A hush fell over the little group, as Connie’s family stared at the money, praying the soldiers would take the bribe and leave them be, while the two privates gaped hungrily at the drinking money, obviously hoping their superior would let them kick up their heels by a fire instead of trudging about the dreary countryside in the dead of winter.
“You’re a logical one, governor,” the sergeant snarled, releasing Connie’s hair with a cruel jerk that sent her sprawling backward in the snow. “I like the way you think.” He held out his hand for the money.
Ramsay kept the bill at chest level, forcing the mounted sergeant to bend over to claim it. When he did so, Ramsay grabbed him by the arm, unsheathed his knife, yanked the unbalanced soldier off his horse, and slit his throat—all in one swift movement. Before the body had settled in its own pool of blood, Ramsay jumped onto the sergeant’s horse, pulled the steed around, and slapped him to a full gallop.
Just as he had planned, he heard the stunned soldiers take after him, their horses pounding across the clearing in pursuit. Ramsay jumped a small stone fence and tore through an expanse of heather, praying his mount wouldn’t lose its footing, and trusting in his quick reflexes to read the terrain as it appeared out of nowhere in the mist.
He had killed the ringleader, he was sure, and now wracked his brains for a way to dispose of the two lesser men. He was confident that he could outride them—he could outride almost any man—but running away was not good enough. The other two soldiers could implicate him and Connie’s family in the death of their sergeant. He had to make sure he killed them both. But how? He had left his pistol on his horse. The sergeant had been heavily armed on his person, but his mount carried only a musket, which had to be primed and loaded. Shooting a musket while standing on solid ground was inaccurate enough, but shooting the weapon from the back of a horse would be sheer idiocy. He’d have to find a place to ambush the soldiers.
The longer he rode, the stronger grew the smell of the sea, and he wondered if the route he was on would take him to the ocean’s shore. Through the rising fog, he caught a glimpse of a gray expanse of water, and surmised he must be traveling northward, paralleling the sea at fairly close quarters. To the left, he knew the land dropped two hundred feet in stark cliffs to the rocky beach below—a dangerous leap he had no wish to take in the fog. He would have to be doubly careful, riding at such breakneck speed.
His mount was tiring, however, and foam flecks spattered Ramsay’s knees and cuffs as they thundered northward, the soldiers not more than three lengths behind him, appearing and disappearing in the puffs of fog like dogged apparitions.
Then suddenly, the ground dropped away. Shocked, Ramsay pulled hard to the side, dragging his horse’s head nearly to his right knee. The horse screamed and reared up, dancing on the wet stone precipice of a great gorge, which had been eaten away by the relentless surf pounding hundreds of feet below. Ramsay hadn’t seen the drop off until the very last moment, and now struggled with every fiber in his body to control his mount and keep them both from plunging to their deaths. His horse reared again, throwing him backward. He landed with a hard thump on the mossy ledge of the cliff, and immediately rolled to the side, out of harm’s way, ignoring the sharp pain in his hip.
Behind him galloped the other two horses, oblivious to the danger ahead, until they, too, scrambled in terror at the moment of truth, but a truth that had dawned too late. Ramsay saw their terrified eyes rimmed in white as horse and master tangled into a desperate churning of legs and arms. The horses’ massive bodies turned and twisted as they skidded over the edge, screaming like men as they plummeted downward, taking their white-faced riders to a watery grave.
For a moment, Ramsay lay near the edge of the cliff, trying to catch his breath, thanking Providence for sparing him from the fate of the two others, and allowing his quaking limbs to recover. He hadn’t been that close to death in years. In that moment, he was reminded how sweet life was and how lucky a man he was for being spared.
He closed his eyes and Sophie’s face loomed behind his lids as it often did when he fell into bed or lapsed into thought. What was he going to do? How was he going to live with himself if he did not tell her the truth? And how could he sell her to that bastard, Edward Metcalf?
But could he turn his back on Highclyffe?
Ramsay scowled. His thoughts churned as they had roiled with every step northward. There was no good answer. No easy answer. But he had to decide soon.
When his breathing grew close to normal, he slowly stood up and hobbled over to his exhausted horse. Its ears pitched forward in wariness at his approach.
“A bit more service, laddie,” Ramsay said, slowly reaching for the reins so as not to spook the animal. “‘Tis all I ask of you.”
The horse jerked its head up, but Ramsay managed to grab the leads. Carefully he retraced his steps, leading the horse away from the cliff, and cheering as a weak ray of sunlight cut through the rising fog.
“There, you see?” he commented, as much to encourage his still-shaking knees as the animal behind him. “The worst is over.”
At one o’clock, Ramsay and the sergeant’s horse cantered into the clearing where all the trouble had begun. Each bounce of the horse hurt his backside where he’d fallen to the ground after being thrown, but he continued to ride, determined to finish the day’s work.
Connie and her father met him in the yard.
“Are you all right?” Connie asked, running up to his horse.
“Aye.” Ramsay looked around. “Where’s the sergeant?”
“What sergeant?” Connie’s father replied.
Ramsay glanced at the ground where he’d last seen the soldier lying dead. All traces of blood had been removed.
