His heart jumped into his throat. In the instant before he broke into a run toward Elise, he took in the sight of Kiernan riding through the stable doors, Silas stepping from the stall next to the door, knife poised for throwing, and Elise grabbing the trimming scissors from the table. She hurled them toward Silas as she had thrown the sgian dubh that day at Brahan Seer.
The scissors hit their intended victim with deadly accuracy between the shoulder blades. Blood darkened the dirty shirt he wore. Silas faltered and turned, eyes wide with surprise. His expression contorted into rage. He roared and lunged toward her. Kiernan whirled his mount around to face the sudden commotion. His gaze met Marcus's, then Kiernan shouted and dug his heels into his horse's ribs. The beast's nostrils flared as he dipped his head and charged. Marcus forced his legs to pump harder. Silas would still reach Elise before either of them did.
She pivoted and grabbed the hoof pick hanging on the wall. The hair on Marcus's neck rose when Silas clutched at her. She swung the hoof pick. Kiernan reached them as she slashed Silas's arm. The horse slammed into Silas and he was knocked forward and into Elise. He grabbed her, but Marcus leapt between them, shoving her behind him. The table crashed onto its side and Elise cried out. Marcus seized Silas's collar and pounded his fist into the man's jaw.
“Father,” Kiernan shouted as he leapt from his horse.
Marcus swung Silas around and sent him flying through the door of the stall. Silas banged into the wall and crumbled to the ground. Marcus whirled to face Elise. His breath came in quick, deep gasps—much like hers. She met his gaze, eyes blazing. He looked at Silas. The scissors had fallen from his back onto the straw-laden ground beside him. Marcus looked back at Elise.
“You never told me where you learned to throw a knife like that!” he shouted.
She blinked as if yanked from a dream. “Steven—” her voice caught, but Marcus realized it was the last vestiges of fear—and rage. “Steven learned as a young boy. I-I always feared he would hurt himself, so I attended his practices.”
Elise yanked her skirt above her ankles and strode to the stall opening. She stared at Silas, her hands clenched on the fistful of skirt she held. She pivoted as Marcus stepped up behind her and collided with him. He grasped her shoulders.
She grabbed his arms as though to steady herself. “Will we ever be free of him?”
In her eyes, Marcus saw the fear he had felt when he saw Silas poised to murder his son. Marcus glanced around and spotted the bucket of water he was looking for several stalls down. He fetched it, then pushed past Elise and Kiernan and threw the water on the unconscious man. Silas awoke with a sputter. Marcus seized him by his collar and yanked him to his feet.
“Who sent you?” Marcus shouted.
Silas cowed.
“Tell me or I'll kill you here and now.”
“That woman.” Silas cringed.
“Woman?” Marcus gave him a hard shake.
Silas went silent.
“Kiernan! Give me your pistol.”
“No,” Silas cried.
Marcus lifted his fist for another blow.
“Ross!” Silas shouted. “Lady Ross.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elise stilled at the sound of Marcus's bedchamber door opening. She rose and stole through the closet which separated their two rooms, then knocked lightly on his door, and entered. He looked up from where he stood near the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Her heart lurched. She had suspected he kept a mistress, but seeing him now, hair tousled, cravat missing, the top button of his shirt undone, there was no mistaking the fact he had just risen from another woman's bed. The mental picture of Marcus kissing the rise of her breasts, then taking her nipple into his mouth filled her vision.
“Elise?”
She snapped back to the present. “I—” Her gaze caught on his hands—hands that had once touched her, had once—the urge to cry sprang up. No, she wouldn't cry. She had made her bed. She would live with the consequences.
“I wondered how things went with Lady Ross's trial,” she said. “Is it over?”
Marcus reached around his back and pulled out the revolver stuffed into his waistband.
Where had the revolver lain when he made love to his mistress?
“It is over,” he replied. “She claims to know nothing of a plot to kill Kiernan.” Marcus glanced at her. “I suspect she wanted you dead. Though she denies that as well. I don't know how, but it is clear she was in league with Ardsley. Margaret had no reason to kill Kiernan.”
