The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  “She is a good soul,” he added. “Poppy, like the rest of my family, hopes we can put aside our differences.”

  “Do you want to do that?”

  He was quiet for some time before answering, “Yes. I do. I’m not the same person I was when I first learned of his existence.”

  “Well. You should make peace. Family is important.” She knew that better than anyone since she lost hers. Since she didn’t have anyone to call kin. Since she knew the ache of loneliness. “And your brother seems . . . nice.” It was all she could offer on the subject of Struan Mackenzie. She’d met him only briefly. He was handsome and fair-haired. Even bigger than Marcus. They hardly spoke beyond the obligatory greeting. The brief exchange was hardly enough to pass any kind of judgment, but she felt compelled to say something positive about Marcus’s brother to encourage the solidifying of their relationship.

  “Struan Mackenzie is many things, but nice is not a descriptor that pops to mind.” He didn’t say anything more beyond that as they left the Mackenzies’ lavish neighborhood behind and clattered down the cobbled streets between shops and buildings. It was quite the largest city she had ever been in. Considering she had been insentient the first time she passed through it, she took it all in with avid interest.

  She thought about Struan and his brother as they rode through the streets of Glasgow. She always wished for siblings and here he had a brother . . . along with the sisters back in London. A brother he didn’t like and yet he brought her to his home for tending. Struan Mackenzie had been there for Marcus. For her. As a brother ought to be.

  She was still thinking about that as they left the city behind and continued north. “I suppose it is lucky your brother lived in Glasgow so that you could prevail upon him during my illness.”

  He was ahead of her on the road as usual thanks to Little Bit’s plodding pace. He stopped and turned sideways, staring at her. “Aye. Lucky indeed. His home was near and despite the shakiness of our relationship it seemed the obvious thing to do at the time. The only recourse, really.”

  “Perhaps not that obvious.” He had characterized the relationship with his brother as complicated, but he had put that aside and ignored their differences. For her sake. For her. “You could have taken me somewhere else. Found lodgings and sent for a physician.”

  “First, I don’t hate Struan. Perhaps once I did. But this was good for us . . .” His voice faded. “Regardless of what I felt for him before I carried you into his house, you needed—”

  “Saving,” she finished. “It seems you are always saving me.”

  Yes. It was a good thing. Of course. She was glad to have him. Of all the men who could have bought her in that market, she was fortunate to have ended up with him.

  And yet she just wanted to be somewhere in life where she didn’t need rescuing. Or at least in a place where she could save herself. Or even better yet . . . be with someone she didn’t feel so beholden to for every gesture, every act of kindness.

  He stared at her across the distance, so strong and solemn atop his gelding. Because he was that. Noble and strong atop a beautiful fairy tale horse whilst she was a peasant girl on a mule.

  She willed him to say something. To say he cared about her even a little. That helping her wasn’t about pity or simply because he was a good man and it was the honorable thing to do.

  Honorable. Like both times now that he had stopped himself from consummating their sham of a union. Stopping himself just as he compelled her into wanting him with a desperate fervor.

  Again and again he had proved himself honorable. And she was sick of it. She wanted him to be a little bad. With her.

  Staring at her, he didn’t say anything. He simply turned his horse around and continued on.

  They continued north and managed to avoid any proximity to beds. Although she felt the strain of it. Not avoiding beds, but avoiding his touch, avoiding his gaze for any significant length of time. His rejection stung and she vowed not to endure it again.

  The villages became smaller. The lodgings less like inns and more like boardinghouses with only a few rooms, but fortunately there was no risk of not securing two rooms. Travelers this far north this time of year were not in abundance.

  For the next few days, she stared at the back of him, wondering at the unfeelingness of him.

  How could he have touched her, done those things with her, and now he scarcely looked or talked to her? Was that the way of all men? Was it so easy to go from hot to cold?