“Where’s my horse?” he asked, without inquiring what had been done with the body. It was better that neither of them knew much of the others’ work.
“Tied in the gorse, so no one can see it.”
“Good.” Ramsay dismounted with a grimace, and gave the reins to Connie. “Give this one some water and grain if you have it. He served me well. Then give him a slap so he’ll go home. He has a tale to tell.”
“Of the others?” Connie asked.
“Aye.” Ramsay brushed the foam-flecks and mud off his sleeves. “The others took a trip to the beach.” He looked up, his mouth grim. “The hard way.”
“Then they’re dead?” the old man asked, incredulous.
“Aye.”
“What can I say, man?” Connie’s father reached out to shake his hand. “You saved our lives!”
“No, I put you in danger. And I had to make up for it.”
“Will you stay for a bite or a drop at least?”
“My thanks, but I wish to make Loch Lemond before nightfall.”
The father nodded and Connie returned from her task.
“Shall I show you to your horse?” she inquired.
“Yes, thanks.”
Ramsay said farewell to Connie’s family and then slowly walked back to the area they’d buried her husband. She ducked through a wall of dense shrubbery, and he followed. His horse whinnied in greeting.
“He’s watered and fed, sir,” Connie remarked, reaching for the reins and handing them to him with a smile.
“Thanks, lass.” He took a moment to look at her. “You’d best report your missing spouse as soon as possible. And be distraught.”
“Aye. I will.”
“Good.” He turned to put a foot in the stirrup.
“Sir?”
He paused and turned. She stepped up and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly through all the layers of wool he wore. He let her embrace him, though he was anxious to take his leave.
“Thank you!” she breathed near his throat. “God bless you, Captain Ramsay!”
He gently pulled away, ignoring her last words, and swung up to the saddle.
“Good luck to you, lass,” he said. And then he turned, and headed northward, wondering what he’d fin
d and how he would feel when he saw Highclyffe at last.
When Sophie and Edward descended the last of the Border hills into Scotland at midday on Friday, she knew the week of relentless traveling was coming to an end. Soon she would have no excuses left for fending off Edward’s advances. The last two nights had been difficult, but she’d managed to convince Edward to wait until their wedding night to consummate their marriage. She knew it was silly of her to push him away, as he was going to be her bed partner for the next thirty years, if they were fortunate enough to live that long. Still, each night she did not have to share his bed was a night for which she would fight.
All too soon she would have no reason to refuse Edward Metcalf. She would be joined to him, sentenced to lie next to him and to allow him whatever access he desired to her body. She had expected more from life once she had arrived in England, but bad luck had eliminated what few choices she had. She must settle for a loveless marriage and a name that was not her own.
It was a price many women paid.
They rode in silence for an hour as the intense morning fog gradually dissipated. Around two o’clock, Edward stirred across from her and pointed toward the window near her head. “Your grandmother’s estate,” he announced.
“Really?” Sophie strained her eyes to see what looked like a Tudor style house in the distance, sitting on a knoll at the end of a lake.
“What a spectacular view she must have!”
“Not nearly as fine as the view Highclyffe affords. Can you see it on the right?”
“Where?”
“Across the lake.”
“I see gray cliffs, nothing more.”
“Highclyffe is built atop those cliffs. Can you see it now?”
“No, it’s too far away.”
“It is built of the same stone it sits upon, so you may not be able to distinguish one from the other.” He sat back. “I can’t say Highclyffe is a thing of beauty, but it does cast a certain rough spell on a person. My father liked to come up here to hunt.”
“And you? Did you spend much time up here?”
“Hardly. I’m not partial to the countryside.” He took a pinch of snuff, and Sophie noticed how large and unattractive his nostril appeared when he inhaled the tobacco. She knew all such habits and dislikes would magnify with marriage. She shuddered, but Edward continued to chat, unaware of her reaction to him. “There’s not much to do up here in the wilderness. I suppose one would say I’m a creature of the city.”
“What about riding?” she asked. “It looks like a wonderful place to ride.”
“I loathe horses. Absolutely can’t bear the smell of them.”
“Oh. Well, what about hunting?”
“Never liked the sight of blood. I would think you would find that admirable about me, Katherine.”
“Indeed.” She nodded.
He pulled open a compartment near his feet and took out a small leather case, not much larger than a writing table. “When I was fourteen, my father made me go on a hunt with him. He brought down a boar that day. When I made some perfectly sensible remark about the barbarity of the sport, he flew into one of his rages. He made me finish off the poor beast and gut it. It ruined my best country coat and breeches—they were covered in blood by the time I was done. I’ve never hunted since. And I never forgave my father for humiliating me.”
“He thought to teach you a lesson, perhaps.”
“One that I had no use for.”
Sophie thought back to her harsh life of servitude. How different her life would be right now if she had had a father and mother to take care of her, to look out for her, to teach her. She felt a hot flood of loneliness wash over her, and kept from weeping only by forcing herself to continue the conversation.
“Perhaps the lesson to be learned from the experience was how to be a more understanding father yourself.”
“A father?” Edward stared at her. “Me? I haven’t the stomach for such a career.”
