Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  “Then you’re out, MacEwan,” Edward spat. “Out of a job. Both of you. You and the wife.”

  “Wouldn’t work for a blackguard the likes o’ you, anyhow,” MacEwan retorted. “See you at dawn, your lordship.” He drawled the last two words, mocking his former master, and then left the parlor, following close at Ramsay’s heels.

  At the front door, Ramsay found Mrs. MacEwan waiting, perched on the seat of a small cart drawn by a pony. The cart was piled with their meager belongings, and Ramsay wondered what they would do to support themselves after of years of service to the earl.

  “Where will you go?” Ramsay asked.

  “We’ve family in Dunure,” MacEwan answered. “Jessie will go on ahead. We’ll get by.” He turned to his plump wife. “Jessie, d’ye have the box I asked you to find?”

  “Aye.” She reached into her cloak and drew out a small wooden container that had been resting on her lap, concealed from view. She gave it to her husband, who offered it to Ramsay.

  “We thought these might belong to you, sir.”

  Curious, Ramsay took the box in his hands. It was heavy for its size. He opened the latch and lifted the lid to find two dueling pistols with ornately filigreed barrels and elegant bone grips upon which were carved boars heads, the MacMarrie clan symbol. The weapons were cleaned and oiled to perfection, obviously the work of the older man before him.

  “I’ve hidden ‘em for years. They belonged to your father,” MacEwan put in. “I thought you should have ‘em.”

  Ramsay glanced down at the older man, barely able to suppress his tears. “I am speechless, MacEwan.”

  “May they serve you well in the morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You might take ‘em out beforehand and get a feel for ‘em. They’re a bit temperamental.”

  “I intend to. Thank you, MacEwan.”

  “Bless you, Captain Ramsay,” Jessie MacEwan said, tears in her eyes. “God bless you and save you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He tucked the dueling pieces into a pouch on his saddle and then mounted his horse. He was weary to the bone, but knew he would not sleep until his work here in Scotland was done. Edward Metcalf must be killed. There was no other way to stop the man, other than shooting him through the heart. No court in England would find the earl guilty of the crimes Ian was sure he had committed.

  Clearing Sophie’s name, however, was even more important than stopping the earl from killing again. In fact, he would scour the banks of the lake once more before he returned to the inn, in hopes of finding some small sign of the woman he had loved and then had lost all too soon.

  For the second time in her life, Sophie woke up in a chamber she didn’t recognize, and in a bed she hadn’t remembered crawling into. Even stranger was the feeling that the bed was moving, accompanied by a persistent jangling. She rose on one elbow and felt every muscle and bone in her body protest. Her head was on fire and felt far too heavy for her neck, and something pressed upon her chest, making her struggle for each breath. Then she remembered her jump from the fortress and her plunge to what she had assumed would be certain death. Obviously she hadn’t died or drowned, for she had not awakened in the afterworld.

  It was then she remembered why she jumped: abject heartsickness and complete betrayal by the man she had fallen in love with. She swallowed and closed her eyes, forcing herself not to allow the black hopelessness to flood up around her again. Her life had been spared for a reason, and having been given a second chance, she must forget the past and press on.

  Glancing around, Sophie realized she was not in a bed chamber either, but in a small caravan packed to the roof with boxes and bags crudely labeled “ribbons” and “buttons” and “tins” and the like, and which was swaying and jingling with every turn of the wooden wheels on the muddy rutted road. She must have been found by a tinker.

  Across the narrow aisle was a tiny table, spread with the plaid blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders in what seemed a lifetime ago, and upon a rickety chair was draped her gown and underclothes, drying to a crisp in the chilly air.

  Sophie looked down. The bed she lay in was narrow and hard, and piled high with hand-stitched quilts made of velvet, silk, and satin squares, an obvious attempt to keep her warm without the benefit of a fire. She sat up and looked beneath the heavy covers to find herself stark naked. Who had undressed her?

