Felix’s eyes widened, and he gripped the sheets with his fisted hands.
Good, the sniveling, grasping bastard was scared for once. It was time to twist the knife. “And if you ever come near my wife again, or even try to communicate with her in any way, you will be relieved of several vital body parts.” Hamish grasped the handle of his short sword. “Do I make myself clear?”
Felix’s eyes gleamed with an odd, feral light, reminding Hamish of a cornered weasel. Nevertheless, he bit out an answer. “Crystal.”
“Excellent. Good lad.” Hamish bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. “And while I have your undivided attention, don’t even think about trying to get this marriage dissolved. It’s perfectly legal under Scots law, and I have powerful friends in very high places. I could make your life a living hell, so you’d best take heed, Felix de Vere. This is your one and only warning. There will be no second chances.”
Felix’s face twisted with hatred. “Fuck you,” he spat.
“Thank you for the offer, de Vere,” Hamish said drily, “but considering the fact I’m now happily wed, I’m afraid that’s never going to happen.” And with that, he quit the room.
* * *
* * *
The early-autumn morning was crisp and fair when Olivia took Tilda down to Graitney Hall’s vestibule for a ten o’clock departure. However, her husband’s expression was darker than a thundercloud. He waited in the open doorway, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up and the brim of his hat pulled down. In one hand he gripped his leather gloves, which he slapped against his buckskin-clad thigh as though he were displeased about something.
“Is . . . is everything all right?” A frisson of apprehension slid down Olivia’s spine as she drew closer to Hamish. The longcase clock in the hall hadn’t even struck ten, so he couldn’t possibly be cross that she was tardy.
Surely he wasn’t in a temper because she’d pressed him for a kiss last night. She couldn’t imagine he’d be so petty.
He straightened and tilted into a bow when she reached his side. “Good morning, my lady wife. And wee Tilda.” He stroked his hand over the child’s hair before returning his attention to Olivia. “I’m afraid we’re down to one coach. The village blacksmith is taking too long to fix yours, and there’s no other suitable conveyance for hire in the immediate vicinity. I’ll leave one of my drivers and a footman behind to oversee the remaining repairs. All going well, we’ll reach Glasgow tonight. I should be able to hire another coach there.”
“Oh . . .” Olivia frowned in confusion. Now that she had an unfettered view of the drive, she could see that there was indeed only one coach. She couldn’t disguise the note of disappointment in her voice as she continued, “But . . . we’re married now, so surely it won’t matter if Tilda and I travel with you.”
“No, it won’t. However, I’ve decided to ride,” said Hamish. His tone was firm, his manner unyielding. “I’m sure you and Tilda would prefer to have more room—”
“No. No, that doesn’t matter.” Truth to tell, after the accident outside of Gretna Green, Olivia was feeling more than a little jittery this morning. Indeed, she had rather hoped that Hamish would join her and Tilda for the remainder of the journey to Skye. Not only would his solid presence be reassuring, his company would be a most welcome distraction. At the risk of sounding querulous, she added, “Honestly, I’d be happy to share—”
But Hamish shook his head. “And I’d prefer to ride. Ah . . .” He gestured outside. “Here’s my mount. I could use the exercise anyway, lass. My sleep is always sounder after a good bout of physical activity.”
That might be true, but Olivia could see Hamish’s right eye was shadowed with fatigue. As concern for his safety obliterated her own misgivings, she touched his arm in an effort to sway him. “But . . . but won’t it look odd?” She knew her argument was weak, but it was the only one that sprang to mind. “Surely newlyweds should travel together.”
Was that a flicker of remorse that crossed Hamish’s face? He raised a hand to his eye patch and adjusted it slightly, effectively avoiding her gaze. “Most newlyweds don’t have company,” he said, nodding at Tilda. “Honestly, you’ll be glad I’m not cluttering up the cab. Especially if I fall asleep. According to Hudson, I snore, and believe me, lass”—his mouth twitched with a smile—“neither you nor Tilda wants to hear that. The bairn really will think I’m some sort of beast. Now . . .” Hamish pulled on his gloves, then offered his arm to escort her down the flight of stairs to the drive below. “Let us away, my lady. We’ve a great deal of ground to cover before we reach Skye.”