  Admittedly, her experience was limited. The one man she thought she could rely upon, the man that had said all the right things, had let her down when she needed him the most. Whereas Marcus Weatherton had been there for her every single time. So what if she longed for his touch, his kiss, his body to take her over that precipice they toyed upon . . . he was not obligated to give her those things.

  On their fourth day out of Glasgow, they stopped midday to eat and stretch their legs. They moved off the road into a small copse. A stream burbled nearby as he removed food out of a pack. Poppy had sent some fresh bread, cheese and apple pasties. They’d finished the cheese days ago, but the bread was still tasty as were the apple pasties.

  Their fingers brushed as he handed her a portion of crusty bread and some dried meat. She tried not to notice. They were both wearing gloves. It shouldn’t have produced a spark, but heat traveled up her arm and spread throughout her chest contrary to that.

  Locating a rock, she brushed the snow off it with a gloved hand and sank down, trying to pretend the ice-cold was not a shock to her derriere. The warmth triggered by his hand brushing hers quickly dissipated.

  What she wouldn’t do for that comfortable bedchamber in the Mackenzie household. Warm beds. Warm baths. Warm sofa chairs before the fireplace.

  She lifted her face to the sunlight as she ate, imagining it helped warm her up a little. Her gaze drifted to where he sat. He took a swig from a bottle.

  “What are you drinking?”

  He pulled back the flask and squinted at it. “My dear brother was good enough to pack this as a parting gift. Care for a draw? It might warm you until we stop for the night.”

  She thought about it for a moment and then said, “All right then.”

  He stood and brought her the flask. She accepted it, careful not to touch him this time. The container felt lighter than expected. She gave it a slight shake. “Had more than a few nips, have you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s cold out in case you did not notice.”

  She took a small sip and hissed out a breath at the potent drink. Goodness. It tasted awful. She held it out for him to reclaim. “So you thought you’d pickle yourself, is that it?”

  He chuckled as he took it and leaned back against a nearby tree, crossing his boots at the ankles. “Not much of a drinker, I take it.”

  “My father never drank and Mr. Beard only imbibed at the tavern, once a week or so.” He always returned home intoxicated on those nights, stumbling about through the house until he found his bed. The following morning she would have to rise extra early and do his chores before her own. The cows couldn’t wait to be milked until he managed to drag himself from bed.

  “And what of your lover? Did he imbibe at the tavern, too? Or was that when he visited you? On the nights your husband was away?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes. You do. The bastard that promised to show up and buy you in that auction . . . is that when he visited you?”

  Why did he sound so angry? She was the one who was wronged.

  Heat flushed her face. Suddenly the food she’d just ate felt like rocks in her stomach. “I never dishonored my vows.”

  True, she’d kissed Yardley, but when he’d pressed for more, promising they’d soon be man and wife, she had resisted. Not because she doubted his promise but because it had not felt right.

  Even though she and Mr. Beard were not husband and wife in the truest sense, she’d taken vows of fidelity. Vows that had been trans
ferred to this man before her now. Not that he wanted her fidelity. Because he didn’t want her.

  He took another swig of whisky. “Such loyalty. It’s a shame you’re such a poor judge of character and didn’t settle your sights on a more reliable man.”

  She hissed out a breath, stung. It was almost as though he was trying to hurt her feelings.

  He continued, “Then you wouldn’t be stuck here with me freezing off your arse.”

  “Are you trying to be cruel?”

  “No. It comes rather easily. No effort required.” He took another drink. “Especially after a whisky or two. Perhaps you’ve come to expect too much of me?”

  “Perhaps you are right,” she charged, her voice rising an octave. “I am a poor judge of character. And I do expect too much of you. You’re a drunk. And a boor . . .” She sniffed and glanced around, wondering how much longer until they reached Kilmarkie House. Certainly they could not be too far from it. She looked at him again, her anger welling up inside her.

  He chuckled and took another drink. “Lady, it’s worse than that . . . I’m a duke. That essentially guarantees I’m an insensitive sod.”

  She stilled. “What?”

