“Hm,” Emma replied. “My mother never laid a hand on me… but my father did not hold back when he disciplined Thomas.” Her mind ran back to one time she’d seen Thomas’ cheeks a deep red from being boxed in the face multiple times, and sighed. “He did not let Thomas get out of the lines he had drawn for him.”
“Ah…are ye tellin’ me that yer father mistreated yer brother?” William asked hesitantly.
“I am sure,” Emma’s words were quiet. “But I never got to see him much. Father always disciplined him out of our sight. And Thomas never said anything to the contrary. In fact, he did not tell us anything at all. He swallowed it down and never said a word.
Hearing that Thomas had been cruelly ill-used by his Father began to paint a very different picture of the Marston family for William. He took a moment to digest it and try to piece it together with what had happened that night.
From one point of view, having your father die so gruesomely, surrounded by friends and family at what was a supposed to be a celebration, was the worst nightmare any loyal son could have had. Then again, another point of view was having your father die that shockingly, with people who could easily be termed as enemies by a revengeful, hateful son, was like a gift from heaven.
It was even easier to pin the blame on the Scots, a people notorious for hating the English people. As time ticked away, the pieces started to fall in place. Could it be that it was not Finley or the Frenchman involved in the Earl’s murder? Could it be that Thomas was the mastermind of his ghastly tale and that he was letting them believe that he was innocent of it all?
“William?” Emma’s question cut through his thoughts like a hot knife through butter.
“Eh?”
“What were you thinking about?” she asked.
He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly while debating if he should tell her his suspicion, and if he did, how to do so. Emma’s hazel eyes were mildly curious and William decided that nothing good would come from withholding his suspicions.
“Emma....what if it was not just Finley who was in cahoots with the Frenchman…what if yer brother was in it, too?” William proposed.
A flash of confusion and then disbelief warred with her first emotion as she paled. “He wouldn’t.”
“He would,” William replied. “Think about it, Emma… yer brother was ill-treated by yer Father for years. If ye had been under that pain for so many years, wouldn’t you want revenge, too? Look at it from his side of the story. What more perfect way could there be than staging the murder at oor feast, an’ then blaming us fer it?”
She shook her head even more and her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. It was as if she was trying to dislodge the very suggestion from her mind but William knew it had stuck.
Her lips slipped out of from her teeth and she hissed out a sound of pain, “My God….my God…”
Emma’s arms wrapped around her middle. She did not say a word but then she paled even more and shot off the bed. She rushed to the window and stuck her head out of it as her body heaved and heaved. William was right behind her, holding her body in case she was too weak after her retching and would fall.
William stood there, inches away from her as her heaving came to rest. Immediately, he regretted saying something. It could never be easy to swallow the idea that your own sibling had contrived to kill your father.
Hell, William felt that if he had siblings and one of them had planned to kill Murdo, it would have felt like a punch to his gut. In repentance, he softly held her shoulder and moved her hair from her cheek. Emma rose and wiped her hand across her mouth. William calmly guided her back to the bed and she sat.
He then went to get her a cup of water for her to settle her stomach. She took it gratefully and drank it all in one desperate gulp. Her voice was weak, “Thank you.”
Taking it from her, William set it aside and knelt at her feet. “I’m sorry, lass, I ken it cannae be easy ta’ stomach something like that.”
She shook her head silently, “You did nothing wrong, William. I just cannot believe that I had not thought about it before. It….as horrible as it sounds, it makes sense. Perfect sense, I should say. I suppose it’s just that I could not imagine him doing something like that…but now…”
Running his hand across her thighs, William tried to soothe her. “Still, I should nae have said it like that, all blunt.”
“Sometimes blunt is best,” Emma corrected. “The thing is, I knew who Thomas was, I had seen who he was. I knew who he was from the time we were children. If I had not, I would not have warned you that day from the bushes, remember.”
“Emma—”
“I knew him, William!” she cried and struck her thigh with her fist. “I knew who he was but...but…God. I had thought he had gotten over it. I did not think he would be…. so cruel.”
Standing, William slipped into bed beside her and hugged her close, so close that he wanted to merge his soul with hers. He felt her pain and wished he could do something much more tangible to ease her pain than holding her.
More than ever, he wanted to find Marston and run his sword through him. He felt that a quick death for the bastard would not be enough. For killing his father and for almost sending Emma to an asylum, Marston needed to suffer. There were so many ways he could make the man writhe in pain.
As Emma drifted off to sleep, William plotted exactly what he was going to do with Thomas Marston…and none of it was pretty.
Chapter 22
The Marston Townhouse, Manchester, London
Sun streamed through the townhouse’s wide windows, brightening Henry Marston’s study. There were multiple shelves of books lining the walls. The room sported only his desk, two wingback chairs, and a chaise-lounge, all made of wood and dark red velvet padding. Like the lamps, the hearth was unlit and would not be so this evening if he made up his mind on the issue before him.
