by Sahara Kelly
Then she thought of Ian. He was something different, something special. He was an outstanding lover, possessed a clever mind, and somehow got his own way without being pushy or overbearing.
He had touched something inside that she thought was dead; a feeling of pleasure that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the way he smiled.
She shivered again, a fear rushing through her at the enormity of what had happened.
She was married to Ian McPherson.
The next five minutes were spent in creatively cursing the Scots, their traditions, their damn hand-fasting business and their heather. Not to mention their scenery.
She paced in time with her tumultuous thoughts, her mind darting hither and yon as she tried to grasp the full implications of her predicament. What would become of her? Would she…could she possibly be anyone’s wife?
She certainly didn’t have the history for that position. Her liaisons had been many and varied—and all of short duration. One or two had mattered, most hadn’t. And what kind of a background was that when it came to a lifelong commitment to a man who would expect fidelity?
Ian knew her, of course. He knew of her history and he knew her temper. Which raised the question of whether he had known of this hand-fasting and the potential results.
Had he known and done it on purpose? If so, she could only assume that he wanted her for his wife.
No, he wasn’t that stupid. Nobody would want to wed a woman who had a soiled reputation in London and probably half the Home Counties. And yet he’d lain with her and taken her so passionately. Had he meant it? Had his lust betrayed his desires for her?
She wanted to scream as her brain went from one supposition to the next with all the alacrity of a starving bee discovering a flowering wisteria.
She paced, paused, then seized her reticule and her bonnet. She had to get out, to leave to find a place where she could think clearly, without being surrounded by Ian. She looked at the bed and thought of him. She saw his overcoat and was reminded of him.
Their morning tea was still there, and the honey pudding bowls from last night. The room was redolent with memories of lying in the arms of Ian McPherson and those sensations were hampering her ability to put rational thoughts together.
There was only one way to deal with this. She must mount her horse and ride away from the market, away from Ian, and out into the countryside. There had to be a place where she could breathe and regain her usual composure. Once there, she could plan her next move and find her feet once again.
Ian had swept her off them. She had to decide what to do about it.
And what to do about him.
*~~*~~*
Unaware that Amelia was in turmoil over him and their situation, Ian strolled back toward the inn with an easy stride and a merry whistle.
The sun was shining, he’d found a quarry that would lead him to the end of his search and he’d found a woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.
He’d always known he would have to settle down someday, but fancied none of the simpering young misses most commonly offered as potential mates. He wasn’t twenty-two and desperate, nor was he fifty and needful of an heir.
He was thirty-two years old and, for the first time in those three decades, he was ready to commit his life to one woman.
He’d chosen one who matched his strength and his determination. She was flawed—God knew he was no saint—and yet he sensed that the woman beneath the façade was everything he could ever want in the way of warmth and passion.
And he believed he could make her love him. He admitted to himself that he was already in love with her. It had probably happened when he caught her crying in the park and she’d so defiantly denied it.
She would see it as a weakness, where other women would have used the situation as a weapon. Perhaps that was when he’d begun to understand the true Amelia hiding behind the beauty, and discovered a strength that matched his own.
Their night together had sealed the outcome. And what wonderful children they’d have. He didn’t even want to think of the fun they’d have begetting them, since it was broad daylight and his breeches were snug.
So he wound his way back to the inn, ready to tell Amelia what had happened, what he believed was going on and perhaps come up with a plan to learn the source of the jewel theft through Royce and his crew.
At some point he’d have to tell her everything, but that could wait until his mission had concluded. Plenty of time for that.
It wasn’t until he’d found their room empty, her bonnet and bag missing and then discovered her horse was also gone, that he despaired of his earlier thought.
There hadn’t been enough time.
She’d gone and run away from him.
Now he was in a right mess. He had to remain at the inn to hear whether he’d won the auction for the ruby. That was vital. But every instinct he possessed was yelling at him to find Amelia.
He returned to the tap, only to find Hetty tugging on his arm. “Ian, a word wi’ ye.”
“Hetty, I’m in a bit of a hurry here…”
“’T’is about yer wife, lad.”
He stopped, looked around and grabbed Hetty’s arm, almost dragging her over to a small table at the back of the room. “Where is she?”
“She took off. Right after she learned ye’re wed.”
Ian gritted his teeth. “Damn it to high heaven. I was hoping she wouldn’t find that out until I had time to tell her properly.”
“I told her, an’ I’m not sorry. She’s beautiful and tough on the outside, all right. Very high-and-mighty Lady London. But she’s got everythin’ that’s right for ye, Ian. And she’s in love wi’ ye, but doesn’t know it yet.”
“Do you think so?” He could have slapped himself upside the head for asking that question. He sounded like a love-struck teenager.
And Hetty knew it. “I do, lad. I know that look. She’s the one fer yer,” she grinned. “So here’s what happened. We talked, she found out she was Mrs. McPherson—“
“You didn’t—“ Ian shot her a quick frown.