Elise started to ask how he could be so sure when he said, “She won't face prison.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “England is not about to put one of her noblewomen in prison, even if she is Scottish. She is to go to America.” Marcus's expression abruptly darkened. “Do you intend on standing in doorways the remainder of our marriage?”
She blinked.
“Or is it that you simply find it too abhorrent to be in a room with me?”
“I… no. I only thought—”
“Thought what?” he demanded.
“I didn't want to intrude. It is late—”
“So it is.” Marcus began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Good Lord,” she muttered. “It's not as if you have invited me into your bed—chambers.” She added “chambers” in a rush, seeing his fingers halt on the third button and the sudden gleam in his eyes.
His eyes narrowed. “Am I to understand it is I who have stayed out of your bed?”
“You say that as if you're surprised,” she snapped.
“By God,” he thundered. “I will settle this now.” He started around the bed.
Elise rolled her eyes. “You have no energy to settle anything.”
He stopped short. “What the blazes does that mean?”
“It means, I have made my bed and I'll lie in it.” Alone.
Marcus charged across the room. Elise backed up. He grabbed her and tossed her on his bed before she could blink. His lips crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. Shock ripped through her. Energy pooled in the pit of her stomach, then between her legs. His hand covered a breast. Elise arched into him. She wanted him, but could she live with the fact he had another woman? He yanked up her night rail and reached between her legs. Yes. She could live with anything if she had him. His fingers probed. Marcus abruptly pulled away from her.
He touched her cheek. “Steven is well,” he said. “There is no need to cry.”
“Cry?” She lifted a finger to her cheek, but even as she did, she realized she was crying.
“Unless…” Marcus said.
Elise looked at him.
“You can't forgive me for Steven. I am sorry. I understood the consequences. I could not change—”
“Forgive you,” she interrupted. “You have done nothing to forgive. It's my fault, even your taking a mistress. I can't blame you for wanting—”
“A what?” He looked startled.
“What?” she repeated.
His brows puckered in a fierce frown. “We have been in Ashlund two weeks and already you have me consorting with other women?”
“There's no better explanation for the late nights, your state of dishevelment.”
“My state of dishevelment?” His gaze swept across her body. “You seem to have forgotten what my state of dishevelment is like when I make love to a woman.” He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her ear. “When I make love to you,” he whispered.
Elise drew a sharp breath as he rocked against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“There is no more Margaret,” he whispered. “No more Ardsley, and”—Marcus slid a hand beneath her and lifted her hips to meet each thrust of his hips—”there is no mistress.”
He pulled his arm from around her, then reached between them and unfastened his trousers. His erection sprang free of its constraints and Marcus drove himself into her.
“There is only you,” he said, and began the rhythm that bound them together as one.
####<
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A Debt Paid
The Stainton Sisters
Dorothy
Amy Corwin
Chapter One
“When do you believe Martha will realize that we have every stitch of clothing she owns?” Grace’s giggles made the question almost indecipherable as the two Stainton sisters bounced along in the back of Farmer Cavell’s wagon. She braced her feet against the lumpy portmanteau containing most of Martha’s belongings.
But Dorothy was too distracted to answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant spires and higgledy-piggledy chimneys and rooftops growing clearer in the distance.
London. Her nervous stomach clenched and twisted as her hands gripped the ends of her shawl. She hardly knew if excitement or fear had the upper hand on her emotions.
“Dorothy!” Grace nudged her with a small, gloved fist. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes—what?” Just as Dorothy turned her head in her sister’s direction, the wagon hit a bump. Both girls uttered a small gasp in unison and gripped the rough wooden sides of the wagon to keep from bouncing out of it.
“You girls hold tightly, now,” Farmer Cavell threw over his shoulder. “Road’s a bit rough in this patch—easy, now, Rose—steady, Daisy,” he clucked to the huge pair of draft horses. Both animals appeared oblivious to his blandishments and clopped steadily forward without even twitching their soft ears. “We’ll be in London within the hour.”
