeting him across the distance.

  In a roped-off area near the river, two score horses and mules milled about. Several nickered upon catching Pericles’s scent. The stallion shook his head and neighed a greeting. Ian took in the magnificent horseflesh. Tattersalls boasted horseflesh no finer than some of these the Roma possessed.