The middle-aged man ran a hand over his slightly weathered face and scratched at the scalp of his dark, greying hair. That morning, Henry had received a letter from his niece, Emma. It was her voice but what confused him was the hand. Emma’s handwriting was the perfect cursive of all learned and trained ladies but this one was nothing of the sort.
This has the look of a man’s hand. The letters are perfectly formed but are written in a slashing hand. Another thing that puzzles me is that the letter has come from Edinburgh. What was Emma doing in Scotland?
He studied the letter, then dropped it softly onto the desk. Pushing away from the wingchair, he went directly to the window and stared out. His tall, medium-build frame was barely reflected back to him as he clasped his hands behind his back. As he looked out into the back garden, he pondered his next move. He had not been in touch with his brother in a while nor had he seen his niece or nephew in the same while.
Emma’s words were troubling. It felt a bit ominous when he read between the lines. What had happened to his sister-in-law? Moreover, why had he not heard from his bother in a while?
Henry sighed. He and Peter had not had the best of brotherly relationships. His brother had been born two years before him and had inherited the Earldom from their father, Oliver Marston. Henry did not know why, but Peter had this anger inside him. He had nearly missed expulsion from Eton—twice—but miraculously had never been marked up at Oxford.
Peter had married Katharine only five months after leaving Oxford. Henry remembered the day when he had first met her. She had been merely eight-and-ten when he first laid eyes on her, more girl than woman, really. Her light brown hair and sky blue eyes had clearly announced that the girl was an innocent and Henry had wondered what Peter was doing with her. Surely, someone who was more mature would have suited him better?
It was only after the birth of their son, Thomas, that Henry had understood. Peter had not wanted anyone with a strong mind to contradict his. Oh no, Peter had wanted someone he could bully and rule with an iron fist. Peter had taken the poor girl for three things—she could bear him heir
s, she was to fit society’s perception of a solid English family, and third, she could be bullied into keeping her mouth shut.
Henry had been scared for Katherine for years but she had not given him any evidence to believe Peter was harming or bullying her. Katherine had never shied away from him when he came to visit nor did she circumvent her husband. She was totally fine and in perfect health, for all the years she and Peter had been married and Henry had been forced to conclude that Peter was either avoiding Katherine or she was not worth enough as a target.
So, this letter from Emma beggared the question—what had changed? Had something happened? Was one of them harmed in any way? Henry shook his head as the suspicions chased around each other until his head began to hurt. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Henry sighed.
“Oh God, Peter, what have you done now?” He sighed.
The truth was, many years ago, during the time he had feared for Katherine’s life, he had made a few plans to get Katherine and the children out from under Peter’s hand but they had been abandoned. Now, one or two could be reactivated.
Calling out for one of the two footmen he employed, he told him to make sure the carriage ready for a trip to Northumberland the next day and then went to pack a bag.
“God help us all, Peter.”
* * *
Cabin at Galashiels
The light thump of a pail on the floor drew Emma out of her daydream. She looked up to see William standing there with a wide grin on his face. Before she could ask, he spoke.
“I hae a gift fer ye, lass. I wandered far enough to meet a few farm folks who gladly gave me this.”
Curious, Emma got off the bed and took two steps forward, then looked down on the smooth creamy white of milk. She clapped her hands over her mouth, “Oh, that’s wonderful. We can make porridge and the coffee might not be that dark and my tea can…”
William had sidestepped her and kissed her without preamble. He held her hips loosely and grinned into the kiss. “I’ve never seen a lass get all this happy fer milk…” He waggled his brows impishly. “If yer this happy fer milk, what are ye going to do when I give ye diamonds an’ silk dresses?”
She slapped his chest, “Don’t start.”
“I reckon yer letter should hae gotten to yer uncle in Manchester by noo,” William mentioned, while Emma lifted the bucket up and to the kitchen table. “To be honest, I am getting nervous aboot Goraidh. It is nearly two weeks noo…an’…” he took in a deep breath. “I am afraid that Marston may hae caught up to him.”
Emma was quiet for a moment and she sighed, too, “I can only pray that he has not. My brother may have planned out… killing Father but Thomas does not think ahead much. He does things more by reaction. I doubt he would have sent anyone to stop Goraidh. I don’t think he’d even know about it at all.”
Turning, William felt another pang of pain, with the memory that he had given Emma the suspicion that her brother had killed their father. But the words she had said about Marston not knowing about Goraidh rang true. There was little chance he could have known about it or even have sent someone to harm him.
Perhaps the real issue was the tradesman had come upon some trouble with finding the man. William wanted to hold onto that option as the adverse conclusion, that Goraidh had not found anything of significance with the Frenchman, was one he could not bear. He wanted everyone involved in the conspiracy to kill the Earl to pay and pay dearly.