“An hour!” Grace’s blue eyes glowed as she reached over to clasp Dorothy’s wrist.
Patting her sister’s hand, Dorothy smiled. It would be all right, wouldn’t it? After all, Aunt Mary wasn’t an ogre… precisely. Then Grace’s original question leapt into her mind, and her forced smile became genuine. “I suspect Martha realized it at the same moment we disappeared around the bend in the road.”
“Oh! How deliciously dreadful.” Grace laughed, her bright blue eyes twinkling in the soft yellow and peach late afternoon light. “Lord Ashbourne will be quite annoyed if he must buy her an entire wardrobe immediately, will he not?”
“I suspect his efforts to economize will not be disrupted too much,” Dorothy answered dryly.
While not precisely rich, Dorothy suspected that Lord Ashbourne was far from the penniless noble everyone assumed he was. And Martha would not press him. She was not a frivolous, extravagant woman and was far more likely to request a new laboratory for her chemistry experiments than a new wardrobe.
So, in fact, the pitiful contents of Martha’s portmanteau would hardly be missed by anyone except perhaps the rag and bone man. Dorothy let out a soft sigh thinking about Martha and Lord Ashbourne. They were so perfectly matched that it made Dorothy wish she had a long-time friend, as well, who could fall in love with her. The future looked so bright for Martha and Ashbourne, even if Lord Ashbourne did have to acquire a new trousseau for his betrothed.
Grace leaned closer, her round cheeks flushed. “Should we have stayed? Perhaps Lord Ashbourne—”
“No.” Dorothy cut her off firmly. “You forget—we are in mourning. It is best that we continue, as planned, to Aunt Mary’s. Martha and Lord Ashbourne will have a quiet, private wedding. They do not need the two of us interfering while they attempt to adjust to wedded bliss. No, proceeding to London is the right thing for us to do.” She gave her sister a quizzical glance. “Do you not want to go to London?”
“Oh, yes!” Grace clasped her hands and stared ahead at the jumble of rooftops and dusky clouds of smoke hanging over them. “Though I wish…” She cast a forlorn glance over her shoulder in the direction of the little village where they grew up.
Dorothy could guess very well what she wished, and the knot in her stomach returned with a twisting wrench. They were leaving behind not only their sister, Martha, but also Mr. Blyth, who had become a dear friend to Grace. Perhaps even more than simply a friend.
Another instance of a friend becoming something more…
The wounded look darkening Grace’s blue eyes deepened, her mouth drooping as she sighed. Dorothy leaned closer and gave her sister’s forearm a reassuring squeeze.
They were leaving everything behind; their childhood home, their sister, and Grace’s friend, the curate, Mr. Blyth. Even the cheerful Mr. Cavell would vanish from their lives like a puff of smoke after he delivered them to their aunt in London.
Their father had been dead less than two weeks, and Dorothy already desperately missed his wry good humor and reassuring presence. He was often abstracted and busy in his laboratory, performing goodness-knows-what experiments—often with Martha assisting him—but just knowing that he was nearby gave them the sense that all was right with the world. Nothing ill could happen to them while he was there. Not even when whatever he was working on exploded in a cloud of richly stinking fumes.
Now, more often than not, it seemed that all was not right with their world, although Martha had certainly, and unexpectedly, landed upon her feet. A feeling of ill-usage burned in Dorothy for a moment. The middle sister was marrying before the eldest. It simply wasn’t right.
Dorothy swallowed the unworthy feeling and straightened—almost immediately hunching to grab the side of the wagon before she flew out as they hit a rut. Glancing at her youngest sister’s lovely face, Dorothy decided that Grace might also land upon her feet, as well, if Aunt Mary gave her the opportunity.
That would leave just the eldest sister: Dorothy.