  But as she sat up, she was beset by a fit of coughing so violent that she couldn’t catch her breath. She hunched over, hacking and gasping, her head splitting with each cough, and during her distress she felt the caravan lurch to a stop.

  Tears flooded her eyes as she struggled to breathe, and she could see nothing but a big dark blur of a shape climbing into the back of the caravan and looming above her.

  “Here, take a whiff o’ this.”

  Something was thrust beneath her nose. She managed to take a sniff, and was instantly assailed by the sharp smell of camphor. The oil worked its magic, however, and cleared her lungs enough for her to sit up straight and wipe her tears away.

  “I figure you took on a lot of water,” the dark shape remarked. “In your lungs.”

  Sophie blinked and tried to focus. She couldn’t tell if she were in the presence of a man or woman. She coughed again, and once more the shape bent closer and held the vial just under her nose.

  “Thank you,” Sophie gasped.

  “Thought you were going to leave us for a while, miss.”

  “I thought I had.” Her tears cleared enough to allow her to glance at the person before her. She raised her eyes to take in the tall frame, the wild gray hair, the floppy brimmed hat and long wool cape of her rescuer. Even so, she could not ascertain by voice or sight if the person was male or female. She ran a second glance across the person’s face, which was craggy and wrinkled and spotted with moles sprouting hairs.

  “Ye all right now, dearie?”

  She nodded and coughed into her fist. “Much better, thank you.”

  “That water’s got t’ come out.”

  She nodded again, guessing the person across from her was a very tall and uncommonly plain woman.

  “You’ll just have to keep coughing for a while. It will hurt ye soon. We might have to bind your ribs.”

  Her rescuer reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a silver flask, which she handed to Sophie.

  “Take a swig o’ this. It’ll warm your cockles.”

  Sophie obeyed and tried not to grimace as the fiery whisky burned down her throat. Her arms shook uncontrollably as she handed the flask back to its owner. She sank against the pillows and pulled the quilts up to her chin.

  “Ye all right?”

  “Much better.” Sophie managed a smile, but she was so weak she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open for long. She draped an arm over her burning forehead to block the light that hurt her eyes.

  “You’re a MacMarrie.” The old woman said, nodding at the plaid. “Haven’t seen the MacMarrie tartan for twenty long years. Thought you were all killed off.”

  Sophie said nothing. She was once again in the predicament of having to conceal her identity—both of them this time. She couldn’t possibly pass herself off as a Scot, but what were her choices? In her muddled mental state, she decided to allow silence to speak for her and let this unusual tinker draw her own conclusions, however inaccurate they may be.

  “Ye could be fined for wearing that tartan,” the old woman continued. “I wouldna be so brazen were I you.” The tinker took a swig from her flask and let out an appreciative sigh. “Although the MacMarries was always a bit o’ that, to be sure. Gutsy and stubborn, the lot of ‘em.”

  Sophie closed her eyes and coughed again, this time holding her ribcage. When her coughing fit subsided, she looked up at the female tinker.

  “Where are we?”

  “On the road to Dunure. Been travelin’ most of the night.”

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

&n
bsp; “I was camped by the lake. Don’t sleep much what with my joints achin’ when it’s cold. I was sittin’ by the fire, warming my bones, when I saw you in the water, sailing by like a ship on the Clyde.”

  “Sailing by?”

  “Aye. There’s strange currents in Loch Lemond. ‘Tis connected to the sea, ye ken, and the water has a swift current at times. Some say there’s even sea monsters in the lake, trapped for all time. But I’ve yet t’ see one.”

  “Sea monsters?”

  “Aye. Lucky ye weren’t snapped up.”

  Sophie shuddered. So she’d jumped into the lake and had been swept away by the undercurrent. Apparently, she had lost consciousness but had managed to keep from sinking. She couldn’t remember a single moment of the time she’d been in the water. Perhaps she had died after all, chilled by the frigid waters of Lake Lemond, dragged along by the undertow, and had been revived by this old woman. All she knew was that nothing short of a miracle had occurred to allow her to wake up, alive once more.

