The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  Fortunately it did not snow during the time he was unconscious and he was able to follow the deep ruts left by their horses in the snow.

  Even more fortunate, he did not have far to travel. The great stone castle he’d arrived at looked like something out of a medieval fairy tale.

  No one had to tell him this was the local laird’s castle.

  Certainly the gray stone itself looked medieval. It was crumbling in several places and one of the towers actually looked hazardous, as though it might topple over at any moment.

  The main gates were open and he rode right through them, earning more than a few stares. He was a big man riding a mule after all, with the soles of his boots skimming the ground. He read the mirth in their eyes. He hardly posed a threat to them.

  He dismounted and let the mule idle in the crowded courtyard.

  He didn’t bother to think about how he was going to get out of here once he had reclaimed Alyse. He couldn’t worry about that now. He could only worry about locating her and making certain she was safe. Making certain they hadn’t harmed or molested her in any fashion. He continued to ignore the throbbing in his skull and the crusted blood matted in his hair where he’d struck his head.

  His mind worked feverishly with one goal as he walked inside the castle. Find Alyse.

  The hall was full. They were in the midst of dinner. A long dining table was positioned at the far side of the room resembling something from the feudal age. It felt like a forgotten era. There were men and women all about garbed in the tartan colors he’d seen on the men from earlier. The men who’d taken Alyse.

  At the head table sat the man who took her. The young leader. Marcus walked down the open space between the tables, stopping once he was a few feet from the table’s edge.

  “I’ve come for the girl,” he addressed the lad.

  He was cold and wet and furious.

  And worst of all, he was terrified. Terrified for her . . . wherever she was in this castle. His mind conjured all manner of horrific things. Alyse chained in a dungeon somewhere . . .

  His stomach knotted as he thought of all the things that could happen to her. That could have already have happened to her.

  This was worse than the day he’d seen her standing on that auction block in the middle of the square, men haggling over her like she was some bit of horseflesh. It was worse because he knew her now. She was no longer a stranger. She was more than some hapless nameless female.

  As annoying as she could be with her prying and chatter, she meant something to him. She had come to be . . . something to him. She mattered. He couldn’t imagine a day without her in it. Alarming as the thought was, he couldn’t take the time to examine it right now. He had more pressing concerns. Like getting her back. Getting her back and keeping her.

  His gaze skimmed the hall, searching for a glimpse of her among the revelers. There was no sight of her, but his presence before the head table was finally noticed. His declaration had seen to that.

  The smug bastard at the head table stood up, still holding a goblet. “And who might ye be looking for, ye fine sir? A girl, ye say?” He took a long, leisurely sip, behaving as though he didn’t remember Marcus.

  The hall fell silent, everyone looking back and forth between the young laird and Marcus.

  “You know damn well who I’m here for.”

  Marcus’s hand went inside his coat to pull out his pistol. Earlier the weapon had been out of reach, but not this time.

  A growl rippled through the great hall. Several men moved toward him, but Marcus kept the barrel trained on the man responsible for taking Alyse. The laird in command and, apparently, his neighbor. The man he would kill if he didn’t set her free.

  It didn’t matter to him that he might die. True, he was standing in the veritable lion’s den, but he didn’t care. There were things a man had to do. He understood that now.

  His father had never understood that. He lacked the instinct to do right by others. His rank and wealth had bred in him a callous indifference to others—especially others who were of lesser rank. Considering his father had been a duke, that was essentially everyone.

  Even though he had raised Marcus to be just like him, somehow Marcus wasn’t. He would not let them take Alyse and forget all about her.

  The laird motioned his men back, an amused lift to his lips as he addressed Marcus. “You’re either verra stupid or verra brave tae stroll in here and point that at me. In my own home, no less.” He nodded at Marcus’s weapon.

  He was neither stupid nor brave. He was desperate, but he didn’t bother pointing that out.

  The cocky bastard continued, “This is a great deal of fuss over a housekeeper, is it no’?”

