Say Yes to the Scot

by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick

  “I spoke to the coachmen in the mews. They saw Tiverton and several men toss a bundle into his carriage.” Bower’s expression was dour. “The bundle was kicking and screaming.”

  At the same time, Duncan was suffused with a rush of pride and one of horror. Of course Catherine would fight. She was a strong and stubborn lass. But the fact that she had suffered such indignities was more than he could take.

  Along with that, he suffered the cold trickle of fear for her safety.

  By God, if Tiverton hurt her, if he so much as touched a hair on her head, he would eviscerate him with a butter knife. Or perhaps a spoon.

  “Do we know where he’d headed?” he asked.

  Bower scrubbed his beard with his palm. “Word is, he’s taking her to Gretna Green.”

  Duncan frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s what he told his friends at White’s.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Where else might he take her?” One had to suspect Tiverton might lie, even to his friends.

  “He has an estate in Leeds,” Bower said.

  “Excellent. That is on the way.” Duncan whipped off the stupid domino and tossed it onto a chair, then headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Hamish called after him.

  “I’m going to rescue my woman.”

  “Not without us,” Bower growled.

  Duncan sighed. “I appreciate your assistance, but you have a job to do here. What would the duke say if you abandoned his cousins?”

  “They can eschew the season until we return,” Bower said with a shrug.

  “They are women,” Duncan snapped. “They willna want to eschew anything.”

  “They are also Catherine’s friends,” Hamish reminded him. “They will want her safe. They will understand.”

  “Quite right.” Bower nodded. “Now, let’s get them home and prepare for the flight north. We have a carriage to catch.”

  And if they were fast enough, if they were lucky enough, they’d be back, with Catherine in tow, before the morning dawned.

  * * *

  They were not lucky.

  Though they rode the night straight through, they saw neither hide nor hair of Tiverton’s coach. Though it slowed them considerably, they stopped at every posting house to question the grooms and the innkeepers to no appreciable avail. Duncan was certain Tiverton would stop for the night at some point—he certainly did not have the stamina to ride straight through to Scotland, but as dusk fell on the second day, and they had not one confirmed siting, he began to worry.

  Had they gone the wrong way? Taken the wrong road? Had they somehow missed him at one of the many posting houses?

  Or—and this was a truly horrifying thought—had he decided to ride straight through and sleep in the coach? Duncan could only imagine what Catherine was going through if that were the case.

  When they reached Leeds, Hamish turned off and headed for Tiverton’s estate, while Duncan and Bower continued northward. With each passing mile, Duncan’s worry grew. And with it, his fury at Tiverton.

  His fury with the world in general.

  From Catherine’s father to the prancing lords of London, it seemed that everyone was determined to keep them apart.

  But, by God, he had not waited this long for her, worked so hard, or fought so determinedly to lose her now.

  It wasn’t until they reached Yorkshire that they had their first hint of hope. An innkeeper remembered that a carriage with a crest matching Tiverton’s had stopped there the evening before. He’d thought it odd that no one alighted other than one of the drivers, who ordered food for the lord and lady and then trundled on.

  He also thought it odd that something of a ruckus had arisen from inside the coach, the yelps of the laird and muffled curses of the lady.

  Duncan was exhausted and bleary-eyed, but the news reinvigorated him. Even though Bower had recommended that they take some rest, he’d bounded back onto his replacement mount and hied off after her.

  They were too close to rest now. Far too close.

  * * *

  Catherine was miserable. It wasn’t bad enough that she was trapped in a smallish carriage with someone as revolting as Tiverton. He also insisted that they not stop, except for extremely short periods to change horses, collect food and relieve themselves. It was mortifying that her captor, or one of his men, stood watch over her while she did so.

  Though he had deigned to untie her after that first night, there had been no opportunity to escape due to their vigilance.

  Catherine had never enjoyed a feeling of captivity—who would?—but she entertained herself by finding new ways to annoy Tiverton. Waking him from a sound sleep, singing off-key and bouncing on her seat worked well. Though at one point, she realized that she might be overdoing it, as he became increasingly sour-faced.

  At one point, he hauled back a hand as though he intended to hit her. As fun as it was to rile him, she had no desire to meet the end of his fist.

  She decided instead to focus more on opportunities to escape. They were coming close to the border and she needed to be free of Tiverton before they reached Gretna Green.

  When they stopped in Yorkshire, the meal was a nice roast beef and pudding, and though it was difficult to eat in a moving carriage, it did come with one major benefit.

  A knife.

  And when the meal was done, Tiverton, who for some reason had not gotten much sleep lately, forgot to take it from her.

  She slipped it into the pocket of her domino—which she still wore. Though it wasn’t terribly sharp, it was a weapon and she would use it if needed.

  Tiverton had wine with dinner, which, as Catherine suspected it might, caused him to fall to sleep shortly thereafter. She waited a while, watching him snuffle and snore while occasionally glancing out the window to gauge the landscape. Though it was night, the moon shone on the fields as they passed. She waited until the coach slowed as it took a corner, then she opened the door and . . .

  Oh. Her heart thudded as she saw the ground rushing past, but there was no time to think her rash plan through.