What else could she do but acquiesce? Once she and Tilda were settled in the carriage, she watched Hamish mount his horse in one fluid movement. Yet again, he was steadfastly avoiding her. It was more than a little frustrating and lowering. How could they possibly get to know each other better if he kept doing this?
He maintained he snored, but Olivia sensed that was another convenient excuse to keep her at a distance. She also sensed that if she made a fuss, he’d dig his heels in even more.
One thing was certain: her husband seemed to be plagued by poor sleep. Before he’d closed the door to the carriage, she’d noticed again how exhausted he looked, the deep lines of strain bracketing his mouth, and the bruise-like shadow of weariness beneath his good eye. He really should be resting rather than spending a whole day in the saddle.
Olivia frowned as the carriage pulled away from Graitney Hall. At the Hart and Hare, Hamish had admitted that he sometimes experienced bad dreams. But what if he was plagued by nightmares on a regular basis? That would explain his exhaustion. And perhaps that was the real reason he didn’t wish to share a carriage with her and Tilda. Was he afraid they’d witness him having a nightmare, so he thought to spare them?
How touching and sad if that were the case; the whole notion made Olivia’s heart twist in the strangest way. If only she knew how to make a decent sleeping draft. Charlie had a good recipe, but she was hundreds of miles away. Laudanum induced sleep, but Arabella—who could have been a physician if women were allowed to practice—always advised that it must be used with caution. Then, of course, there was chamomile tea and warm milk. Perhaps even lavender-scented linen. Such measures might not cure Hamish’s bad dreams, but if he could achieve better sleep, surely that would provide him with some sort of relief.
If only she could summon the courage to broach such a difficult subject with a husband who seemed determined to push her away.
The Village of Abington, Lanarkshire, Scotland
“Damn it,” cursed Hamish beneath his breath as he strode out of the stable yard of the Abington Arms, heading toward the public taproom. His horse was lame.
Even though they’d all changed horses at the Black Bull Inn in Moffat two hours ago, it seemed his poor beast had picked up a stone. Unfortunately, the hostelry here in Abington was so small, they’d barely been able to change over the outriders’ mounts and the carriage’s team of four. And they still had over three hours to go to reach Glasgow.
Hamish sighed heavily as he ordered a tankard of ale at the bar. The coach already had too many bloody footmen perched on the outside of the vehicle, so there was no room for him there. He could scout farther afield for another horse—the ostler at the Abington Arms believed the inn in the nearby village of Crawfordjohn might have a suitable mount. But because they’d have to travel an additional five miles to the west and then back again, it meant another hour or more would be added to their trip. It seemed there was simply no avoiding it: Hamish was going to have to travel the rest of the way to Glasgow with Olivia and Tilda.
Three hours wasn’t so long. Even though Hamish’s good eye felt as gritty as hell, and his body ached like an old man’s—it had been a while since he’d spent such a long stretch in the saddle—it wasn’t likely that he’d fall asleep in the carriage in such a short span of time.
You better blo
ody not, he told himself as he glanced over to where Olivia sat with Tilda; he’d escorted them inside as soon as they arrived at the Abington Arms, and the pair were presently sharing a plate of scones smothered in jam and cream at a small table by one of the windows. Perhaps sensing his gaze on her, his new wife looked up at him and smiled.
Jesus Christ and all his saints, she was lovely.
Hamish’s chest suddenly felt too tight, and something deep inside him began to ache with a feeling he really didn’t want to put a name to. The afternoon sun filtering through the leaded glass pane wandered over Olivia’s face, illuminating her smooth-as-cream complexion and the long lashes fringing her large brown eyes, picking out the strands of copper and mahogany in the lustrous waves of her dark hair that she’d somehow tamed into a sedate arrangement at the back of her shapely head.