  “Where is she?” Marcus repeated, not bothering to respond to that allegation.

  “Readying for bed,” the laird said with decided satisfaction, seeming to relish the word bed. He gestured upstairs with a flippant wave of the hand and Marcus wanted to shoot him right then. He might as well as said she was readying herself for his bed. An amused light glinted in the man’s eyes. He was enjoying himself.

  “She doesn’t belong here with you,” Marcus insisted.

  “Nay, she doesn’t belong wi’ ye.”

  “Hunt, wot is ’appening ’ere?” An older woman appeared, her hair white as snow and plaited in several ropes elaborately around the crown of her head.

  “’Tis nothing, Nana. The Sassenach here thinks he has claim on the wee lass I brought home.” His lip curled as thought the notion was distasteful.

  “I do.” Marcus stepped forward.

  The old woman looked Marcus up and down. “Och. So yer the Englishmon. She was fretting over ye. Feared ye might be dead. She will be verra relieved.”

  She had spoken of him and she was worried about him. It lightened his chest to hear that. She couldn’t be too unwell if she was fearful for him, could she?

  The old woman added, “Me grandson ’ere said ye dinna want ’er.” She shot the young man an accusing look.

  Rather than address the untruth of that, Marcus flung out, “He abducted her!”

  The laird shrugged. “They were bickering. Seemed like they would be happy to part ways.”

  “Your men beat me.”

  “Lower that weapon, would ye,” the old woman asked, waving at his pistol. “Before ye ’urt someone. Ye stand in the hall of Clan MacLarin. Show some respect and put that thing away.”

  Sighing, he lowered his pistol.

  She looked with fond reproach to her grandson. “The lad ’ere always ’ad a soft spot for damsels in distress and she is a bonny lass.” She shrugged one bony shoulder. “For a Lowlander.”

  Marcus gnashed his teeth. Alyse was no damsel in distress. Not since he freed her from that auction block. She was more. So much more. An infuriating magpie, to be sure . . . but somewhere along the way he had begun to think of her as his infuriating magpie.

  “And,” the old woman added, “this could have something to do with Hunt having a hatred for all things English. No doubt he relished tweaking your nose.”

  “I don’t give a damn how he feels about me. He needs to free Alyse—”

  “Free ’er? Ye think we’re holding ’er against ’er will? We’re no kidnappers.” Nana laughed. Cackled really. “The lass is no’ hostage ’ere.”

  He snorted. “Your grandson carted her off against her will.”

  The old dame shrugged again and snapped at a nearby serving girl. “Fetch the lass.” As the girl scurried off to do her bidding, she looked back at Marcus again. “Perhaps she was a reluctant guest in the beginning but—”

  “Abducted,” he insisted. “She was abducted!”

  “Och, well, she’s quite comfortable now,” the woman finished. “Ye needn’t fash yerself.”

  “Aye, quite comfortable,” the smug laird echoed with a waggle of his eyebrows, enjoying himself immensely.

  His grandmother cackled again. “That one.” She waved a hand at him. “Such a way wi
’ the lassies. But in truth, ye can rest easy. She is in good ’ands ’ere. Nae need tae feel obligated further.”

  Obligated?

  It was as though she could see into the past and all the times he’d flung that word at Alyse. Had Alyse said anything to the woman to lead her to believe he would so easily let her go?

  “Marcus?” At the sound of his name, his gaze jerked from the old woman.

  Alyse emerged through a large arched threshold, one hand lifting her skirts so they didn’t catch on her feet as she hastened forward. She pressed a hand to her stomach and all of her body seemed to sag with relief as her gaze swept over him. “You are alive! They said you were not dead, but I was not certain.”

  He inhaled. “Indeed, I am not dead.” He had perhaps never felt so alive. So furiously alive.

  She grinned rather widely then. Her happiness to see him was heartening at least.

  She wore a fresh gown of red velvet and her hair shimmered from a recent wash, a set of jeweled combs held the strands back from her face. Gone was her worn and ragged clothing. She looked elegant and noble. Immediately, he felt like a wretch for not supplying such nice things for her. Instead he’d dragged her through the cold on the back of a mule, prompting her to sicken.