  “How’d you come to be in the loch?” the tinker inquired.

  “I don’t recall,” Sophie replied, almost truthfully. She remembered jumping, but that was all. “I must have slipped and fallen in—”

  “Dinna fret. It’ll come back to ye. And when ye regain your wits, we’ll get ye back to your kin.”

  “I’m in your debt,” she murmured, her eyelids drooping, unable to remain awake.

  “Ye rest, child.” The woman hovered over her, looking down at her. “Can’t have the last of the MacMarries fadin’ away now, not after what ye’ve all been through.” She heard the tinker take another drink of whisky. “By St. Andrew, ‘tis a fine day.” The old woman’s voice above her grew soft with wonder. “That it is. The MacMarries have returned.”

  Ian spent the afternoon in target practice in the west meadow of Lady Auliffe’s estate, getting to know the feel and kick of his father’s pistols, and discovering, much to his relief, that they were amazingly accurate at twenty paces. While loading one of the weapons, he saw three crows flutter into the tree at his right, and thoughts of his father’s death swirled up at the sight of them. He lowered the pistol, and a slight wind buffeted his hat as he watched the birds settle in the bare branches of the beech tree.

  Ordinarily he might have thought of raising the pistol and taking a shot at one of them. But this time, his arm remained slack at his side. He suddenly realized he didn’t abhor the sight of the birds any longer. Their presence did not flood his heart with hatred this time.

  Was it because he was finally here at Highclyffe, with a weapon that once belonged to his father in his hand? Was it because John MacEwan recognized him for who he was and what he was and respected him for it? Was it because this was the eve of his final revenge on the Earl of Blethin and all that it implied?

  Ian watched the crows watching him and sighed. He knew this odd and unlikely peace did not stem from the proximity to his childhood home, but from the fact that he had turned his sights on something other than myopic revenge. Mary Auliffe had been right. Allowing himself to admit to his love for Sophie had freed his heart from the bondage of the past. He had finally loved someone, and though he had enjoyed only a few days in Sophie’s presence, that love had changed him forever. And now grief for her loss was melting away the final bindings of his bitterness.

  Lady Auliffe came out after two hours to fetch him back for tea, during which he fell asleep by the fire, exhausted from hours upon the road, searching for Sophie, and his distressed mental state of the last few days.

  “Captain.”

  Someone nudged his shoulder.

  “Captain Ramsay.”

  Ian blinked and scrambled to straighten his position in the chair. How had he come to fall asleep? How long had he been dozing in this chair? He couldn’t believe he’d been so rude as to fall asleep in the presence of a lady during tea.

  “Captain?”

  Ramsay glanced around, amazed to see the drapery drawn against the winter evening chill, the fire roaring, and scores of candles flickering in the parlor. When he’d entered this room for tea, the sky had just been going gray over the tops of the trees. His eyes finally came into full focus, and he was surprised to discover Puckett standing near his left elbow.

  “I must have fallen asleep.”

  Puckett nodded. “Lady Auliffe told me you were in here.”

  “How long have I been asleep? What hour is it?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “Good God.” Ramsay ran a hand over his hair and stood up, his muscles stiff and his back sore from the awkward position he’d assumed in the chair for the past three hours.

  “There you are,” the lady of the house called as she swept through the doorway. She wore a light green silk that set off her snowy hair. “Did you have a nice nap, my boy?”

  Ian flushed. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You barely took a sip of tea and you were out.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that!”

  Embarrassed at falling asleep in her house, and still a bit groggy, he looked across the room to the footman he could see out in the hall.

  “Would you please ask William to bring my hat and coat?”

  Lady Auliffe arched her back. “You aren’t leaving!”

  “I’ve imposed too much as it is.” He swept her a small bow.

