Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  As if in a dream, Ramsay watched MacEwan storm up to the earl and lurch to a stop a few feet away.

  “You murdered my son!” MacEwan cried, raising Alec MacMarrie’s remaining pistol, further flaunting the rules of conduct during a duel. “You killed my only son, you buggering bastard!”

  “Sir!” Constable Keener shouted, lunging for the weapon.

  Edward Metcalf staggered backward, holding his hands in front of him as if to ward off all violence to his person. But John MacEwan was swift to react and stepped out of Keener’s path. Then he straightened his arm, squeezed the trigger and purposefully shot Edward in the gut, certain to provide the earl with an agonizing death.

  “For Jamie!” MacEwan spat.

  “Sir!” Keener shouted, yanking MacEwan’s arm backward. The pistol dropped to the ground with a solid thud. “You are under arrest!”

  “Not so fast,” Ramsay gasped. He pointed his pistol at the constable, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. “There is proof of MacEwan’s claim.” He stumbled forward until he stood beside the earl. Bending down, he grabbed Metcalf’s snow-white cravat and yanked it upward, drawing up Edward’s neck like that of a rag doll. “Where’s the box, Metcalf?”

  Edward stared up at him, blood already trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Go to hell, Ramsay,” he sneered.

  “Where’s your trinket box, damn you?”

  “In the coach,” a woman said behind him. “Probably under the seat.” Ramsay recognized the voice. The woman had spoken before and had cried out his name. Ramsay didn’t have the strength to turn her way, but his heart thudded with hope all the same. Was it Sophie? Wasn’t that her voice? God, for one more look at her! But there was so much to do, and so little strength left—

  “Mr. Puckett, get the box for Ian,” Lady Auliffe demanded.

  “We’ll show you the real murderer,” Ramsay dropped the ends of the cravat, and Metcalf fell backward. The impact made him cough, and thick ruddy liquid oozed over the hand he pressed to his midsection. Ramsay looked up at the constable, “Show him the ring, MacEwan!”

  MacEwan stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out the small ruby ring he had recovered from the earl’s bedchamber.

  “That ring was taken from MacEwan’s son.” Ramsay nodded at the ring. “John found it among Metcalf’s possessions.” He paused, struggling for breath. “How did it get there?” He coughed, not sure how long he could keep standing on his feet. “Metcalf takes a souvenir. From every one of his victims.”

  “Preposterous!” the constable retorted. “Lord Blethin is a peer of the realm!”

  Ramsay continued undaunted by the mention of an English title. “He took two buckles from his victim in Kensington. And he either planted one on Sophie Vernet or it accidentally stuck to her clothing. I’ve wagered my life the second buckle is in his box of memories.”

  “Idiot,” Metcalf sputtered, “Slanderer!”

  Puckett dropped from the coach, pattered across the green, and produced the small sandalwood box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the lid, and trimmed in filigreed silver on each corner. With shaking hands, he opened the clasp and raised the lid, propping it beneath his intent face.

  Ramsay reached for the box, but in the damnable haze of his pain, he misjudged the distance and knocked it from Puckett’s grasp with a clumsy paw. The box tumbled through the air, landing at Metcalf’s elbow and spilling sparkling baubles over the earl’s crumpled coat-tails and the dew-laden grass beyond.

  “Good God!” the constable exclaimed.

  “There is proof of your thief!” Ramsay pointed to the ground where the glinting monogrammed buckle of Jean Couteau winked up at them. “There’s your murderer.” He pointed at Metcalf, whose hooded eyes appeared strangely bright beneath their lids. “Not some maidservant from the West Indies! Sophie Vernet is innocent!”

  “Good Lord,” Lady Auliffe quipped. “There’s enough evidence lying there to solve half the murders in London!”

  Constable Keener frowned, shoved away MacEwan’s arm in a swift release, and then bent to look at the jewelry upon the ground.