  He shot a scathing look to the blackguard for giving her the things he had not.

  “See,” Laird MacLarin declared effusively. “We’ve no’ put ’er in chains.”

  Alyse’s smile slipped. An air of restraint came over her. “Aye. They’ve treated me quite well.”

  “There now,” the laird’s grandmother chimed in. “All is well.”

  All was decidedly not well.

  “I appreciate you coming after me,” Alyse started. “But you needn’t put yourself to such trouble.”

  “Trouble?” he echoed dumbly.

  “Aye. I am well cared for here. They’ve invited me to stay—”

  “Like bloody hell!” Did she think he would leave her to a bunch of brigands? Is that what she thought of him? That he would gladly abandon her at the first opportunity? Wouldn’t you have done so? That first day of your meeting? Perhaps but that was then. This was now and he wasn’t letting her go.

  “Marcus!” she exclaimed at his outburst with a small shake of her head, looking truly bewildered. “What is so objectionable about leaving me here?” She stepped forward to whisper for his ears alone. “You can’t have really wanted me as a housekeeper. You made the offer out of pity. We both know that.” The look she gave him then was fairly indulgent and it set his teeth on edge. He didn’t want her condescension. He wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t pick up on it.

  She continued, “I don’t need your generosity anymore. I will be quite safe here. You can go. Continue on your journey without me as a yoke about your neck.”

  A yoke about his neck. He looked her up and down. She hardly resembled that. Her gown of rich red that brought out the amber in her eyes, making them appear all the more afire. They gleamed like topaz in the firelit hall. The bodice was snug, as though it had belonged to a smaller woman before her. The fabric pulled tight across her chest, emphasizing the curve of her breasts.

  She looked at home here. As though she fit in this castle. As though she were a lady that belonged in this hall. A lady that could stand at the helm of any fine household . . . a lady of the manor. Not a housekeeper.

  “I’ve come for you,” he bit out. “I’ll not leave you here.”

  Her gaze traveled over him. She cleared her throat and said slowly, “But . . . why?” She shook her head as though truly puzzled. “Why should I go with you?”

  “Because . . .” He motioned to the clan laird who was watching them as though they were quite the diverting spectacle. “He abducted you.”

  Her chin went up. “We’ve put that aside.”

  “Have we?”

  “Of course. Now,” she began in a rather dismissing tone. “You’ve saved me enough. Fret no more on the matter. You will not be required to rescue me further. You are free of me.”

  “Alyse,” he said tightly, stepping closer. “We had an arrangement. What happened in Collie-Ben—”

  “Speak not of it.” She waved a hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with that anymore.”

  He stared at her, unblinking, wondering what he needed to do or say to get through to her. “I cannot do that. You are my obligation.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, but then the emotion was gone before he had a proper read on it.

  Her expression returned to mild amiableness. She smiled tightly and nodded as though reaching a decision. “I release you from our arrangement. There. I’ve said it.”

  “You release me?” He shook his head. “You cannot do that.”

  She propped a hand on her hip, indignation coloring her cheeks. “Well, that doesn’t feel very fair. I say you are free to go.” She motioned to the laird. “Hunt has been kind enough to promise me a place here for as long as I wish to stay.”

  Hunt. She addressed the laird as Hunt. As though they were intimate friends now. It was unendurable.

  “I need not travel any farther with you.” She angled her head as she went on, “I thought you would be relieved. Why do you look so cross?”

  “Alyse, you cannot expect me to feel comfortable leaving you here among these strangers.” He motioned to his head. “Strangers, need I remind you, who beat me and left me for dead.”

  She winced. “I am certain Hunt is sorry.”

  He inhaled sharply against his rise of temper.

  “There is only one way to settle this,” the old lady chimed in.

  “Nana?” The laird looked slightly bewildered at her interjection.

  “Ye both want her . . . clan law dictates ye fight for her.”