“You don’t want children?”
“Heavens, no! How tedious.”
Sophie sat back, stunned. She could bear the thought of marriage to a man she didn’t love, but she had never dreamed she would have to accept a life without children as part of the bargain.
“What about an heir? Don’t you want a son to carry on your family name?”
“My younger brother has taken care of that.”
“Younger brother?”
“He’s a clergyman. You haven’t met him yet. He has six children already, a veritable pack of screaming little vermin.”
Edward opened the case and took out a silver flask from which he expertly poured himself a drink, despite the jostling of the coach upon the rough highway. Sophie watched him, worried that he felt the need to drink before noon, and alarmed at his opinion of children.
“My plan,” he drawled, crossing his legs and relaxing with an arm along the back of the seat, “Is to take his eldest son, George, I believe his name is, give him a proper education, and announce him as my heir when he’s come of age.”
“And how old is he now?”
“Five, as I recall. We don’t see them much, they’re so busy with their flock.”
Sophie looked down, “I always fancied myself having a child or two.”
“Why?” Edward laughed. “Childbearing ruins a woman’s figure, not to mention endangers her life. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, Katherine. You are far too beautiful to put your looks and health at risk. Besides, I find women with children to be complete bores. Their brats— that’s all they ever talk about.”
Sophie knew better than to argue with him or mention that other people were equally boring, including him.
“How do you propose to keep from having children?” she asked.
“You can see to that,” he answered. “There are medicines you can take, surely you must know.”
“But I’ve heard such measures are not foolproof.”
“If a mistake occurs, then you will see a surgeon.”
Sophie felt her face go white. “To have the child cut out?”
“I know women who have it done all the time. ‘Tis nothing.”
“But what if I don’t want to go through such a procedure?”
Edward lowered his glass. “Then I would have to consider the child a bastard, wouldn’t I? And you would have to put it out to nurse. And that would be the end of that.”
Sophie stared at the window, stunned by the turn in the conversation but more so by her soon-to-be-husband’s shocking sangfroid.
She heard him chuckle.
“Oh, don’t look so glum, my dear. Really, I’m doing this for your own good. We’re going to enjoy life without being saddled by responsibilities. We will travel, see Italy, see Egypt. Go to parties, take up any kind of hobby. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Of course. But I never dreamed I wouldn’t have a family.”
“George will be like our son. You’ll grow fond of him. You’ll see. And you’ll thank me later, when you still turn heads while the rest of the women your age become bloated insufferable cows.”
Sophie spent the rest of the journey in silence, concentrating on the gradually-appearing details of Highclyffe, watching the fortress take form before her eyes so she wouldn’t burst into tears at the thought of the path she’d decided to take for herself.
Highclyffe rose from the mist, a bastion of granite topped by square towers on each corner, and a fifth central tower at the entrance. Up a steep winding drive they crept, a lane easily defended because of the sheer drop to the lake below on one side and the stark rock walls on the other.
“It looks deserted,” Sophie commented, gazing up at the dark windows.
“It isn’t. A caretaker and his wife live here year round and look after the place. She’s a passable cook but doesn’t have much of an imagination. Can’t blame her, though, poor heathen. I expect her kin’s idea of a kitchen was a spit and a bonfire up in the hills somewhere.”
“She’s Sc
ottish?”
“They both are. Willing to work for a pittance, too. I pay them for half a year what I pay my valet for a single month!” He finished his drink. “They’re lucky to live here, and they know it.”
“I’ve heard that many Scotsmen come south to look for work because times are so hard.”
“Yes, well, they’d best stay in their own damned country. We don’t need a pack of savages snatching up the jobs of good hardworking Englishmen.”
He put away his small silver glass and returned the case to its compartment while Sophie digested the harshness of his words. She watched him slide the leather case into place beside another smaller one. What did the other case contain? More whisky? She hadn’t been around Edward enough to become aware of his drinking habits. Was she about to marry a wastrel?
Edward sat back and smiled, unaware of her concern. “We’ve made good time today. What say I go into the village and make arrangements with the magistrate. Then, in the morning, we’ll get dressed, get married, and have a nice dinner—such as can be had around here.”
“You don’t feel the need to press on tonight with the wedding?”
“Worried, my dove?” He reached out to pat her knee. “No one will be here to stop us. And if someone were to be in pursuit of us, they wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Your grandmother couldn’t have discovered us missing all that quickly. And who would brave such roads?”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m just a bit anxious.”
“So am I, so am I.” He winked at her. “But I don’t want to rush through the ceremony tonight and have you too tired to enjoy the evening to come. After the long wait, I want us both well-rested for the marriage bed.”
“Of course.”
Ramsay made good time on the muddy road and by three o’clock had ridden past Dunure and around the lake, his heart lifting as he recognized the shoreline and hills of his childhood home. Yet in the winter, the hills were dark and forbidding and the wind stiff, with no other rider or wanderer upon the highway, a reminder of the loneliness he would face once he actually saw the ramparts of Highclyffe, for the fortress was no longer the haven of the clan MacMarrie.
Imposter Bride Page 21