Her traveling gown of dark purple wool was well cut but far too plain for his liking. And it covered far too much. To think she’d been in his room last night wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, with all that gorgeous hair tumbling about her shoulders. And the memory of her demanding that he kiss her properly, like a lover . . . Hamish had never been so aroused in all his life. Even now he could feel his blood stirring.
Olivia was fearless and passionate, and he wanted her so badly, it scared the hell out of him. Thank God Tilda would be in the carriage with them; otherwise he’d be hard-pressed to keep his hands off his delectable wife.
Something in his expression must have given away the less-than-gentlemanly direction of his thoughts, as a becoming blush pinkened Olivia’s cheeks.
But instead of looking away as she might have done when they’d first met, she pressed her even white teeth into her full lower lip, and her soft-as-velvet gaze strayed to Hamish’s mouth. Even across the room, there was no mistaking what she was thinking about.
The ruby on his signet ring—now Olivia’s wedding ring—glowed a deep claret red in the sunlight. It proclaimed Olivia to be his, and by rights, he could take her to bed whenever he wanted to. Considering the knowing look she was casting him, he knew she’d be more than willing to acquiesce.
But he wouldn’t. He hadn’t married her for any other reason than to protect her and her fortune, and for what she could do for him in return—act as a chaperone and facilitate the coming-out of his foolish, lovesick sister. Knowing they had mutual friends only made him more determined to play the noble gentleman. It would be unconscionable if he were to take advantage of Olivia’s budding desire—which in her naivety, she’d probably convinced herself was love—just so he could slake his lust.
Yes, no matter how many come-hither looks his new wife threw his way, or how many beseeching speeches she gave about needing to be kissed “properly” so she wouldn’t be so jumpy about him, he would ignore the lust simmering in his blood.
As he’d stated at the outset, this was a temporary marriage of convenience, nothing more.
* * *
* * *
Do the story about the wolf and the deer and the wicked witch again, Lady Livvie,” said Tilda, pulling the volume The Fauna of Scotland and Its Isles: An Illustrated History from the small stack of books on the carriage seat beside her.
Olivia smiled at Tilda. Since her real name had been disclosed, and because she’d wed Hamish, Olivia had helped the little girl pick another name for her that was relatively easy to say and not as formal as Lady Sleat. Lady Livvie seemed to work just nicely. “I’d be happy to, Tilda,” she whispered. “Only, I won’t be able to do the wolf’s voice too loudly.” She nodded at her husband on the opposite bench. “I . . . I don’t want to wake Lord Sleat.”
Tilda nodded. “That’s all right,” she whispered back. “I don’t mind.” Her forehead creased into a small frown. “He sounds like a wolf though. Or maybe a bear.”
Olivia had to bite her cheek to stop herself from laughing. Hamish did sound rather like a bear at the moment. After he’d joined them in the carriage at the Abington Arms, Olivia had watched him struggle against the pull of sleep for at least an hour before he’d eventually succumbed.
He was presently sprawled on the opposite bench in a semi-reclined position, with his head thrown back against the leather squabs, his wide mouth relaxed and slightly open. His long legs were canted across the space between the seats in such a way that his booted toe kept brushing her ankle. Not that she minded. Indeed, if Tilda weren’t here, Olivia would be tempted to curl up beside Hamish, using his wide chest as a pillow.
Not only had he removed his hat, gloves, greatcoat, and riding jacket, he’d also loosened his cravat, revealing the strong line of his neck. What would it be like to press a kiss to that neck, to inhale her husband’s potent, spicy scent? To feel the comforting rumble of his snores beneath her ear as she smoothed her hand over his sleek waistcoat? To slide open a button or two and push her fingers inside? To trace the intriguing hardness of muscle and sinew and bone beneath . . .