  She sucked in a deep breath and flung herself onto the road.

  Her body hit the ground with a breath-stealing thud and she nearly cried out in pain. It took everything in her to remain silent. She peered up at the passing coach and held as still as she could. The driver would not see her, of course, but the other man Tiverton had brought sat in the boot and would have a clear view of her.

  She nearly collapsed in relief when she realized he had pulled his hat down over his face and was likely sleeping. Still, she didn’t move until the coach passed out of sight.

  And then, it was slowly and with a great groan.

  Everything hurt. Her hip, where she’d landed; her ankle, which had turned; and her shoulder, which had found a rock. She must have looked like an old woman as she hobbled her way back down the road the way they’d come.

  She had no idea how she would get back to London, but she was determined to do so. With each step she cursed Tiverton for his perfidy.

  It was one thing to berate her for her choice to marry another man. It was another entirely to steal her from him.

  But by God, no one would keep her from Duncan. Not if she had any say over it.

  She walked all night and was dead tired by the time dawn broke. She wanted nothing more than to lie down, curl up and sleep. But she didn’t stop. If she could get back to that inn before Tiverton realized she was gone and found her, she might be able to find a ride back to London.

  But luck was not with her.

  Still miles out, she heard a coach fast approaching from the north. She knew, just knew, it was Tiverton come to collect her and her heart stuttered. The road at this point was surrounded on every side by flat fields. There was no place to hide, blast it. She should have stayed in the woods a few miles back.

  So she did the only thing she could. She turned and faced the oncoming coach with a straight back and
a strong determination. Oh, and a knife in her fist.

  She was not going with Tiverton. No matter what it took.

  The coach came to a halt in a cloud of dust and Tiverton launched himself to the ground without waiting for the steps to be brought down.

  “You bitch,” he bellowed. “How dare you escape?”

  Catherine was tired and dirty and hurt, overwhelmed and furious, so there was absolutely no call for her to laugh in his face, but at the moment the absurdity of his cry was overwhelming.

  Tiverton reared back and gaped at her. “What is so funny?” he snapped.

  “You are,” she said.

  His face turned an odd shade of purple and then he did what she’d feared all along. He hauled back and hit her.

  He was much larger and stronger than she, so she went flying through the air and landed on her back on the hard road. Stunned for a moment—by the violence and the pain—she didn’t move.

  Tiverton stood over her with a snarl on his face, then he turned to his minions and snapped, “Get her back in the coach.”

  But she had no intention of going back in that coach. She’d had quite enough of this, thank you very much. A righteous rage rose within her and when the first man bent over to lift her up, she levered her knife and took a swipe at him.

  He lurched back with a howl and stared at her as though she’d gone mad.

  And perhaps she had.

  For when the second man made a run at her, she leaped to her feet and stabbed him too. Only in the shoulder, but you would have thought it had been in the groin the way he squealed.

  She whirled around and headed for the first man again. With an eep he ran behind the coach.

  “Get her,” Tiverton bellowed.

  “She’s got a knife!” the men yelled in tandem.

  “She’s a girl!”

  “She’s a furious girl,” she said in a menacing tone, and, with a gleeful smile, headed directly for Tiverton. It probably wasn’t the smartest move, but frankly, she was beyond logical thought.

  At any rate, Tiverton took one look at her expression and the bloody knife in her hand, then leapt into the carriage and slammed the door shut.

  “You’re mad,” he sputtered. “You are a madwoman.”

  There was no telling what might have happened next, given her sense of vindication, empowerment, and outrage, but this tawdry little scene was interrupted by the pounding of hooves from down the road.

  “Thank God,” Tiverton gushed. “I’m saved.”

  But he wasn’t. Not really.

  Because the man on the leading horse was Duncan Mackay, and, judging from his expression, Tiverton would have been better off with mad Catherine and the knife

  Because the man on the leading horse was Duncan Mackay. Judging from his expression, Tiverton would have been better off with mad Catherine and the knife.

  Chapter Nine

  The moment Duncan cleared the rise, he spotted the coach stopped on the road, and the men circling ’round a lass in a tattered dress with mussed hair.

  He knew in an instant it was his wee Cat. He was at once slammed with relief and utter, blood-boiling fury.

  And then he saw nothing but red, as Tiverton lifted his hand and struck his woman.

  He’d never known such fear, such rage, and such utter helplessness as he did in that moment, watching her lurch back and fall like a doll to the ground.

  His heart ceased to beat. His breath lodged painfully in his throat. Pain banded his temples. He urged his mount into a gallop, his burning eyes trained on the scene before him.

  Frustration swelling—his horse was moving far too slowly, and the coach was far too far—he watched as both the burly men rushed her, one at a time. Pride swelled in his chest as she fought them off and then headed for Tiverton.

  The sniveling worm leaped into the carriage to escape her.

  Ah, but he would not escape Duncan’s wrath.

  He pounded up to the scene, flung himself from his horse, and ran to Cat. His knees nearly failed him as he got a look at the growing bruise on her beautiful face and—ye Gods—she was covered with blood.