  Ramsay barely took notice of the others. His strength was quickly draining away. He dropped to one knee and pawed through Edward’s grisly souvenirs. There, among the diamonds and gold was a plain silver brooch, fashioned of a boar’s head surrounded by a circular buckle—the clan pin he had surrendered twenty long years ago. He reached for it, pain streaking down his arm, sweat dripping from his face, and something clammy sticking to his spine. He felt the cold edge of the metal brooch press into the flesh of his palm. He clutched the pin, clutched it tightly, never to let it go again for as long as he lived and breathed.

  His duty done, he felt a hot wave of pain overtake him, like an enormous swell sweeping across the deck of a great ship. He felt himself tipping, powerless to fight the rising tide. His vision blackened to a small tunnel, and he struggled for air. If only he could turn, if only he could look for Sophie, to make certain she was alive, to know that what he had done for her had not been in vain. But he no longer commanded his own limbs nor his own heavy head. Darkness closed in upon him, and he felt himself toppling, as he released himself to the sweet insensate embrace of death.

  Chapter 23

  A few days later, Sophie rose to replenish the fire in the bedchamber of Lady Auliffe’s house where Ian Ramsay lay, struggling for breath. Before she tended to the fire, she glanced at him for signs of change, but saw none.

  The doctor had ministered to Ian’s wound as best he could, but the damage to his internal organs could not be assessed. He believed the ball had gone through one of Ian’s lungs and had come out the other side. At least he hadn’t been required to dig out the shot from Ian’s flesh. Even so, the wound affected Ian’s breathing, and the loss of blood he had sustained would have killed a less healthy man. Upon leaving the morning of the duel, the physician had shaken his head and told them not to expect a recovery.

  For the past two days Sophie had done everything in her power to help Ian survive. She had kept his wound clean, the room warm, and had dripped water from a cloth through his parched lips, praying that she would keep him alive. But for the past two days, he lay on the bed, never moving, with his left hand clasped around a silver brooch.

  Disconsolate, Sophie turned toward the fire. She could have rung for Williams, who had gone above and beyond in his duties the past few days, but even footmen needed their sleep. In the deepening gloom, she could just make out the face of the clock upon the mantel. Three o’clock. Soon it would be dawn.

  Sophie couldn’t remember her last carefree night of sleep. She moved now as if in a trance, too afraid to doze, should her charge die during the night.

  A small lump of desperation clogged her throat as she stumbled tiredly toward the hearth. In a few hours dawn would arrive, heralding another day when she would sit by the side of a dying man and insist that he triumph over his mortal wound.

  Was it her will keeping him alive? Was it fair of her to urge him to survive and make him battle for each breath? He had fought for air every minute since they’d dragged him from the dueling green. If she surrendered her desire to see him again, to speak to him one last time, would he sense her change of heart and be released from his suffering?

  Carefully, Sophie poured new chunks of coal on the fire, making sure she did not smother the healthy embers. Then she straightened and walked back to the bed.

  She draped her palm over Ian’s forehead, and her heart sank at the heat she felt radiating from his skin. He had developed a fever, making his battle doubly difficult. She sank to the chair and dropped her head in her hands.

  How long they could both hang on? Perhaps they were not meant to be together. Perhaps that was what fate had designed for them all along. Still, she refused to let him go.

  Two days had passed since the duel at Highclyffe, and now a third day would soon bloom on the horizon.

  With tears spilling down her che
eks, she looked down at the man she loved. It was then she noticed Ian’s eyes were open. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. Then a thought occurred to her that cut through her like a blade. Maybe he had died, and in doing so had raised his lids.

  “Ian?” she breathed, her voice husky with emotion and fear.

  “Sophie. You’re alive.”

  Her name was just a dry rasp in his parched throat, but she had never heard a sweeter sound.

  “Ian!” She jumped to her feet.

  “Drink?” His tongue passed over his peeling lips.

  She rushed to do his bidding, anxious to do anything to help him recover. With shaking hands, she poured a cup full of water and added a drop of whisky to it, as Lady Auliffe had suggested she do.

