by Elisa Braden
Her chin tilted up. She arched a brow. “Broderick MacPherson and I were married ten days past, Mr. Munro.”
“Sergeant.”
“As his wife, even if I knew whatever it is you think I know, my account cannot be coerced by you or any court in the land.” She yanked her arm free with a fierce jerk that made both her and Janet stumble. “Now, I shall bid you good day, Mr. Munro. I trust we shan’t meet again.”
“We will, m’lady. I regret to say I believe yer marriage to be fraudulent.”
She froze.
Janet whispered a curse.
A frigid blast of wind rocked them both.
Kate glared up at the man whose relentless hunt had made her life a misery. He was perhaps fifty, barrel-chested, and very certain of his own righteousness. To serve his own ambition, he sought to persecute a man who had already suffered unimaginable torment. She’d never hated anyone as much.
“Why should I care what you think of my marriage? It is none of your concern, nor will it ever be.”
Janet tugged insistently. “Let’s be off, m’lady.”
The whiskers twitched again, this time with a faint smile. “Sham marriages have been challenged routinely in court. Questions of legitimacy are often settled there. A husband and wife livin’ separately? That’s evidence no judge could deny. If yer marriage is a lie, m’lady, I shall see it set aside. Then, ye’ll have no choice but to tell me what ye ken about the night Lockhart went missin’.”
Thank goodness for Janet, or Kate might have folded into a heap at Munro’s boots. Wobbly knees and little sleep made her head swim. Could he be telling the truth? Would he go to such lengths?
Yes, she decided. Yes, he would.
Janet tugged again. “We must go, m’lady.”
This time, she let the maid pull her away. They started for the haberdashery, but her heart pounded a rhythm that sounded very much like, “Not again, not again, not again.”
Munro called after her, “I’ll be watchin’, Lady Katherine. Broderick MacPherson may believe he’s free, but he cannae escape justice. Not so long as I breathe.”
Kate slipped inside the small shop with a gasp, wadding her reticule and rushing to the darkest corner, near the tartans. Janet followed, attempting to comfort her with small pats on her back. “He means to rattle ye, m’lady. Dinnae let him win.”
She swallowed the fear tightening her throat. “He is winning, Janet.”
“Dinnae say that.” The maid fell quiet for a moment. “A proper marriage cannae be set aside.”
Kate frowned. “What are you—”
“Make it proper, m’lady. He’ll have no choice but to leave ye be.”
“I don’t think you understand what you’re suggesting,” Kate whispered.
“Oh, I ken it well, and it willnae be easy.” The maid straightened, her gaze direct and firm. “Ye must go to live with Broderick MacPherson. And ye must convince Sergeant Whiskers the two of ye are properly wed, if ye take my meanin’.”
Kate’s cheeks burned at the mere thought. She nodded.
Janet tidied a curl near Kate’s temple and gave her a reassuring smile. “I recommend havin’ a dram or two before ye visit Mr. MacPherson, m’lady. Whisky makes the hard tasks a wee bit easier.”
“How long has it been, do ye suppose?” Alexander rested his elbow on the side of the wagon and nudged Rannoch.
Rannoch winced and adjusted his hat. “Since he’s tupped somethin’ other than his own hand? A year. Mayhap longer.”
Broderick hefted a cask of cider onto his shoulder and started past the rowans flanking his front door. There was little point in answering. They’d drawn their own conclusions from his short temper.
Carrying the second cask, Campbell weighed in. “Longer, I’d wager.”
Broderick shot his oldest brother a glare as they carried the cider through the house into the kitchen. He nodded to his grizzled old naval captain of a cook and the cowering kitchen maid before depositing his load next to the sideboard. The maid squeaked as Broderick straightened, scurrying to the hearth and pretending to stir an empty pot. With a grunt of disgust, he returned outside where his brothers debated which of them would suffer the most damage when Broderick’s lack of sufficient tupping caused his temper to explode.