  “Not at all. And I won’t have you riding any more this evening!” Lady Auliffe took his elbow, as if to hold him in the room. “You need a decent supper and some rest to prepare yourself for the morning.”

  “I don’t wish to put you out, ma’am.”

  “Put me out? Pish!” She leveled her gaze on his assistant. “And you, too, Mr. Puckett. You must stay for supper, and then fetch the captain’s things and yours as well. It’s silly for you to be staying in an uncomfortable inn when I have all this room.”

  Ian sighed. If the truth were told, he had no desire to mount a horse again and face the bone-chilling winter wind. He didn’t know how much sleep he would get, though, as the events of the last few days and concern for the upcoming duel ran maddeningly unbidden through his head. But he could pace the floor as easily at the Auliffe estate as he could in the drafty inn.

  “Good.” Lady Auliffe took his silence for an agreement. “It’s settled then.” She released his elbow. “Supper is at eight. If you would like an aperitif, please help yourself to anything you fancy in the drawing room.”

  He caught Lady Auliffe inspecting the side of his face.

  “I believe you could use a stiff brandy, my boy,” Lady Auliffe observed, her voice laced with her peculiar mix of acid and kindness.

  He looked down at her. “I believe I could.”

  “Go ahead without me,” she advised. “I have some last minute details to attend to.” She flowed to the doorway and turned, always regal. “But I shall join you shortly, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you,” Ramsay said. He tried to swallow a yawn, but had to smother it with his hand. Even as sleepy as he was, however, he noticed Puckett had become agitated, as if the thought of lingering at the country estate caused him distress.

  Ian strolled to the drawing room with Puckett in his wake. As soon as Ian had poured the brandy and given the snifter to Puckett, his assistant looked over his shoulder as if assuring himself that no one else was about, and then turned back to his master.

  “I don’t know how much she knows,” he began, jerking his head backward to indicate the mistress of the house, and keeping his voice low.

  “Practically everything.” Ramsay raised his glass. “Why?”

  “Well, I heard a strange tale at the tavern and came straightaway to tell you. But I didn’t know how much her ladyship knew of things.”

  “What are you talking about, Puckett?”

  “Well, I was having a meat pie and reading the paper when I overheard a conversation.”

  “Yes?”

  “Apparently a local tinker has been spreading a rumor about the return of the MacMarrie.”
r />   Ian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  “A tinker?”

  “Yes. But I couldn’t ask any questions. Didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So I sat there and listened. From what I could tell, this tinker saw someone or found someone wearing the MacMarrie tartan.”

  “Who in the world would that be?”

  Puckett nodded. “I know. I couldn’t figure who it might be either.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it turned out to be some woman.”

  The hairs on Ian’s arms stood up as well this time, and he heard a faint ringing in his ears. “Go on, Puckett, for God’s sake!”

  Puckett took a sip of his brandy. “I don’t know how to say this, captain, without causing you too much concern—especially on the eve of your duel.”

  “What, man!”

  “The person that was found? She was floating in the waters of Lake Lemond.”

  “Sophie—” Ramsay set his glass down, completely distracted, and would have bolted for the door, except for Puckett’s firm grasp upon his forearm.

  “Sir!” Puckett exclaimed. “Wait!”

  Ramsay turned to him, his vision barely focusing on his small assistant.

  “You don’t know it’s her! You don’t know if she’s alive or dead!”

  “It’s got to be Sophie!”

  “But we don’t know where she is!”

  “I’ll find her!” Ramsay yanked out of Puckett’s grip. “I must! I have to know!”

  “And spend the rest of the night tearing across hell’s half acre?” Puckett grabbed him again. “And then fight a duel when you can’t see straight? ‘Twould be madness!”

  “She might be alive!”

  “She might be!” Puckett retorted fiercely. “And if you duel in your present condition, tomorrow you’ll be lying in a pool of your own blood! Then where will you be?”

  Ramsay couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see straight. The ringing in his ears had turned into a roar, and his heart galloped in his chest as if he’d just run a mile.