  “Here” She sat upon the edge of the mattress and slipped her hand beneath his head. His hair was matted, wet with sweat. Gently she raised his head a few inches and tenderly held the cup to his mouth.

  Some of the water spilled down his neck, but some she managed to get between his lips. He swallowed greedily, and then collapsed, struggling for breath again.

  Before she knew it, his eyes slowly closed once more, and she sat there anxiously watching him, hoping the drink had been a positive step. She took a cloth from the tray on the night table and gently dabbed his neck. Then she lightly pressed it to his forehead and cheeks, where the sweat of his fever glistened in the firelight.

  “Keep fighting, Ian,” she urged close to his ear. “You can do it.”

  Throughout the next few hours, Ian woke every once in awhile for more water, and for the first time, Sophie began to believe he would recover. When he trembled with chills, she added more blankets. When he blazed with heat, she bathed his fiery skin with a cool wet compress.

  While she bathed his naked limbs, she couldn’t help but remember their lovemaking. Odd, that she had shared such intimacy with this man, but she had never seen him naked until now, when he lay half dead from his wound. His body was as beautiful as she had imagined, but his perfection was marred by purple bruises where the ball had entered his body next to his shoulder blade and exited at his right breast. She would permit no one but herself to tend to him.

  On the third day, she dozed off and on, too tired to remain upright in her chair, but hopeful now that Ian would pull through. Williams brought her breakfast. Puckett brought her tea, and the lady of the house joined her for a light supper, brought her fresh clothing, and made her lie down for a few hours on the chaise near the window while she kept watch over Ian.

  When at last Sophie awoke, she sat up and found that night had fallen once more. Williams slumped in the chair by the bed, his head jerking as he fought off sleep. Sophie rose and quietly flowed to the sickbed, ready to resume her vigil.

  “Thank you, Williams.” Gently she tapped the butler on the shoulder. “I can take over now.”

  “Oh!” He blinked in confusion and glanced around, apparently not sure where he was. “Of course.” He scrambled to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, which had to have been cramped. “May I get you something before I retire?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She watched him walk to the door, rolling his shoulders and rotating his head on his neck, and then sank to the chair. The hours she had slept on the chaise had done her a world of good, and she almost felt like her old self. With hope, Ian had improved as well. She reached out and lightly felt his forehead. His fever had subsided.

  “Praise the Lord,” Sophie murmured. “Oh, praise the Lord.”

  It was then she noticed Ian’s breathing had ceased to be so labored. Gone was the strange gurgling sound, and the gasps for air. She slid her hand over his and squeezed gently.

  “You’re going to be all right, my love,” she said to him as he slept. “You’re going to live.”

  Deep in the night, Sophie was startled awake by pressure on her left hand. She had fallen asleep, still sitting beside Ian, with her hand upon his.

  “Sophie.”

  She awakened to find Ian’s black eyes looking up at her, his gaze clear and direct.

  “God, to see you again!” he exclaimed.

  “Ian—”

  He raised her hand to his parched mouth and pressed his warm lips to her fingers.

  “‘Twas what kept me alive.”

  “Don’t talk, Ian. Save your strength.”

  “I must, I have to.” He swallowed, and she saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. He squeezed her hand and lowered it to his chest.

  “There were reasons for my actions. You must hear them.”

  “Ian, you’re ill!” she protested. “This can wait.”

  “No.” He closed his eyes and opened them again, his expression grim. “I made myself live so I could tell you some things.”

  He paused and licked his lips. Sophie reached for the water glass and helped him take a long drink.

  “Thank you.” He sighed and sank back onto the pillow, and she could tell that every word he uttered drained him of his newfound strength.

  Sophie sat down, a small frown on her lips, worried that Ian would tire himself out by telling his tale. But he was correct—she needed to hear the reason behind his betrayal as much as he needed to tell it. She wondered if she would be able to keep from crying. A broken heart was not as easily mended as a bullet hole. Her wound was still raw.