As if he were a bloody uncontrolled wildfire. Ridiculous. He was focused on what mattered—finding Lockhart. For the past week, he’d scoured Inverness-shire. What he’d found were traces of Lockhart: bloody linens in the stable at Glenscannadoo Manor, which meant the lord had found shelter with the pompous arse who lived there. The two men had once been friends, and when they’d questioned the arse, he’d admitted to allowing his surgeon to tend Lockhart’s injuries but claimed he’d tossed Lockhart out once it became clear the blackguard would live.
Thereafter, Campbell had found a traveling merchant who transported an “auld, ailin’ woman” from Laird Glenscannadoo’s land to a modest house in Inverness. Alexander had discovered the house had been rented for the past month by none other than Sabella Lockhart—the bastard’s sister. Both Campbell and Alexander had accompanied Broderick inside, only to find it empty. From there, the trail went cold. They’d inquired at the port for passenger lists. They’d questioned the owner of the house, a widow, who answered, “Bonnie lass, Miss Lockhart. Paid through the end of this week. No, I didnae inquire as to her destination. She helped me trim my roses, ye ken. The thorns are a wee bit much for these auld fingers. Lovely, kind lady. Fond of silk gowns, as I recall. I dinnae ken how she keeps them so clean in this rain.”
In other words, he’d hunted Lockhart for the better part of a month and found only frustration. His brothers thought his ill temper was sexual. That wasn’t the cause. True, nightly dreams about a certain brown-eyed lass with a habit of winding her curls around her finger weren’t helping. But he had it under control.
“Shall I take a message to yer bride, Broderick?” Rannoch called from the front of the wagon. “I’ll be dinin’ at the castle this evenin’. ’Twould be nae trouble.”
Every muscle tightened against the visceral need to shut his brother’s grinning mouth with a fist. Rannoch could be exasperating at times, which usually sparked a bit of brotherly irritation. But lately, it was more. Whenever Rannoch mentioned a visit to the castle or spoke about Broderick’s “bride,” violent resentment welled, quick and hot. It couldn’t be jealousy—Broderick wasn’t the jealous sort. If a woman preferred another man over him, she lost her allure as surely as meat gone off. Cecilia had been no exception, in that respect.
Besides, it wasn’t as though he’d taken Kate to his bed. Granted, she was a bonnie lass. Large, expressive brown eyes that went tender one moment and lively the next. Ivory skin that flushed berry-bright at the slightest provocation. The first time he’d heard her laugh, he hadn’t been able to look away. And when she’d mentioned having his bairns—“one or two,” mind—he’d gone hard enough to sharpen his dirk. But that didn’t mean he wanted her. He didn’t. She’d cost him a precious opportunity with Lockhart. She’d blackmailed him into doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do.
He should hate her. He did hate her.
These strange flashes of anger toward Rannoch were likely misdirected vexation toward his wife.
Damn it all, she wasn’t his wife. Not really.
“Appears yer wife prefers to hear her messages directly,” Alexander commented, nodding to the end of the drive that curved through thick woods before angling down the hill.
Broderick frowned, shifting his glare in that direction. His skin heated inside his clothing. Everything hardened. He gritted his teeth, trying to control his breathing. Too fast. Too hard. Hadn’t he told her to stay away?
Campbell’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Easy, brother.”
“Bluidy hell,” he bit out.
She wore a blue riding habit beneath a MacPherson plaid. She rode a black horse. Tiny brown curls wisped along her temples and che
eks. But it wasn’t her beauty that grabbed hold of his guts and twisted. It was her foolishness.
“She didnae even bother to bring a maid with her.”
Campbell gripped him harder. “Aye. Ye can chastise her recklessness. But ye must manage yer temper.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re nae fine.”
“Leave us. Take Rannoch with ye.”
After a long, considering pause, Campbell grunted, removed his hand, and gestured to Alexander and Rannoch. By the time Kate’s horse approached the house, they were tipping their hats in farewell.
The smile she sent Rannoch trembled at the corners, he noticed. She was nervous. She should be.
When she pulled her glossy mount to a halt a few feet away, her breathing quickened. He waited.
