Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  “Sophie!” he gasped. “Tell me that you do not want this.”

  “Ian—”

  “Tell me that you do not want this, and I shall walk away.”

  “No—” she breathed, but the rest of her words fell away as he kissed her again. She held his warm face in her hands and nearly cried out as the kiss went soaring into a new and even more urgent frenzy. She couldn’t help but respond. She pushed her hands into the woolen folds of his coat and ran her palms down his sides, marveling at the strength beneath her fingers and pressing herself over the blazing proof of his desire. A cry lodged in her throat, for at that instant she realized what she had always wanted from Ian Ramsay, and it was much more than a kiss.

  She wanted him to make love to her. She wanted his seed to brand her before Edward Metcalf had the chance to claim such a victory. She wanted to lose her maidenhood to this tall dark man who had fired her dreams ever since she’d met him, the man her grandmother had labeled a “real man.” And now Sophie knew exactly what Lady Auliffe had meant.

  “Tell me,” Ian gasped, the sound of his voice arousing her as much as his hands.

  “Yes, yes, I want it.” Her heart burst with the decision to share her first and only taste of passion with this unbridled, unfathomable man. She ran her hands around his rib cage, down his spine, and over the buttons of his frock coat at the small of his back.

  She felt him reach down, and she clung to his neck as he lifted the many layers of her clothing and wedged them between their bodies in a voluminous V-shape just under her breasts. She barely took notice of the cold air on her bare thighs.

  “‘Tis all I have thought about,” he said, looking down at her, his eyes full of heat, dark as night, and completely unreadable. “You, like this. With me.”

  “Yes,” she replied, just above a whisper, her mouth suddenly dry.

  Then he stepped into her, lifting her up to him, his fingers cradling her naked rump. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his body nudge against her as she surrendered to the finest, most bittersweet hour she was sure she would ever know.

  “Do you think you can walk?” he asked much later, a smile in his voice as he carefully rearranged her clothing and buttoned her cloak. His solicitous attention touched her, for she had heard most men fell asleep or ignored a woman after they made love to her—at least that’s what Katherine had told her.

  “I’m not sure.” She managed a weak grin. “My legs are trembling.”

  He chuckled. “So are mine.”

  She glanced at him, warmed by the sound of his quiet laugh, but trying to dampen her reaction to him never the less. After being so sure of what she wanted from Ian Ramsay, she was suddenly experiencing an alarming amount of despair. Now that she had tasted lovemaking with him, she knew it would be anything but simple to walk away and forget how it felt to be so close to this man, closer somehow than her own skin. She had never dreamed how intimate and binding the act of lovemaking could be. She looked up at Ramsay’s face, wondering what he was thinking, but knew it really didn’t matter. She had a promise to fulfill and a life to lead that didn’t include him.

  “But do you think you can ride?” he added, raising a brow, and slanting a gaze in the direction of her now-tender skin.

  “I think so. And we’ll make better time if I do.”

  “In a hurry to get away, then?” He reached for his discarded hat, brushed off the brim, and then set it upon his head.

  “It’s very late. I’ll be missed.”

  Ramsay helped her into the saddle and looked up at her. “As to that, you never did tell me why you are here at Highclyffe.”

  She gazed down at him, deciding that she should be the one to replace the chilled wall between them where it belonged. Better that she be the one to break off their stolen hour of closeness than allow Ramsay’s usual heartless remarks to wound her again.

  “Edward and I are getting married in the morning.”

  Shocked into momentary silence, Ramsay stepped back from the horse and gaped at her. “What?”

  “We decided to come up to Scotland and elope.”

  “Why, in God’s name?”

  “To get it over with.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons.” She reached forward for the reins, busying her hands so she wouldn’t have to look at his outraged expression. She hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to be the cold one.

  “What reasons, dammit!”

  “You should know,” she retorted, refusing to look down at him. She raised her chin. “Since you claim to know everything about me.”

  “Sophie, so help me—”

  “And you have something of mine as well, I believe.”

  “What?”

  “The buckle.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him thrust his hand into his clothing. She held out her palm, waiting for the bauble to be returned, and still did not meet his glance.

  “I’m sure ‘tis yours,” he remarked sharply, dropping it in her glove.

  “It certainly isn’t yours.” She curled her fingers around it. “And your meddling has cost me dearly.”

  “Sophie! Why are you being like this?”

  “‘Tis the way it must be. I made a decision, Ian. And I intend to see it through.”

  “But just now you said that you—” He broke off and then seemed to shake off something that confused him. He glared at her. “You’re going to go through with the wedding?”

  “Yes. And if you possess a shred of decency, you won’t betray me.” She nudged her mount forward. She could feel the hardness of his stare on her back, piercing her with his incredulity.

  He hadn’t told her he loved her. He had never once made any mention of fondness for her. Had he said one thing, one little word in regard to having feelings for her, she would have stopped on the path and told him everything, all the trials that she had been through in the last few weeks, all the difficult lies she had told to protect herself. And then she would have told him the truth—that she loved him, that she wanted to marry him and return to Boston with him, where she might at last be safe and free. If he had claimed the merest shred of love for her, she would have told him that she would love no other man but him for the rest of her days, and that she would treasure the past hour with him for the rest of her life. But he had confessed only to lust and not to love, which any man might do, and so she would remain silent.

