This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

Alyse had arranged for an impressive breakfast, a full spread of every sausage and sweet roll imaginable. Marcus gave a lovely toast—words she could not be counted on to remember at threat of life. Were wedding days supposed to be memorable? She felt rather numb, as though she were watching everything from under water. She doubted she would ever be able to recall any of it.

  She hardly remembered tasting anything although she ate, sampling the array as she sat beside her husband.

  Husband. Husband. Husband.

  She knew it was early yet, but she longed for some of Mama’s Madeira to relax her overwrought nerves. Although that was probably impossible. No drink could relax her. She sat stiffly, her stomach churning.

  MacLarin turned to her after they’d feasted for what felt like forever. “Are you ready?”

  She blinked. Ready? For what?

  The image of her bed upstairs immediately filled her mind—but then she understood. He was not talking about that.

  He wasn’t some ravenous wolf ready to pounce on her. He wasn’t that manner of man. No, desire did not enter into this. It was not what motivated him. He married her because she was the safe choice. She was already with child and he needed, or rather wanted, a child. She could give him that, as well as a fortuitous alliance with his lofty neighbor.

  No, he was asking if she was ready to depart. He wanted to return to his home. He doubtless had matters that required attending, including introducing her to his grandmother and the rest of his people before word of their marriage got ahead of them.

  His people. That rolled around in her mind. It was a reminder that he was a man of importance in this area. She hoped his people accepted her. She hoped his grandmother liked her. Life could be difficult otherwise. She hoped that his home would soon feel like her own, that one day she would wake and not feel like a visitor in a strange land.

  Her nerves returned tenfold with her useless hoping and longing. It accomplished nothing to ponder such things. She forced a nod. “Yes. I am ready.”

  She said her farewells, giving her sister-in-law a lingering hug. “You will send word at once when your time arrives? I will come.”

  “Of course,” Alyse said. “And you must visit often. Not only then, you know. Other occasions, too. We didn’t have nearly enough time with you.”

  “No, we didn’t,” Marcus said gruffly, tugging her in for an embrace. “We thought we were going to have you with us forever here.” His voice ruffled her hair as he spoke. “We will see you soon . . . and often.”

  “Count yourself lucky that you are not stuck with me forever,” she teased, hiding how very nervous she felt at the prospect of leaving them, at placing herself among strangers. At least she had Marian for company. She would not be totally alone.

  She had entered into this marriage voluntarily, but in this moment, with her thoughts spinning, she could only taste the fine edge of panic threatening to engulf her.

  She took a breath and stepped away, but the sight of her brother’s somber countenance gave her a pang of sadness. Silly, of course. He would be living a stone’s throw away—so much closer than before. Before when she lived in London. Before when she was unwed and lived in London.

  That was the difference. That was everything. The crux of the matter. Everything was different now.

  Now she was married to a Highland laird. Maid no more. No longer even an Autenberry. She was a MacLarin now. Bound forever to a man she had known barely a week. She’d likely never see London again.

  Suddenly her mouth dried and she felt dizzy. Something must have been reflected in her face. MacLarin was at her side at once, pulling her close, a solid arm sliding around her waist and that was its own cause for dizziness. Heavens, he smelled good. Like soap and clean air, wind and rain.

  In London, the ballrooms had always been jam-packed, the men smelling of sweat that reeked slightly of onion, their breaths sour when they spoke close.

  This was heady. He was heady. His deep brogue rumbled in her ear. “Are you unwell?”

  “No,” she breathed, but the air was tight in her chest, elusive. “I mean y-yes.” She gave her head a small shake, attempting to clear it of his thrall. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  She forced a bright smile for everyone who watched her with such concern, feeling pinned beneath MacLarin’s sharp gaze. She didn’t want anyone to worry on her account. Especially him. Those eyes of his saw too much, too deeply. He needed to shift his attention elsewhere so that she might breathe again.