She opened her bonnie lips to speak. Closed them. Swallowed. Whispered to herself—likely something about courage and sticking places. Finally came the answer he hadn’t asked for: “I’ve come with news.”
“Unless yer news is that ye’d like an annulment, ye’ve wasted a trip.”
Frowning, she glanced down at her mount then at his shoulders. “W-would you mind very much—”
“Aye, I do mind. Very much.”
Those rich brown eyes narrowed. A straight, dainty nose flared. Had he pricked her temper? Good. She’d lit his on fire.
With a mutinous glare, she shifted in her sidesaddle before sliding to the ground. Her dismount was awkward, but she managed to land on her feet. “There’s no call to be churlish. I know you don’t want me here.”
“And yet, here ye are.”
“Yesterday, I encountered Sergeant Munro in the village square.” Her dainty chin rose as she patted her horse’s neck with a gloved hand. “He intends to challenge the legitimacy of our marriage. He believes our sacred union to be fraudulent.”
Why she kept calling their union “sacred” when it was the opposite, he didn’t know. He folded his arms across his chest. “He’s right.”
“Well, yes. But that is why we must make it proper.”
“Proper how?”
She glanced behind him at the house. “How would you feel about my living here?”
“I’d feel the same way I did when I married ye.”
She focused on him again. “It’s a lovely house, Broderick.”
Why the devil did she have to say his name like that, all soft and warm? She was a frivolous young woman caught up in fantasies about muses and penning nonsense plays and quoting Shakespeare with reckless abandon. Kate Huxley belonged in England, married to a London fop who wore lace-trimmed drawers and purchased a box at the theatre to host his wealthy friends. Not here. Not with him.
“Surely there is ample room for me,” she continued, attempting a smile. “I shan’t require much. A small chamber for writing. A bedchamber with a hearth.” Her smile steadied enough to brighten. “You’ll scarcely notice I’m here.”
“But ye shouldnae be here.” He crowded closer, watching her smile fade. “And if ye were going to be so foolish as to ride here, ye should have brought yer brother, or a footman at least.”
Blinking rapidly, she thrust her chin forward. “You don’t frighten me.”
“First of all, that’s daft. I’m ten times yer size—”
She snorted. “Three, at most.”
“Secondly, I have enemies. Take a good look at my face, lass. The man who paid for this to be done would think nothin’ of harmin’ ye in unspeakable ways. In fact, he’d revel in it.”
Examining his face for long moments, she shocked him when she stepped closer, their bodies almost touching, and reached for his cheek. He jerked away, but she followed, her hand landing upon his chest.
“Broderick, what I did … the way I coaxed you into … I—I’m so very sorry.”
His heart kicked in the strangest fashion as if it were being violently squeezed. “Now? Now ye’re sorry?”
Her eyes pleaded as her hand stroked and petted him in a distracted fashion. “My intentions were … I wished to ensure I could not be used against you. But I should not have forced your hand. I haven’t slept soundly in weeks.”
Neither had he, though the cause was vastly different. That cause gazed up at him now with a vulnerability that made him want to pick her up and haul her inside. She was so small—slender and shapely and petite. He wanted to build a wall around her that even Lockhart couldn’t break.
“Tell me what Munro said,” he murmured.
She blinked, her thick lashes fluttering down as she examined the place where her hand lay upon him. “He is relentless,” she whispered. “He wants to have our marriage nullified by the court. He came round to the castle this morning and left a note for me.”
“And?”
“He’s threatening to bring charges against both of us. Fraud. Obstruction.” Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot put your family or mine through this, Broderick.” Velvety eyes lifted. “Please help me.”
Bloody hell. How did she do this? When she’d arrived, he’d felt like a barrel of gunpowder next to a kiln. Now, all he felt was a driving need to put his arms around her. Which was daft. “What would ye have me do, lass?”
“Let me live here with you,” she said softly. “Help me persuade Munro our marriage is proper.”
He was afraid to ask. “What do ye mean by ‘proper’?”