  “Fight for me?” Alyse looked perplexed. “I’m not property! Haven’t I any say? And Laird MacLarin doesn’t want me—”

  Nana waved her to silence. “Hush, lass.”

  Marcus nodded. “Very well.” Given his present mood, he would be happy to resolve this with his fists.

  Alyse’s slight nostrils flared and she once again leaned in to whisper for his ears alone, “Why don’t you just leave, Your Grace?” His title dripped like poison from her lips. Ah. She was still angry about that, was she? Was that the root of this then? Her contention with him? She shook her head at him. “You don’t belong here, Lord Autenberry. And I don’t belong with you. Rip up that bill of sale and forget all about me.”

  He stiffened. “I can’t do that.”

  He didn’t know why. She wanted him gone. She was giving him every opportunity to be rid of her without feeling obligated. She’d said the bill of sale meant nothing—he had said the same thing—so why not destroy it? Why not do precisely what she suggested?

  And why was he still standing here? Staring at her and fighting the impulse to fling her over his shoulder like a caveman?

  “Well, then. Let’s have a go at it. A duke, eh?” The laird clapped his hands and moved around the table to the open space where Marcus stood. “I appreciate a good fight and I’ve nae fought wi’ a blue-blooded Sassenach before. A duke no less! This should be verra diverting.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Alyse hissed, looking at him with beseeching eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper again. “You’re a duke. You shouldn’t lower yourself to fisticuffs. You shouldn’t lower yourself to even associate with me.”

  “Och, let them fight,” Nana called with a shrug. “Men need a proper release fer their aggression. And the one who wins? ’E’ll be the one that wants ye most. ’Tis the natural order of things.”

  Alyse sent the old woman an exasperated look before looking back to Marcus. “No. He’s never wanted me.” She was speaking directly to him then, her eyes willing him to understand . . . to walk away. “You know it’s true, Marcus. Let. Go.” Her voice quivered with weariness. “Leave me here.” She donned a wobbly smile then. “Really. It’s all right.”

  “I’ll not leave you, Alyse.
” A great ball of emotion welled up from his chest and released itself, erupting from him in a hot flow of words that could be heard across the hall. “You’re my wife,” he exploded, his voice echoing over the great hall, reverberating up to the high beams of the ceiling.

  Silence fell. Deafening as the loudest drum.

  He glanced around, the sudden quiet strange and unnerving. It was as though he had said or done something profound. He supposed he had. He’d just laid claim to Alyse as his wife.

  Oddly enough he didn’t regret the words.

  Alyse shook her head. Her eyes went wide at his declaration. “Marcus,” she whispered. “What have you . . .” Her voice faded away.

  “Yer wife?” Nana proclaimed. “Well now. That changes everything.”

  Chapter 21

  Even a wolf sometimes has to face what he is . . .

  It was a mistake. His words reverberated through her head so she knew they had come out of his mouth. But he didn’t mean it. She knew he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have. He had made it clear they were not man and wife and now she knew how impossible it truly was because he was a duke. She understood his earlier resistance. She didn’t even blame him. She couldn’t be a duke’s wife. She was a commoner. Less than that. A peasant who happened to be in possession of a first-rate education, but peasant no less. Marriage between them was impossible.

  She swallowed and moistened her lips. “I fail to see . . .” She paused, searching for words, for a resounding denial to his outrageous announcement. “This changes nothing.” Now her head was spinning in confusion. Before she had had a plan . . . a future that did not include him. Now she didn’t know what to think. That’s not true. She knew one thing. One thing for certain. More than ever they needed to go their separate ways.

  Marcus’s hard eyes fixed on her, but he said nothing. She waited, hoping he would retract his words, but he uttered not a sound.

  She looked around rather helplessly at all the faces staring back at her, lingering on Nana, who had made the dramatic pronouncement that everything had changed. Whatever that meant.

  Her gaze collided with Laird MacLarin and he shrugged as if he didn’t know what his grandmother meant either.