  “An insensitive—”

  “No, no. Not that! The other thing you said.”

  “Oh. I’m a duke?”

  “But your name . . . you said you were Marcus Weatherton.”

  “That’s not untrue.” He shrugged. “I’m both. By title, however, I’m the Duke of Autenberry.”

  She shook her head, believing his outrageous words for it all now made sense. Everything about him proclaimed this to be truth. His airs. His absolute refusal to consider her his wife. A duke did not marry the likes of her. If she’d thought him far removed from her before, he might as well live on the moon now. He was gone from her. Not that she had ever had him.

  And yet an inconsolable sadness swept over her, hollowing out her insides and leaving a stinging ache in her chest.

  She suspected he wanted that. He wanted her to know the truth so that the divide between them was out there in the open. Fully visible. Not simply in his awareness, but hers, too. A great mountain that she would never climb. A commoner could not dare ascend such heights.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Before she started developing feelings for him . . . before she began hoping that they could be something. Yes. It was true. She had hoped despite his rejections. She had felt . . . feelings. Emotions. Desire. She’d hoped because when he kissed her and touched her she thought he must feel something that went beyond obligation.

  Now she knew. Now that their journey was coming to a close, he’d admitted who he was. What he was. The gulf that yawned between them was inaccessible.

  A horse neighed softly somewhere just beyond the copse and it wasn’t Bucky or her mule. No, they stared blandly, not making a sound.

  “Marcus?”

  He cut a hand swiftly through the air, silencing her, his gaze suddenly hard and intent.

  She held her tongue and waited, angling her head, hoping it was nothing. Merely a rider passing through the woods. Nothing to fear.

  Except she was wrong.

  Several horsemen emerged from the trees, moving like wraiths, silent as the wind itself. Surrounding them. Flanking them.

  “Wot ’ave we ’ere?” one of the riders asked, looking between Alyse and Marcus. “A bit of domestic strife?”

  She eyed the newcomers. Highlanders. Unquestionably. They wore full tartan. It was almost as though they stepped out of the pages of a book. Vestiges of an era before Culloden.

  Marcus was beside her, his hand tight around her arm. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re simply travelers passing through.”

  “Travelers,” a dark-eyed Highlander at the center of them proclaimed. He was maybe the youngest of the pack, no older than herself, but he held himself with an air of authority. “Nice bit of horseflesh ye have there, Englishman.” He nodded to where Bucky munched on grass.

  Alyse glanced at Marcus’s gelding worriedly. Fearing they were about to lose Bucky, she blurted, “He’s not for sale.”

  The Highlander turned his attention on her. “Oh, I’m no’ interested in buying the beast. I’d love nothing more than relieving so fine a creature from an Englishman. Actually it’s my duty as a Scotsman tae do so.”

  Marcus’s arm tensed under her fingers. She tightened her grip. “It’s not worth it.” Not worth his life. Marcus looked down at her with glittering eyes.

  “Listen tae your wife,” the Highlander advised.

  “I’m not his wife,” she automatically replied.

  “Are ye no’?” The man looked back and forth between them, his gaze bright with interest.

  “She is not,” Marcus said slowly, for the first time appearing almost reluctant to agree to that fact. His gaze prowled her features, almost as though memorizing, as though loath to look away for any reason at all.

  “Nay? Then what is she tae ye?”

  Alyse held her breath and forced herself not to look at Marcus even as she wondered what the answer to that question would be. She told herself it shouldn’t matter. His answer didn’t amount to anything. Not when they were nothing to each other. He could say anything, however marginalizing of their relationship, and it shouldn’t matter.

  Marcus didn’t answer immediately and as the silence stretched she felt compelled to fill it, to answer for him, “I’m his housekeeper.”

  “Housekeeper? Och . . . is that what they’re calling it these days?” All the men laughed at the younger man’s quip.

  Her face caught fire.

  Marcus cursed and surged against her grip, ready to lunge at the other man.

  She clung tighter to him and snapped at the Scotsman, “Mind your tongue.”