  She settled into the carriage across from Marian, sighing with relief as soon as the door snicked shut after her. Hunt would ride alongside the carriage with his man, Graham.

  “Try not to look so obviously thrilled to be getting away from your new husband,” Marian chided as the carriage began moving. “You’ve only consigned yourself to spend the rest of your life with him. You should not look ill hours after your vows.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Clara lied. She knew exactly what Marian meant.

  Marian snorted. “I’m sure you do. And need I remind you that you’re about to spend the night with him? Oh, and he thinks you’re an experienced woman. You really should not look so green about the gills.”

  The blood rushed to Clara’s face. “Dear heavens. You’re not helping. Why would you say that to me?” She would be alone with him in a bedroom tonight—in a bed. Why had she not thought about that before? It seemed like the one thing most newlyweds would be thinking about on their wedding day and yet she had not. Not until now.

  “Oh, dear. Don’t faint.” Marian scooted across the carriage to sit beside her and patted her hand.

  “I’m not going to faint,” Clara grumbled. “Have I ever been the swooning sort?”

  “You look pale.”

  “I’m not some meek mouse of a girl.”

  “Of course not.” Marian nodded agreeably.

  “Look at the bold action I took to avoid marrying Rolland.”

  Marian continued to nod. “You were very bold in that regard, to be certain.”

  Clara still was bold. Look what she had done. She had married a man to save her reputation and spare her family. And because she believed him honorable . . . and he made her pulse race. She was no shrinking violet.

  She inhaled. “I will simply tell him. Tonight.” It was her turn to nod. Once. Twice. Decisively.

  “So soon?”

  “We’re wed. ’Tis done. I always planned on letting him know the truth.” Once he knew, there would be nothing more between them. They could begin their marriage honestly.

  “I thought you wanted to convince him the curse doesn’t exist.”

  “I shall do that, of course. Time will assist in that endeavor. He has married me. He will not die from it. ’Tis done. It cannot be undone at this point.”

  “My, my. How romantic,” Marian murmured wryly.

  Clara shrugged. “Our union can never claim to be founded on romance.”

  “Hmm.” Marian reclaimed her seat across from Clara. “But perhaps it will end there. After tonight, eh? One never knows.”

  “You are the romantic one,” Clara accused, resisting the niggle of hope those words elicited.

  “Me? Not even close. I’m a realist. The fact holds true, though . . . before the night is over, the two of you will be sharing a bed.”

  The air fled from her lungs. “You needn’t be so blunt.”

  “In the absence of your mother, as your former governess, I feel this is the moment I offer sage wisdom and advice, but I know little more than you do.” Marian shrugged apologetically.

  “Please. No advice.” She held up a hand. “Mama already put me through that awkward conversation when she thought I was to marry Rolland.” Her mother had equated Clara’s body to a flower and Rolland the pollinating bee. She shuddered. “It was difficult to stomach.”

  Mostly because Rolland had been the man called into reference, and a part of her already knew then that she’d made a mistake accepting his proposal. The id
ea of living with him, sharing his bed, had started to make her skin crawl. A grim portent. Reflecting on that now only confirmed that she had done the right thing to escape her fate. No matter what it took. No matter where it led her.

  Here. It has led you here, to tonight . . . to the bed of MacLarin.

  Chapter 12

  They stopped for the night at an inn halfway between Kilmarkie and Hunt’s home.

  They’d departed too late to make the trip in a day and the journey from Kilmarkie to his home was a definite push in that short time anyway. It required a hard, full day’s ride by horseback. It was well enough when it was just himself or his men astride their mounts. They could press and make the trip in no time. It was another thing entirely for a gently bred lady ensconced in a carriage—and one who was increasing no less. He wouldn’t demand such rigor of her. She’d already been through a great deal, nearly perishing in the kitchen fire. A half day’s journey was best. He didn’t want to overtire her.

  Hunt knew the inn well. He saw to securing the appropriate chambers. Fortunately, the establishment was not crowded for the night, and there was plenty of room for all of them.