Unfortunately, it was too late for her. They were in mourning now and could not attend any balls, suppers, or other entertainments. And even if they were not mourning, the Season in London would already be winding down for the summer. Next year, Dorothy would be three-and-twenty, and nearing the dreaded age when one was considered a hopeless spinster and ape-leader in comparison with the fresh-faced young women of eighteen coming to London for their first glorious Season.
How could she possibly compete against the next tide of ingenues?
Nonsense. Three-and-twenty wasn’t that old, and she wasn’t entirely hideous. There would always be other mature ladies present, widows and such, searching for a second husband. Let the younger ladies giggle and whisper maliciously behind their hands about Miss Dorothy Stainton’s advanced age, she would still make a respectable alliance. She was sure of it.
Perhaps she could marry an older gentleman with children to raise. Such a man would be grateful for help from a mature lady.
Children… What she really wanted was her own child, holding her hand and giggling with her as she stretched out her plump hand to pick her first daisy. The wistful thought brought a stinging, unwanted warmth to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and straightened against the swaying of the wagon.
Maudlin idiot. She was being overly sensitive, and she knew it. Her emotions were unstable and raw since the loss of Papa. The oddest things brought a heated rush of tears that she could scarcely control. She needed to be strong—she was the eldest sister. She had a duty to Grace to guide her and help her through the next few months. Once Grace came out next Season, everything would be all right.
Grace would surely find a worthy young man, fall in love, and marry well. It may even be that Mr. Blyth would find a living as a vicar and send for her to become his wife. Dorothy merely had to ensure that Grace had as many opportunities as possible to find happiness, as Martha had already done.
Then Dorothy could make arrangements for her own future. If no gentleman was interested, she could become a governess, perhaps. After all, it couldn’t be that onerous. Many women led quite satisfactory lives as governesses to children they dearly loved. They wouldn’t be her own children, of course, but they would need her and love her just as if they were.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she missed the hustle and bustle of the outskirts of London. Even Grace’s chatter blended with the wooden rattle of the wagon, the clatter of horse hooves, and the faint sloshing of cider coming from two of the barrels roped together next to Dorothy to form a hum of indistinguishable noise.
“L
ondon Bridge is just coming into view, Miss Stainton, Miss Grace,” Farmer Cavell called over his shoulder as he nodded and flicked the reins. “A bit worn and crumbling this one is, but the new London Bridge is due to open in August.” He nodded to the west, but the buildings around them kept them from seeing more than a few quick glimpses of the wide span of the new London Bridge.
If Mr. Cavell intended the horses to pick up their pace, he must have been sorely disappointed. If anything, Rose and Daisy’s plodding steps seemed to slow infinitesimally. Or perhaps Dorothy simply wished their pace would become slower.
Unfortunately, her wishes were granted in the worst possible way. Their forward progress halted altogether at the old bridge. A burly gatekeeper, who eyed Mr. Cavell with a twisted smile as if hoping for a fight, ordered them to bring the wagon to a halt. He demanded that they unload it so that he might assess an appropriate tax, his annoying smile deepening over the word tax.
Dorothy and Grace stood aside during this operation, wondering if they should go into one of the inns nearby for a cup of tea.
Mr. Cavell stopped them, however, before they took a step. “Just a few barrels of cider, a basket of old apples from this autumn past, and a few other odds and ends—nothing old Jimmy here hasn’t seen many times before,” Farmer Cavell joked. He poked the gatekeeper in the ribs with a grin.
Dorothy sucked in a breath, sure that the gatekeeper would flatten the much smaller farmer.
Jimmy was as broad as he was tall, and he looked like a towering mass of scowling muscle. His wide face, reddened by the wind and sun, would never be described as a friendly one, even by the most inebriated gentleman.
Stepping back, Dorothy deliberately let out her breath. However, instead of lifting Mr. Cavell and tossing him over the edge of the bridge into the Thames, the man just grunted—his twisted smile broadening. It took a moment for her to realize that the strange noise he’d uttered was his version of a laugh.
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