“Nay, lad. That’s fer yer to tell.” She patted his arm. “Anyways, she was all for runnin’ back o’er the border. But I told her to go north. Follow the Jedburgh road. Plenty o’ nice spots to stop and think along the way. Told her thinkin’ was what she needed right now. A little time fer hersel’.”
“Good advice. Did she take it?”
“Far as I know, aye, she did. An’ right after she left, I sent word to yer ma.”
“Mother?” Ian’s eyes widened. “Hetty…why?”
“Woman needs another woman at times like these.” She stood and gave him a look so intense his guts shriveled. “Ye’re a mon, lad. Yer canna know what’s in a woman’s heart or her head. Another woman can, ‘specially one with a similar backgroun’. An’ the young lass is yer wife. She’ll have to meet yer ma at some point. Might as well be now.”
Hetty gave him another pat on the shoulder and walked away, leaving Ian with the strongest urge to lay his head down on the table and bang it a few times to get it working again.
The thought of his mother and his new wife together, without him present—well he wasn’t sure how to view that meeting. It could go either way.
His father was a good and solid man, but not given to much in the way of emotional outbursts. Getting a smile was an accomplishment, getting a laugh out of him a rarity.
He had an excellent sense of humor, but it was well contained, and that ability had manifested itself in Ian. Most of the time, especially when he was working on a case, he could keep his feelings concealed.
Perhaps he’d sensed that same talent in Amelia. Lord knew she had it in abundance.
His mother, on the other hand, was everything that was passionate, vocal, explosive and vibrant. Sometimes all at once. And she was—or had been prior to her marriage—English.
Yes, it would be an interesting meeting, without a doubt. And Ian
sighed mightily at the notion of his two favorite women sitting together and tearing him into tiny pieces. Although perhaps his mother might be a little gentler.
He laughed at himself. His mother was quite likely to hack off the first bit of him and feed it to Amelia. She was possessed of exactly that sort of humor.
His gloomy prognostications were interrupted by a small stable lad who had slipped into the inn and hurried to his side. “Hey mister. Yer McPherson?”
“I am, lad.”
“Yer wanted out back in the yard. Big man wi’ a brown coat…”
Ian’s mind snapped back to business. It had to be Smith’s message about the auction. “Thanks.” He tapped his knuckles on the lad’s head, grinned, and tossed him sixpence, which made the boy’s eyes widen with glee as he ran off.
Now he would at least find out if he’d bought himself a rather expensive piece of his new wife’s jewelry. There was something oddly ironic about that idea, he thought as he left the inn for the stables in the rear.
But then again, life tended to be ironic, so he shouldn’t be surprised.
Since his guess as to the identity of this visitor had been right on the nose, he walked to the large figure who waited in the shadows between the stables and the storage barn.
“Hallo again.” Might as well be sociable.
A mammoth fist disappeared inside the brown coat and Ian tensed, every muscle on alert in case what emerged was a knife or a pistol.
It was neither and his heartrate slowed as he was offered a folded and sealed note.
“From Mr. Smith?” He glanced at the servant’s face.
“Aye.”
Ian nodded and broke the seal to unfold the paper.
And smiled.
“Thank you. Good news indeed.” He refolded the note. “Please tell Mr. Smith I shall wait for instructions at Kilmalochan. He knows where to reach me when he is ready to deliver the item.”
A dip of the head was the only acknowledgement as the man lumbered away.
Ian took a sigh of relief. He’d won the auction—as he’d hoped he would. Since his researches had given him a good idea of the worth of such stones, he was able to bid quite a bit more than it was worth, banking on the other bidders trying to get a piece like that for less than the market price.
So he now owned his wife’s ruby, for which he had paid more than he could get back for it.
He shrugged. He’d try and come up with a way to explain it a bit better before seeing her again. She’d laugh in his face and he’d deserve it.
Still, at least they’d have the damn thing. Even if they still didn’t know who stole it in the first place.
Chapter Thirteen
It took less than an hour for Amelia to realize that getting back on a horse after a long day’s ride—well, it wasn’t the best idea she’d had that week.
Her already-sore muscles reminded her that it had taken a while to get them functioning again, and she slid from the saddle awkwardly, using a convenient boulder to break what would have been a quite nasty fall.
She groaned and clung to poor Strawberry, who was looking quite confused herself. Or at least Amelia thought so.
“Sorry, dear girl.” She patted the horse’s cheek. “Let’s take a bit of a rest for a few moments, shall we?”
There was a break in the hedgerow where she had stopped, and it seemed as if others had also paused their journey at this point. She found an iron ring set into the side of the boulder, perfectly placed to secure the reins and stop Strawberry from wandering off.
And looking through the hedge, she saw a lovely view of the landscape and another boulder placed just where the best view could be had. She walked to it and looked at the flat spot. Ordinarily she would have searched for a shawl or at the very least a handkerchief. It spoke volumes about how tired and confused she was when she sat down on the rock without a thought to her garments.