  She had learned to guard her heart against mercurial Ian Ramsay, and she was not about to repeat the painful lessons she had learned at his hand.

  During the return trip, Sophie was thankful for the encroaching darkness and the hood of her cloak. All the way back to Highclyffe, great hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She kept her head turned away from Ramsay, which she knew he mistook for scorn, when all the while her heart broke into ever smaller, sharper pieces.

  A stiff wind had arisen when they reached the entry of Highclyffe. Ian led his horse to the front steps and then reached up for her.

  “I’m staying at the Ram’s Head,” he said as he helped her dismount. She didn’t look at him and he felt his heart aching as never before as her small hands released his shoulders. She might never touch him again. “In case you need anything.”

  “Good-bye, Ian,” she replied quietly, and in a flurry of skirts and cloak, she left him standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Ramsay pulled up to the Ram’s Head inn where he was staying, handed the reins to the stable boy, and stormed into the pub, his head pounding. He had no wish to pass any time in the company of strangers, but thought a few ales might dull the agony of his oncoming migraine.

  Only once, however, had his migraine been alleviated, and it hadn’t been with ale. Sophie’s gentle touch had lifted his pain, just as she had briefly lifted the bleakness of his solitary life.

  He strode through the dimly lit pub, headed for a dark corner where no one would disturb him. It was just like a woman to confound him, telling him she wanted him in one breath and t
hen announcing her wedding plans the next. Sophie’s lovemaking had been everything he’d imagined and more—warm, passionate, and generous—just as she had always been with him.

  But something had changed her mind. What could it have been? How could she make such breathtaking love with him and then leave him standing at the entry of Highclyffe without so much as a kiss of farewell? Had she not seen how his heart broke as she slipped from the horse and walked away from him without looking back?

  Yet Sophie was young and innocent. She believed Edward Metcalf was a rich earl who could give her the world, make her a countess, and protect her from her enemies. Perhaps he had misjudged her character. Perhaps she was more like the real Katherine Hinds—grasping, cruel, and shallow—than he had ever suspected. Maybe she was capable of making love with lusty abandon, giving no thought to a future with the man between her legs. He’d met women like that before. Why should she be different? Still, he had believed her to be far different than the others. That she may not in fact be all that he had believed, filled him with an abysmal sense of disappointment.

  “Dark ale,” he growled at the plump, rosy-cheeked woman who approached his table. She jumped at his harsh tone, but he didn’t care. He sank to the bench, thinking he would be an idiot to stay another night at Loch Lemond. He would drive himself crazy, imagining what was going on at Highclyffe. Yet he would also be crazy to set out this late for London.

  Ramsay ran a hand over his hair as a sudden flash of memory struck him, the memory of Sophie’s small white hands stroking him. He flushed and shut the thought out of his mind.

  Just as his tankard was delivered, he spied a familiar figure bustling his way.

  “Puckett?” he called, surprised but glad to see his assistant.

  “Captain.” Puckett crossed the floor and swept off his hat.

  “What brings you north?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Miss Hinds,” Puckett replied, slipping to the bench across from him. “She’s in danger. I thought you would want to know.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “I’m not sure. But she was desperate for that buckle you have.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Well, she has it now.”

  Puckett sat up in surprise. “What?”

  “I gave it to her.” He took a long draught of ale.

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes. She’s marrying Metcalf in the morning. They’ve eloped.”

  “Oh, my.” Puckett’s face fell.

  The waitress appeared at the table, standing at a wary distance from the captain.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Puckett said, motioning toward the tankard, his face glum.

  “I’ll have another.”

  Puckett leaned forward, his cuffs flattening upon the rough table top. “Do you still intend to see this deed through?”

  “She wants it.”

  “But does she know everything?”

  “No.” Ramsay shook his head. “But we’ll both get what we want, Mr. Puckett. She’ll get a title, and I’ll get the title to Highclyffe.”

  “You don’t sound so happy about it, sir, if you ask me.”

  “Well.” Ramsay lifted his tankard in a toast. “Life isn’t about happiness, Mr. Puckett.” He finished his drink, but the ale left a bitter taste on his tongue.

  He felt sick at heart, and the room pressed in on him, circling his temples with an iron band. He dropped his head in his left hand, more distraught than he’d been for years.

  The waitress brought their drinks and Puckett thanked her. Ramsay heard him take a gulp of ale and then the rustle of his clothing as he sat back.

  “Lady Auliffe is on her way,” Puckett said. “In case you are interested.”

  Ramsay raised his head in surprise. “She is?”

  “I saw her coach along the highway. She must have pressed on without stopping the entire way.”

  “Then she must know something.”

  Puckett nodded.

  “She suspects the earl is insolvent.” Ramsay scowled. “She may try to stop the marriage.”

  “She is no fool, sir.”

