Wicked Highland Heroes
Page 93
Bran’s features drew into a twisted grimace, and Iain wondered how a man dealt with learning in one fell sweep the duplicity a trusted friend was capable of. He shot a look in Thomas’s direction. The even gaze that met Iain’s brought relief. Thomas was as he had always been: friend, brother, ally.
Iain’s attention was forced back to Bran when Bran said, “David Robertson was a part of this all along.” Bran glanced at Jillian as if to say it was all his fault. “Connall,” Bran addressed his other companion. “Fetch some rope and bring half a dozen men with you.”
“You would have taken David’s place,” Glen pleaded, as if the admission somehow shed light on something Bran had missed.
Bran looked at Glen. “You can run if you like. I will not kill you.”
His cousin appeared relieved until Bran added, “I am taking you back to William. I do not care what condition you are in when we arrive, just so long as you still breathe.”
Glen’s hands went limp at his side, and Bran slid his sword back into the scabbard.
The unexpected creak of the postern door sounded, and the occupants of the room turned as Edwin stepped through the doorway. Iain heard the scrape of steel and lunged forward, knowing Glen’s intention even before Glen swung his sword in Bran’s direction.
“Bran!” Iain yelled, throwing himself against Glen’s side.
The force of his weight sent them skidding toward the postern door. Swords whipped from sheaths as MacPherson men leapt to his aid.
Iain recognized desperation in the mighty push Glen gave him. Landing on his back, Iain looked up to find Glen standing over him, sword descending in a fatal strike. Iain raised his arm to protect his face when an Italian rapier crossed in front of him, blocking the broadsword.
Iain rolled away and was yanked to his feet by MacPherson men as Hockley’s rapier beat Glen’s sword back in a few quick strokes. The sword slashed through the air, slicing Glen’s arm from shoulder to elbow. Glen fell to his knees with a shriek of pain.
“Sweet Jesu,” Victoria’s voice came from Iain’s side.
He glanced down at her ashen face, then back at Hockley, who now stared at the two of them.
A movement behind Edwin brought shouts, but Iain’s “Hockley!” came too late. Glen was on his feet, his sword piercing Edwin’s side.
MacPherson men fell upon Glen before his sword left Edwin’s body. Iain caught Edwin, lowering him to the floor.
Victoria fell to her knees in Edwin’s blood beside him. “Edwin!”
Iain looked up and found Thomas staring down at him. Iain shook his head at the question in his cousin’s eyes, but Thomas shouted for a healer nonetheless.
Bran held Glen face down on the floor while another man tied a ruthless knot around his wrists. A moment too late, Iain thought, as he looked back down at Hockley.
Victoria placed an ear to Edwin’s mouth, then turned frantic eyes on Iain. “Sweet Jesu.”
“Why did you do it, Hockley?” Iain asked.
A faint smile twisted the Englishman’s mouth. “It would seem I am not like my brother, after all.”
Iain recalled the warmth of Victoria’s blood on his hands, the weight of her body as she fell dying into his arms. The memory vanished. In its place, he faced the reality of the fading light in Edwin’s eyes.
How many chances did a man get?
Victoria gave a cry, and both men looked at her.
Iain with clear eyes. Edwin, for the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For two nights, Iain had lain awake knowing Victoria didn’t sleep. Yet watching her now sitting between him and Aurari at the table in the great hall as the evening meal was in preparation, Hockley’s death two days before seemed a lifetime ago.
Iain hadn’t asked, but he knew she wouldn’t leave him. Where would she go, after all? But he knew the answer. Though present in body, she could do what his mother had done: fade away in spirit.
“My lord?”
“What?” Iain was shaken from his thoughts by Victoria’s address.
“Will it be necessary to speak with William?”
Iain smiled gently. “Do not worry, love. Bran assured me he will explain everything to William. William will likely canonize Aurari and her kin for killing David Robertson.”
Victoria smiled, then turned back to Aurari. “Just as I said.”
“That you did,” Aurari said. “I am pleased to find your prediction so promising.”
Evan sat across from Aurari and lifted his mug in salute. “And we are even more pleased you were right.” His statement elicited enthusiastic agreement and raised goblets from the other Gypsies seated beside him.
“At last,” Aurari murmured.