Tilda pushed the book into Olivia’s hands, pulling Olivia away from her delicious but entirely wistful musings. The page before her featured an intricate rendering of a shaggy, gray-haired wolf with pale golden eyes.
“Tell me about the wolf’s castle,” murmured Tilda, pressing against Olivia’s side so she could get closer to the book, “and how the deer gets trapped inside.”
“Of course.” And so Olivia began to respin her tale about the wolf who was really a handsome Scottish laird but had been turned into a savage beast by Morag, an evil witch living in the nearby woods. And the red deer was really a pretty young woman named Fenella from the local village. “You see, Fenella, who had lovely red hair, caught the laird’s eye when he was riding through the village one day on his way back to the castle. And Morag, who’d loved the laird from afar for many years, was so jealous, she cast a spell on her too—”
Hamish mumbled in his sleep and shifted restlessly. Olivia glanced up and then frowned—a deep line had appeared between his slashing black brows, and his mouth had twisted as though he were in pain.
Tilda gripped Olivia’s sleeve. “Is he all right?” she whispered. “Does he have a bellyache?” Her eyes were wide with worry.
Olivia offered a reassuring smile. “I think he’s just having a bad dream.” She turned over a few pages of the book, hoping to distract Tilda. “Let’s see if we can find that picture of Fenella—”
Hamish let out a whimper, then an agonized moan. “Too late. Can’t go back,” he muttered through clenched teeth. His hands had curled into fists, and the cords of his neck stood out starkly. “Christ. I can’t . . . Don’t want to . . .”
“Livvie, I’m frightened.”
Olivia put the book aside, and Tilda immediately climbed onto her lap. “Hush. There’s nothing to be scared of,” she murmured against Tilda’s ear. “Lord Sleat will wake up soon—”
“Oh, God help me . . .” Hamish bolted into an upright position, then slid to the floor of the rocking carriage. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he covered his face with his hands as he sobbed, “Oh, God . . . I can’t. I won’t . . .”
Oh, dear heaven above. Olivia had no idea what to do. Should she wake Hamish? The nightmare that held him in its grip must be horrendous. Her own vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. What on earth had happened to this man? Did he dream about the time he was injured at Waterloo? Or of all the terrible things he must have witnessed during battle?
“Must die . . .”
The carriage bounced over a particularly deep rut in the road, and Hamish lurched to the side, bumping his head against the carriage door. He cried out, but the jolt was enough to wake him.
He shook his head, and although he’d just come to, his groggy gaze sought out Olivia. “Sweet Jesus. Are you and the bairn all right?” His face was paler than his cambric shirt as he pushed himself up and then collapsed onto the opposite seat. Chest heaving as though he’d run a mile, he rasped, “Please tell m
e you’re both all right.” His gaze, wild and desperate, locked with hers.
“Yes, we’re f-fine.” Olivia wasn’t quite sure if that was actually the case. Her heart was racing, and Tilda was still trembling in her arms. But she didn’t want to alarm Hamish when he was so clearly rattled already.
Hamish dragged a shaking hand down his face, then pushed his tangled hair back from a sweat-sheened brow. “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” he said, his voice laced with deep remorse. “I’m so, so sorry, lass. Such a stupid thing to do.”
He rapped on the carriage roof above his head, attracting the attention of the driver. “Pull up,” he called. “At once.”
The carriage immediately slowed, and as soon as it drew to a halt, Hamish threw open the door and bolted from the cab. The sound of violent retching reached Olivia’s ears.
“I was right, Lady Livvie,” whispered Tilda. “He does have a sore belly.”
“Yes,” agreed Olivia. She gave Tilda a gentle squeeze. “I think I should go and help him. Would you stay here in the carriage while I do?”
Tilda nodded and climbed off her lap. “Yes, Lady Livvie,” she said solemnly. “And when you come back, let’s tell Lord Sleat a story to make him feel better.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 16