  “When will she arrive, do you think?”

  “By morning. Or very late tonight, barring any mishaps.”

  Ramsay pulled his drink into his hands. There was only one way to keep Lady Auliffe from interfering, and that was to tell her the truth.

  He had intended to get roaring drunk and spend the rest of the night in a heart-numbing haze. But with the arrival of Sophie’s grandmother, he knew he must remain clear-headed. In fact, in a few hours he should find out the location of her estate and ride out there to wait for her coach. The sooner Lady Auliffe learned the truth, the sooner she would wash her hands of the imposter, Sophie Vernet.

  No matter what might have gone awry in his personal affairs, he still had Highclyffe and would fight to the death for it.

  Nothing must stop the wedding now.

  Chapter 18

  That evening, just as Sophie had finished packing her travelling trunk, she heard Edward shouting down below. While she had been with Ian at the shore of the lake, Edward must have spent the time drinking—a fine way for a soon-to-be-married couple to pass their last unmarried hours. Sophie draped the plaid blanket around her shoulders and pinned it in place, glancing at herself in the mirror to make certain it was fastened properly.

  She raised her chin proudly as she noticed how stark her white throat appeared against the dark red and black of the plaid. Edward would wonder why she wore the blanket for a cloak. What better way to herald her change of heart and plans? After making love with Ian, she knew she could never go through with marriage to Edward, no matter what consequences she might have to face.

  She had hoped to leave Highclyffe without speaking to Edward. But there was no time like the present to tell him that the marriage was off.

  With her small satchel in hand, Sophie walked to the top of the stairs, and was shocked to discover Edward wavering at the bottom, one hand on the newel post.

  “Where d’ye thing you’re going?” he demanded.

  “Edward, we must talk.”

  He scowled and lurched up the stairs. Before he’d gone more than a few feet, he tripped and fell. Sophie dropped her bag and hurried down the stone stairs to help him to his feet, concerned that his drunken state would prevent him from comprehending what she had decided to tell him about their upcoming morning plans.

  “Dammit!” he exclaimed, holding his shin. His legs were very slender, and Sophie worried that he might have broken a bone.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, trying not to breathe too deeply when bending close. He reeked of whisky.

  “The MacEwans should see to the stairs!” He shouted. “I could have been killed!” He threw his glance around, as if searching for an object to blame—a discarded shoe, spilled candle wax, a cracked stone. Sophie could see nothing that would have tripped him, save his own drunken clumsiness.

  Edward slowly rose, bracing himself against the stone wall while Sophie held his arm, certain he would wobble and fall again.

  He batted off her hand. “Don’t paw me!” he shouted. “God, I hate being pawed!”

  She stepped away, shocked by his angry tone but believing his outburst was fired by jitters about the wedding in the morning. Never having been around a drunken man before, she stared at him, wondering what to do next.

  His bleary gaze landed on her attire. “And what are you doing wearing that hideous blanket?”

  “I have something to tell you, Edward—”

  She paused, struggling for the right words, and before she could continue, someone banged at the front entry. Sophie heard Jesse MacEwan scurry to the door.

  “Someone is here,” Sophie whispered, not certain Edward was aware of the noise.

  “What do you think I am?” he retorted in a loud voice. �
�Deaf?” He swayed down the stairs, his untied cravat hanging at his neck. Sophie followed, hoping he would make it safely to the bottom step.

  When they turned at the newel post, she could see the main entry, but the two figures standing in the shadows were indistinguishable in the poor light. Warily, Sophie hung back, distrustful of the appearance of anyone at Highclyffe.

  “A Constable Keener to see you, sir,” Mrs. MacEwan said with a small bow.

  Sophie’s heart skipped a beat and then thudded into her throat. What was Constable Keener doing here? She hung back, frozen in place and felt a chilling sensation of doom closing in on her. How had he known to come to Scotland? Charlotte or Lady Auliffe must have told him of her plans.

  “What does he want?” Edward asked, his words slurred.

  “He says it very important—something about your fiancée.”

  “What could that be?” He glanced back at Sophie and blinked, as if he couldn’t bring her into focus.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Sophie murmured.

  “Well, he’s not going to interfere, that’s for certain.” Edward grabbed her elbow. “Come with me,” he commanded, when he should have better said, “Hold me up.”

  She swallowed and forced her feet to walk forward with Edward. This was her final and most difficult test yet in her guise of Katherine Hinds. She must not falter now, not when she had finally made up her mind about who she was and who she planned to be for the rest of her days on earth. After she had come so far, she couldn’t believe Constable Keener might ruin everything, might finally capture his long-elusive prey.

  Sophie threw back her shoulders and held her head high, determined to play the part of Katherine Hinds as she had never played it before.

  As they crossed the floor of the main hall, Sophie watched Constable Keener step out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the wall sconces, his eyes fixed on Sophie, his expression hungry and hard. He was dressed entirely in black, except for his shirt. On Ramsay, the color black looked impeccably elegant. On Constable Keener, the hue was wholly sinister. He planted his staff on the floor and stepped up to it, as if coming onto a stage.