  He and Clara would be the only two sharing a room.

  The innkeeper escorted them to their chamber. “Finest one for ye and your lady, Laird,” he proclaimed, moving to the window that overlooked the yard and pulling back the drapes to let in the waning evening light.

  “My thanks,” Hunt responded, his gaze fixing on Clara. His wife.

  Wife. It seemed impossible. As though the word somehow did not fit into his vocabulary. Because it had been expunged. Wives were for other men. He’d been primed for loneliness, for eternal bachelorhood. It had been fed into his porridge.

  The innkeeper left them with a promise to send up a couple trays of food.

  Hunt did not spare the proprietor a glance as the door snicked shut behind him. “You look tired.”

  “Me? I’m fine. It’s merely been a long day.”

  “That it has.” They stared at one another, alone in a bedchamber, husband and wife. She did not look away from him. He would give her credit for that. She held her ground and stared back at him. The bed loomed close, a glaring reminder that they had every right under God’s eyes to use it. To take to it together. In fact, they were expected to do that very thing.

  He cleared his throat and rubbed a suddenly perspiring palm against the side of his trousers, marveling that he should feel so awkward. Like a green lad. “I’ll just go check on the horses. Make certain they’re tended for the night.”

  “Yes, of course.” She nodded circumspectly, politely. As a stranger would. They still had a great deal to learn about each other. The prospect gave him a small thrill. He never had that before. Never had a future with a woman to look forward to, but he had that now.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  He left her, wondering if he should have said something more to set her at ease, wondering if there was anything he could say.

  Was she having second thoughts? Did she regret this day’s deeds? Was she thinking of her lover, her child’s true father, and regretting that Hunt was the man she had married?

  Well, it was done and could not be undone now. If she thought he would fall on her tonight like some greedy beast, hungry to claim his husbandly rights, she was mistaken. He would do no such thing.

  He was a man accustomed to restraint. He would wait until she was ready.

  He would wait until she wanted him, and if that day never arrived, so be it.

  Their trays arrived, but he did not.

  Clara waited for him until pangs of hunger demanded she eat without him.

  As the minutes waned, she tucked herself behind the dressing screen and changed into her nightgown for the night.

  Perhaps he had decided to eat dinner downstairs. Perhaps he was in his cups with his man and had forgotten all about her.

  Or perhaps she simply was not that important to him.

  She decided against slipping into the bed. That felt too much like an invitation. She did not want to be waiting there like some manner of spruced goose ready to be plucked. Vulnerability was to be avoided.

  She settled into an armchair before the fire after pouring herself a bit of mulled wine the innkeeper had been good enough to include with their dinner.

  Soon her eyelids were growing heavy and she gave in, resting her head against the back of the chair. Whenever he returned, she would wake.

  She would tell him everything. Confess all and they would begin their marriage on a fresh page with no falsehoods between them.

  “I canna believe ye did it,” Graham proclaimed. “Yer grandmother will have much tae say on the matter. She might force ye tae take the lass back.”

  Hunt choked on a laugh. “I’m no’ taking Clara back and returning her as though she’s some bit of goods that did no’ measure up. She’s my wife.” Mine. “I’m a grown man. Nana can’t force me tae do anything I dinna wish tae.” He downed his glass of whisky. Clara was his now. She and her child. Nothing could change that. Not even his grandmother.

  She would still worry about the curse even once he explained his reasoning to her. Even though she had not behaved as his mother had, she was just as much a slave to it. Nana had lost her son and husband both to it. She had a healthy respect for its power. She would not trust that Hunt had found a way around it.

  He set his glass down with a clack. “Well, enough. I’m tae bed.”

  Graham made a snickering sound and Hunt shot him a sharp warning glance. His friend looked contrite and pressed his lips in a firm line, uttering forth no further sound.

  Hunt took the steps two at a time. He paused briefly outside the door before knocking gently once. After a moment’s silence, he turned the latch.