  “Catherine!” he bellowed and took her into his arms in a rush. She winced and he lurched back, afraid he’d hurt her. “Are you all right, my darling?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but her lips only worked a bit. Then she nodded. It was all he needed. He turned and yelled, “Take her,” at Bower. And then he sprinted for the coach, yanked open the door and pulled Tiverton from his refuge. The bastard fell to the ground, but Duncan lifted him by his neck and glared at him.

  “I could kill you,” he snarled.

  “Help! Help!” Tiverton wailed. “I’m being murdered by a Scot!”

  Duncan had no idea who he was imploring for help. His minions, getting one look at Duncan’s expression, had turned tail and skittered into the fields. There was no one else to come to his aid, other than the crows, who did not seem so inclined.

  “Where do you suppose they are going?” Bower asked, staring after the two men.

  “I doona care,” Duncan growled. And then he did what he’d been wanting to do since he’d learned that Tiverton had absconded with the one person he held dearest in the world. He hauled back a meaty fist and let fly.

  Ach, it was satisfying, the crunch, the wail, the spatter of blood. He released Tiverton, who fell to the ground once more. Duncan stood over him, hands on his hips, waiting for him to rise again.

  Tiverton, apparently was to wise to try. He merely stared up at Duncan, sniveling.

  What a worm.

  He didn’t even try to defend himself.

  That took all the fun out of it.

  A warm presence at his side caught his attention and he glanced down at Cat. His darling, adorable, fearless Cat. She met his gaze and offered a wobbly smile. “Are you going to kill him?” she asked, toying with her knife.

  Duncan had to grin, because he knew the menacing gesture was for Tiverton’s benefit. Indeed, the man might have soiled himself.

  He loved that she was a fierce as he when the situation called for it.

  “I havena decided yet,” he said, stroking his chin. “What do you think?”

  She lifted a delicate shoulder. “No one would know. Not here.” She gestured to the empty fields.

  “Oh, please,” Tiverton cried. “Please don’t kill me!”

  “True,” Bower said, ignoring Tiverton’s outcry. “But think how much work it would be to bury him.”

  “Aye.” Duncan nodded and eyed the lord with a contemplative eye. “I suppose we could leave him here.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, please.”

  “I do have a need for a carriage.”

  “What?”

  “That should be payment enough for his crimes, I think,” Catherine said with a glint in her eye.

  “You can’t leave me here,” Tiverton sputtered.

  “He’s probably right,” Bower said with a sigh. “We should at least take him to a magistrate—”

  “Excellent idea,” Tiverton said, standing and straightening his coat. Duncan could tell by the expression on his face he was certain this outrage on his person by lowly Scots would be dealt with harshly.

  “A Scottish magistrate,” Duncan said with a wicked grin. “We are fairly close to the border—”

  But before the words were out, Tiverton had turned and sprinted down the road to the south.

  Bower grinned. “I suppose that means we can have his carriage.”

  “I suppose it does. You doona mind driving, do you?” Duncan asked.

  And in response, Bower slapped him on the shoulder. “Not at all. Back to London?”

  “Hell no.”

  Catherine shot him a curious glance. “Not London?”

  “Nae, my wee lassie. We’re much closer to Scotland and after the fright I’ve had, I’m of a mind to take you to the first blacksmith I see and get you married good and proper.”

  Her lashes fluttered. “But what about
our proper English wedding?”

  His gut lurched. “Did-did you want that proper English wedding?”

  The way she looked at him made heat pool in his loins. “I did not. I thought you did.”

  He chuckled and lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the coach, gently depositing her on the seat. He kissed her tenderly, careful to avoid her bruise. “I never wanted anything but you, my wee Cat.”

  And she smiled at him in a way that filled his soul with the kind of joy he had never known. “Then to Gretna Green we go, my groom. For a proper Scottish wedding!”

  Chapter Ten

  The wedding was lovely.

  Meaning it was short. And simple. And over quickly.

  Neither Duncan nor Catherine bothered to change, but she did insist on washing the blood from her hands. Wild woman though she was, she did have some standards.

  Bower had arranged rooms for them in a local inn, so when the ceremony was over, they walked down the road and had a nice meal and a soft bed awaiting them.

  To Catherine’s way of thinking, that was really all one needed in life.

  And perhaps a new dress.

  Hers was horribly tattered.

  Bower had also arranged for a bath in their room, which was a luxury that nearly brought Catherine to tears. She’d been on the road for days and felt covered with grime and grit and did not like the idea of consummating her marriage to Duncan with dirty fingernails.

  Showing himself to be the caring husband he would be, he did not put up a fuss at this delay. Indeed, he seemed quite pleased at the prospect of bathing her. As the door closed on them, sealing them in this private bower as husband and wife, he leaned against it and crossed his arms. His eyes lit on her and his lips quirked wickedly. “Are you ready for your bath?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Then you must undress.”

  Something sizzled through her belly. Bravely she tipped up her chin. “You must turn around,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never disrobed in front of a man before.”

  “I am gratified to hear it,” he said with a grin.

  “Duncan Mackay. Does it not occur to you that I might be shy?”