  The group of Scotsmen ooohed at her harsh reprimand.

  The dark-eyed Scot stared at her as though she were suddenly something fascinating. A trickle of unease ran down her spine. “You’re right. My apologies. I was verra rude.” The leader grinned then, appearing as mischievous as a lad—a handsome one at that. “The fact that ye are no’ married to this Sassenach is something tae recommend ye, lass.”

  Marcus growled and attempted to step forward again. She struggled to pull him back before he clashed with the Highlander. That couldn’t end well. They were outnumbered and the group of Scots was armed to the teeth.

  “Lass,” the Highlander tsked. “Ye keep verra poor company. I heard ye two squabbling through the trees. In fact, that’s what caught our notice and we decided to investigate. You see these are my woods, and I canna have any lass being mistreated in my domain.”

  She fidgeted.

  “She is fine,” Marcus said tightly and took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. “We are both fine. You need not be concerned.”

  “Allow me tae disagree. She sounded verra unhappy and as laird of these lands I’m honor bound to assist any lass in need.” He snapped his fingers then and a man dismounted, moving forward to fetch Marcus’s gelding. Alyse pressed a hand against Marcus’s chest and felt his growl rumble against the flat of her palm through their garments. “I’m a great admirer of fine horseflesh. We’ll leave ye with the nag.”

  “You cannot do that,” she protested, looking uneasily between Marcus and the men surrounding them. Tension crackled in the air. Her nerves pulled tight, waiting. Something was coming. She knew it as much as she feared it. Something that made her stomach knot and clench.

  The black-eyed Highlander assessed her a moment longer before snapping his fingers yet again. “Ye ken I’m going tae do my good deed for the day and relieve ye of the lass, too.”

  “What? No!” she cried as men descended on her.

  Marcus shouted but she couldn’t make sense of the words. She only saw the men . . . the hands coming at her, seizing her and pulling her away.

  “That’s right,” the leader continued. “Ye won’t have tae suffer this lofty bastard anymore, lass.”

  Marc
us surged for her, fighting like a wild animal, but men descended on him as well, pulling him back.

  He turned on them, fighting, swinging his fists. It was hopeless. Three-to-one odds. They pummeled him. Awful bone-smacking blows. His body jerked beneath the impact. It was a terrible sight. She felt each blow as though it were inflicted upon herself.

  “Please! Stop! You’re hurting him. Marcus, stop fighting!” Stop fighting.

  Let me go. Let them have me.

  He went down and suddenly the group of men stepped back.

  She pushed forward. “You killed him!” She lunged to where Marcus had fallen. His eyes were still open, his gaze wild and unfocused. “Marcus!” She reached out to touch him, but was pulled away.

  One of the Highlanders moved to crouch beside him. “‘E’s no’ dead. Just grazed ’is ’ead on a rock when ’e fell. ’Ead wounds always bleed like the devil. ’E’ll be fine.”

  Not dead. Not dead.

  The words rushed through her and she grabbed at them like marbles rolling past, curling them in her palm and holding them tightly, letting them fill her with hope. She expelled a sobbing breath.

  “Fetch her bag,” the leader gestured to her floral valise on the back of the mule. The man crouching beside Marcus stood and claimed her bag.

  His devil-dark eyes landed on her then.

  She shook her head. “No, no . . .”

  She attempted to back away, but she didn’t get very far before her arm was seized in a vise. She was tossed up on the horse in front of the leader.

  She had one last glimpse of Marcus and he didn’t look well despite their assurances. He was flat on his back on the ground. Only this time, his eyes were closed. He didn’t move a muscle. Not a flicker.

  Not even when she called his name.

  Chapter 20

  Finally. The wolf unleashed the predator within him.

  Their tracks were easy to follow.

  He scarcely felt his injuries. He was aware of them distantly, as one might be aware of the weather outside. Remotely and indifferently. He pushed Little Bit hard. The beast had likely never moved with such haste in all his life.