  Clara was asleep in the chair before the fire. He could see the remnants of her meal on the table and he winced. He should have eaten with her. Nerves had kept him away . . . and in truth her earlier manner did not smack of eagerness for his company. She had been so stoic, reminding him of a man facing a noose. In this case, he was the noose. It was far from heartening. He had thought to give her time to herself.

  He stopped before her chair and admired her for a moment. His gut tightened. She really was lovely. Wisps of dark hair haloed her face. Bending, he scooped her up and moved her toward the bed. She roused and stirred in his arms as he lowered her on the mattress and settled her beneath the covers.

  Her lashes fluttered. She came to slowly, blinking inky lashes over warm brown eyes groggily. “Hunt?”

  His skin tightened at the sound of his name. “Time tae bed.” His voice escaped a bit gruffly, perhaps even sternly. He swallowed past the tightness in his throat and reluctantly slid his arms free of her body. “Shh. Rest now.”

  She sat up on the bed and looked around slowly as though reacquainting herself with her surroundings. “How long was I asleep?” She rubbed at one eye with the base of her palm. She looked very young and vulnerable with the loose plait of dark hair hanging like a rope over her shoulder.

  “No’ long, I think.”

  She covered her yawn with a hand. “We need to talk.”

  “It can wait until morning. You look ready tae fall over asleep.” He felt his own yawn upon him. “I confess I’m tired as well.”

  She hesitated and then relented with a nod. “In the morning then. We will talk.”

  She lowered back down on the bed and snuggled deeper into the mattress with a sigh. Her eyelids fell shut again.

  He stood back from the bed and stripped off his clothes, watching her sleep, her profile gentle and sweet in repose.

  Dousing the light, he slid in beside her, careful their bodies not touch.

  The sound of her soft breathing grew slower. She must be sliding into sleep. He held himself motionless, certain it would not be so easy for him to fall asleep. His mind worked feverishly, backtracking until he was standing in the chapel back at Kilmarkie with Clara beside him.

&nbs
p; Her brown eyes had been twin moons in her face as the reverend spoke over them—as though she did not quite comprehend. He could relate. He had felt some of the same shock standing before God and witnesses exchanging marriage vows. It was similar to the bewilderment he experienced now lying beside a woman who was his wife. It felt as though he were living someone else’s life . . . a life in which he could have Lady Clara, the Duke of Autenberry’s sister, as his wife. This girl with her liquid dark eyes belonged to him.

  He realized with some start that she might not appreciate the fact that once she delivered her child they would have a name-only marriage . . . assuming they ever engaged in intimacy and she was not still in love with the father of her child. He would have to consider carefully when and how to introduce that news to her.

  He didn’t know the circumstances that led her to being unwed in Scotland. He only knew that it meant she was free to marry him. At least in name. He had no notion of the availability of her heart. That could very well be engaged elsewhere. Perhaps that was what she wanted to talk to him about in the morning.

  Her past did not matter to him. He did not judge her for it. How could he? It was the very reason she was so appealing to him. He could not have asked her to marry him otherwise. And yet it stung to think she married him while in love with another.

  He reminded himself of the purpose of this marriage. Her child would have a father and not face the stigma of illegitimacy. Clara would be respectably married. Hunt would have a child to claim as his own.

  It was enough. It had to be.

  He sighed and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

  Hunt woke slowly to chirping birds. As he opened his eyes, faint sunlight greeted him and the scent of flowers filled his nose. She rustled beside him. A tangle of hair streamed across his chest. Dark as a moonless night. He threaded his fingers through it. Like silk. He brushed it aside and found himself staring at Clara. Her hair had come unraveled from its plait. She slept on, unaware of the strands of loosened hair everywhere, connecting them.

  She wasn’t aware of him at all. She slept blissfully ignorant that she had drifted toward the center of the bed, invading his space . . . invading him. One of her arms draped across his bare chest.