His answer came in another flood of berry-bright color flagging her cheeks and throat. More lash fluttering. Feminine breaths quickening. “He must believe we are … that we are … a love match. Or, at least, that the marriage has been … consummated.”
Focused on controlling his body’s predictable reaction, he didn’t answer straight away.
Which sent her stumbling into further explanations. “That is, I assume you are capable of … You seem quite …” She stroked his chest again. “I cannot think of the best word for it. Vigorous? Robust? Thoroughly recovered, that much is certain.”
“Kate.”
“Hmm?”
“He has no way to ken whether we’ve consummated anythin’.”
She gave a tiny, wide-eyed shake of her head. “He will. You don’t know what he’s like.”
“He’s questioned me seven times.”
“He has?”
“Aye.”
“Well, perhaps I don’t have your vast experience with resisting a constable’s interrogation, but I assure you, if he approaches me, I cannot—”
“If he approaches ye again, ye’ll come to me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, no. You mustn’t.”
He glowered. “Why?”
“Broderick,” she whispered, placing a second hand flat over his heart. “How am I to protect you if you won’t let me?”
God, she stole his breath from his body. Rain had started. It was pelting him now, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was her hands. All he saw was her eyes.
She meant it. She honestly intended to protect him. This woman needed a keeper. He’d sworn he wouldn’t put himself in this position again. The risk was too great. But what could he do? Technically, he was her husband. And even if he should, he could not leave his wife to suffer the consequences of her own foolishness.
“When ye return to the castle, pack yer belongings. I’ll speak to my brothers. They can help move ye in tomorrow.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Her smile blinded him. “Dougal and his cousins are right behind me. They’ll arrive with everything shortly.”
“Bluidy hell.”
She patted him with both hands and laughed. God, her laugh. It was a crack at the beginning, a wee hitch in the middle, and a cascade of fluttery giggles at the end. It was as wide, warming, and free as sunlight on water.
He was still staring down at her like a daft sod when she withdrew to take her horse’s lead and cast Broderick a teasing glance. “You mustn’t be vexed with me, now. Annie assured me you would see sense, so I saved yo
u the bother.”
He should be angry, but he was too damned busy being dazzled. “The stable is round back.”
She clicked her tongue at her horse, still grinning at Broderick in a way that made all his appendages tingle. “Come, Ophelia. Let’s have a look at your new home, shall we?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
After ensuring the young groom in the stable understood Ophelia preferred apples to oats and oats to forage, Kate returned to the drive and found it empty. With no sign of Broderick, she ignored the queer pang in her belly and set out to explore her new home on her own.
She’d imagined so many things—a great stag’s head above a massive fireplace, an ancient tapestry depicting Robert the Bruce’s mighty battles, a settee upholstered in tartan.
What she found instead was a home newly built and mostly empty. The house itself was a stout stone rectangle, two stories stacked beneath a gabled third. An attic, perhaps? As she climbed the few steps into the entrance hall, she could scarcely credit the familiarity. The place smelled of beeswax, new wood, and warm bread. Wood paneling stained nearly black skirted white plaster walls and matched beamed ceilings. High, square archways led into the drawing room, library, and a stair hall.
The drawing room had only two chairs and a carved table. The library had beautiful shelves with the same dark stain of the paneling but held fewer than twenty books. She wandered deeper, admiring polished plank floors and a sturdy staircase rising in a square alcove to her right. A small parlor at the rear of the house promised to be her favorite spot, with its tartan-upholstered sofa and cozy hearth. Further on, she explored the dining room, which had a table long enough for twelve chairs but no carpet or draperies.
Next, she found the kitchen, where she met the cook, Mr. McInnes, who must be nearing eighty. “Nae Ginnis, lass,” the short, salty man grumbled. “Mack-Innes, ye ken?”
“Ah, yes. My sincere apologies, Mr. McInnes.”
“Hmmph. Better.” He slit the belly of a plump trout and began removing the insides with a quick sweep of his fingers. “Now, what sorts of meals take yer fancy, eh?”