  “You cannot tell this to anyone,” he said.

  “All right.”

  His gaze pinned her to the back of her chair for a moment, and then he sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if the effort to divulge his story was almost too great an effort. Finally, he began.

  “When I was ten years old, I had a father, a mother, and a wonderful and secure life. My father was a good man, the head of a successful family. My mother was a kind woman who played the harpsichord much as you do. But that all changed. When the Scots rose against the English in ‘45, my father was captured and made an example of to any Scot who thought to come out of the hills and defend his homeland from the English. He was hanged and left to swing until his flesh was picked clean by crows. My mother was run naked though the streets, publicly humiliated by the King’s soldiers, and then burned alive. Afterward, the Crown trapped all at my family’s home and burned them, every man, woman and child, every horse and hound.”

  A chill took hold of Sophie as she recognized the tale told to her by John MacEwan the night so long ago at Highclyffe. How could Ian’s tale be anything but the story of the Clan MacMarrie? That made Ian the son of a Scottish laird, son of a massacred family, and a man with a past to protect. Suddenly, his secretive life, his dogged determination to get Highclyffe, and his strong connection to Scotland made sense. Though her skin tightened with gooseflesh, she felt the frost inside her beginning to melt.

  “Ian—” she breathed, her voice cracking.

  Unaware of her realization, Ramsay continued his story. “When the trouble began, my mother told me to run and hide. When I came back home two days later, I came back to Hell on Earth. Everything I had known and loved had died suffering.”

  He paused, distraught, and Sophie gazed at him as he struggled to regain his composure, his stare locked upon the flames in the grate.

  “I had no idea,” she murmured, “that Highclyffe was your home—”

  “Aye.” He opened his fingers to reveal the clan pin he’d been clutching for days. “This is all I have left of them.”

  Sophie touched the silver circle with a fingertip. The metal was warm with the heat of Ian’s flesh.

  “Metcalf took it as a souvenir. Even at ten years old, the bastard was taking souvenirs for his collection.”

  “Oh, Ian!” She ached to hold him but was afraid she would hurt him.

  Ian looked down at the pin and closed his fingers around it once more. “After the rebellion, my life took on a single purpose. To avenge my family’s death. To regain the family estate and help my fellow Scots, no matter the cost. Everything I did, I did f
or Highclyffe. For twenty years, I lived like a monk and worked like a fiend. I allowed nothing to come between me and that goal.” He lifted his glass, but didn’t take a drink.

  His arm lowered. “And then I met you.” His voice softened. “You were perfect for the final stage of my plan. Using your looks and your charm, I could convince everyone that you were an heiress, ruin Metcalf, and provide you with a new life to get you out of the trouble you were in.”

  “You knew about my trouble?”

  “I knew all about you.”

  “How long?”

  “From the very first.”

  Sophie looked down at her hands. She’d never considered the possibility that Ramsay might have taken her plight into consideration when planning his moves.

  “And yet, you allowed me to use you,” Ramsay put in, as if reading her thoughts. “You took advantage of the situation, too.”

  “I tried to tell you the truth about myself, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  “It would have ruined my plans.”

  “Yes, your precious plans.”

  “It was all I had, Sophie. All I knew for twenty long years.”

  “And now, can you say it was worth it?”

  He sighed and gazed over at her, his expression grim. “Getting back Highclyffe was the most hollow victory of my life.”

  At least he had learned something from the hardships they’d suffered. Still, his admission held no gratification for her. He reached for her hand again.

  “Did you never wonder why I came to Scotland this last time?”

  “I assumed you went on business.”

  “I came to see Highclyffe, to see for myself if it was all I had dreamed it would be. If it was worth the sacrifice.”

  “What sacrifice?”

  “The sacrifice of you.”

  She glanced up at him, her throat clenched with all the despair she had suppressed. Had they allowed each other to make confessions weeks ago, how different their lives might have been.