* * *
She had sieved the millet and was pouring in the milk to make the porridge when she looked up to see William standing by the window. His hands were braced on the sill and the muscles on his arms stood out. There was a thick furrow of worry in the middle of his forehead, a clear sign of his worry. There was not much more to say than what she had already said. She hid her worry for his sake as best as she could and stirred the thickening mix.
Dropping in sugar and a few pinches of cinnamon, she tasted it and smiled. It was perfect. Spooning the porridge into bowls, she called William over. He took his and sat, not on the bed, but on the floor.
Admittedly, she was nervous again as he ate but when his groan of satisfaction came her anxiety left and she began to eat. She had not had something as simple but wonderful as porridge for weeks and she finished her bowl just as William was scraping the bottom of his.
“Ach,” he grunted with a smile. “Ye surely ken how to evoke memories of me childhood, lass. It’s like nine-year-old me living again. Me Maw would make porridge fer me all tha’ time. Sometimes she’d use corn or oats with a dab of honey or some berries on the top.”
Glad that he had enjoyed her meal, Emma took the bowls and washed them out. While doing so, she heard the rumbles of thunder far away and smelled rain on the air. She did not feel that the deluge would come their way but would not care if it did. She lit a candle as the day darkened and William locked the backdoor and the windows. Thank God he did because the wind would have snuffed the candle out in no time. As she came to rest beside the bed, she asked William if he needed to take a bath.
“Nae,” he shrugged, “I’ll just need a bucket and rag.”
Emma watched as he got the bucket of water and the rag and stripped off. She forced herself to not look directly at him but did not deny herself quick glances as he did so. However, to deny her suddenly curious eyes he had moved behind the tub to bathe.
Half his body was hidden from her and she found herself frowning. She felt cheated. When William slipped his smallclothes on, she shifted over on the bed and let him in. As soon as he got on and the bed had dipped under his weight, a loud crash—causing Emma to jump a foot in the air—rent the air in two and the rain hammered on the roof.
William chuckled and she scowled, “Stop laughing at me, you brute.”
“Oh, I’m a brute noo, am I?” William teased.
“Yes — oh!”
His strong hands grabbed her and flipped her backward on the bed. He placed a knee between her legs and braced his body on his elbows before he kissed her. Her soft gasp of want ran through William’s body like molten fire. She displayed the side of her neck and William kissed down it with growing fervor.
She squirmed under him in a wonderful way and her body was taut like a string under him. Emma’s soft noises were fuel to his fire and red lust was creeping into his vision. The rain on the roof, pounding like hammers, was as fierce as the lust doubling back on itself through his veins. He wanted Emma so badly but knew he needed to stop and she was the only one who could stop him.
“Emma…” his voice was deep and molten lust poured through his eyes. “Lass…do you want me to stop?”
From the glazed look in Emma’s eyes and her rapid breathing, William knew it would take her a moment to connect with his question. His length was stiffening with every heartbeat and her hand trailing down his chest was not helping his case much. Her body was so soft and pliable under his and her eyes were so wide with want that he could not stop from ducking his head and sucking her left nipple into his mouth through her clothes.
Her hand dug into his hair and tightened as he pleasured her. Her back arched under his chest as her fingers slipped from his hair to his shoulder. Her nails dug into the skin there. Her voice was breathy and deep as she spoke, “I don’t want to…God knows I don’t want to…but I know we should, so, please… stop.”
William felt pain slice through his gut but the lady was right. Who knew what consequences they would face by one night of pleasure? His eyes clenched tightly, his nostrils flared, and his breath was quick and deep. He pressed his forehead onto her stomach and measured his breathing. Perhaps his location was a bit of a mistake, as smelling her clean, olive oil-scented skin through her clothes was egging his lust on.
Dropping soft kisses down her sternum, William forced himself back and flopped on his back. His eyes were closed as he concentrated on the pounding rain on the roof, feeling every drop drumming into his soul. He felt her shift and preemptively warned her, “Emma, lass, please dinnae to
uch me right noo. Fire is racing through me veins an’ yer touch will make it a furnace.”
Thankfully, she only settled beside him and though he could hear her breath and feel the heat coming from her body, she did not touch him. He muttered a prayer under his breath as his blood cooled and he judged it safe to blink his eyes open. Twisting his head to the side, William met her warm gaze and smiled softly.
“Ye have a guid head on yer shoulders, lass,” William sighed while ignoring the still throbbing need in his pants. “This is baby makin’ weather.”
Her giggle cooled him even further, “That cannot be true.”
“The records do not lie, lass,” William snorted softly, “Many a man I’ve fought with was conceived during a thunderstorm. Probably why oor tempers are so high, an’ why oor victories are so constant.”
“Would you like a child, William?” Emma asked quietly. “From what I have inferred, your culture loves children.”
Disciplined by the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 20