The scenery was idyllic—rolling fields and hills leading off into a horizon hazy with sunshine. Birds sang, the gentle breeze played with the ribbons of her bonnet…and Amelia was blind to it all.
Her thoughts revolved around the mess she had managed to get herself into. And the husband she had allegedly acquired along the way.
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, lifting her hands and putting her chin in them, curling up on herself as she stared blankly out over the Scottish landscape.
Is there something wrong with me?
Amelia’s mind turned that over with a certain amount of apprehension. In the past, when a situation had looked as if it might get out of control, she had always been able to manage it, turn it to her advantage, or at least escape from it with a whole skin.
But this time, at this moment with this man—she was at a loss. No immediate solution rose to tap her on the shoulder. She couldn’t see a way out, or a way to evade the inevitability of what had happened.
Although she’d not heard of hand-fasting, she had no doubt it was quite legal. Gretna Green, and its long tradition of runaway weddings, must have the backing of the Scottish legal system, or there wouldn’t be such a dramatic parade of couples heading north to tie the knot.
So she doubted there was much she could do about that aspect of her situation. At least not at this point. And somehow the notion of filing for a divorce—well, it seemed wrong.
That feeling puzzled her and she moved to considering why this entire business had her so turned around. She had lain with Ian once. They had spent time together, but nothing out of the ordinary. She had spent more time with more men before him.
And yet—and yet he was different to those men somehow.
That was a thought that troubled her, puzzled her and made her more than a little uncomfortable. No man had been different before. No man had made her smile, treated her the way Ian did, talked to her the way Ian had.
When she was with him, it was as if she was free to release all the colors of her being. A strange idea, but one that made sense to her troubled mind. She didn’t have to hide anything with him. She didn’t have to pretend interest in his conversation, because she was interested. She didn’t have to hold back her opinions because he paid attention to them.
He treated her as an intelligent human being first, and a woman second. And that, she realized, was what made him different. Not only the man himself, but how he treated her.
She liked it. She liked being an equal in a conversation, every bit as much as she liked that fire lurking behind his eyes. The heat that exploded when they touched.
She liked that too.
A butterfly danced past, dallying here and there, then catching the breeze and wandering away.
She had felt like that; a will-o-the-wisp fluttering wherever the wind blew her. From ballroom to soiree, from man to man. Aimless, pointless and yet at the time she had imagined it was the perfect life. Free and pleasurable.
How wrong she had been.
Even in bed, he was different. He gave as much as he took, demanding she follow his lead to the peak of pleasure. And she did, knowing that she would derive every bit as much wondrous exhilaration as he.
She’d lain with him, eager to experience his touch, his mouth, the feel of him inside her. More eager and excited than she could remember being in—well, ever.
Perhaps something inside her recognized that he would be not just an outstanding lover—which he was—but a new force in her life that would change her.
That was another frightening thought. He would change her, if he hadn’t already. She didn’t care to look back now, to wonder about any of the people who had played roles in her past.
She was ready to look forward, to dare to dream of a life that held more than empty social chit-chat and even emptier liaisons.
But even as that door opened and light began to shine through, Amelia felt the clouds obscure the sun. How could she possibly expect Ian to make a life with someone like her?
The enormity of her past crashed down on her and her eyes fill
ed with bitter tears. She was soiled, notorious and beyond redemption.
It was impossible to imagine living as Ian’s wife. She just wasn’t acceptable.
The tears came, flowing freely as she sobbed at the loss of what could have been a wonderful future. Bitter tears, coursing their way unheeded over her cheeks as she wept, lost in disgust for herself and unable to see anything but sadness and loneliness in the years ahead.
She wasn’t aware that she had company until a soft hand touched her shoulder and another held a large handkerchief out to her.
“Now now, my dear. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Not on a day like this…”
Amelia jumped and turned to see an older woman smiling sympathetically at her. “Oh, goodness.” She took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “I apologize. A private moment of sadness. Please excuse my behavior.”
The woman studied her. “How English.” She smiled again. “And I’m permitted that observation because I am English. Or I was until I met and married my Scot. But that’s neither here nor there.” She settled herself next to Amelia. “Now. Suppose you tell me what is it that has you so sad?”
“I would not keep you from your journey.” Amelia’s instinctive reaction took over. She did not readily share personal details, and certainly not with strangers.
“You’re not. I was just out enjoying the sunshine. Riding nowhere in particular. But now I’m beginning to think that the wee folk steered my horse in this direction to help a fellow traveler in need.”
“Wee folk?” Amelia couldn’t let that comment pass unnoticed.
“Of course.” The woman glanced out at the vista before them. “We’re sitting on one of their homes. A Sighan ‘t’is called. A green hill shaped something like a cone.”
Amelia glanced around. Damned if she could see it. Perhaps this woman was a little…deranged? “Forgive me, but I don’t see it.”
“You will.” The woman removed her bonnet with a sigh of relief. “Your pardon, but the sun feels better than that damn straw.”