Victoria’s head tilted in a bemused fashion. “At last, what?”
“There is much light.”
“Aye,” Victoria agreed. “There is no need to hide in darkness.”
“Love has a strange way of bringing that about, does it not?”
Iain jerked his attention onto his wife. She flushed and angled her head in graceful assent to Aurari’s statement, and he realized she was aware of his scrutiny.
“’Tis the finest reason of all,” she said without looking at him.
“Reason?” Iain repeated.
“Aye,” she murmured. “The reason we do everything.”
As unexpected as a bolt of lightning, Iain remembered the question he had asked when they were reunited, “What did you hope to accomplish by putting yourself in such jeopardy?” Christ, what a fool he’d been.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Because I love you,” she answered as if having read his mind.
“What?” His near shout quieted the din of conversation.
Victoria met his gaze. “Had you expected something else, my lord?” She rose and headed for the postern door.
Iain shot to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He stared at her for a long moment before shaking from the shock and started after her.
“Did you say you loved me?”
Victoria glanced over her shoulder as she pulled open the postern door. “I did.”
Iain halted and someone bumped into his back. He glanced back and scowled to find the occupants of the great hall lined up behind him. The impulse to command them to disperse was forgotten when the door slammed shut.
Iain dashed forward. He reached the door, yanked it open, and stepped outside in time to see his wife making her way across the compound.
“Victoria,” he called, but to no avail. “Stop her!” Iain yelled at a man about to pass her.
The man looked startled, then confused, as Iain ran to catch up to her. Shouts behind Iain urged the man to do his laird’s bidding, and the man stepped in front of Victoria, but she nimbly evaded his grasp.
“For Christ’s sake, man,” Iain yelled, “grab her.”
The man hurried in Victoria’s wake. She didn’t struggle when he barred her way. Still, his relief was evident when Iain reached her side. The man fell back into the crowd that had followed Iain outside.
“Did no one ever tell you a wife is to obey her husband?” Iain asked, more than a little exasperated.
Victoria smiled so sweetly, he wondered if she hadn’t spent too much time with Maude. “Do not think to give me that innocent look, my lass,” he said. “It did not fool me when Maude tried it, and it holds no more charm on you.” The words were a lie, but Iain prayed his cunning wife hadn’t yet come to know him that well.
“Maude?” she said with such purity he wanted to throttle her.
“Aye, love,” He leaned into her. “Do you think I did not know she knew your name?”
“Served you right,” Victoria retorted.
Her answer, given so unexpectedly and with such obvious relish, stopped him cold. He threw his head back and laughed. “Aye, love, I suppose it did.” His mirth vanished. “It would also have served me right had you had not returned. You would have been rid of me, and as fr
ee as a bird. Thomas,” Iain called,
“bring me the finest mare we have—saddled.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but Iain kept his gaze on Victoria until Thomas returned moments later and handed him the reins to a fine chestnut.
“I can have men ready in fifteen minutes,” Iain said. “They will escort you anywhere you wish. Montrose Abbey. England. You no longer have anything there to fear.”
Pain flickered cross her face, and Iain knew she would struggle with the knowledge that she had distracted Edwin, allowing Glen to deliver the final, fatal blow that had killed him.
Iain dropped the reins to the ground and went down on one knee before her. “Every day, every hour, every one of us, stands on a cliff. The decision lies not in the choice to jump or stay,” he paused, feeling himself spiraling downward, arms out, heart, at last, open wide, “but whether we go in fear or anticipation.” He paused again, these final words the hardest of his life. “It is your choice now, Victoria.”
She uttered a low laugh. “Even now, you seek to chain me to you, my lord. What a funny game you play.”
“I do not jest,” he replied. “I offer freedom, plain and simple. I will not renege, no matter the answer.
You have my word.”
“How can I be freed from these bonds? It matters not how many miles lie between us, or how much time passes. Mayhap even death cannot break these chains. Yet, you act as if I can shake them off by simply riding through those gates.” Iain stared.
She sighed. “Iain, stand up.”
He did as she said, but remained mute as a child awaiting instruction.
She leaned toward him. “I believe this is where you should declare your undying love.”
Iain shook from the spell. He took her hand in his. “How shall I best tell you that I can do naught but love you forever? Shall I speak of your beauty?” “I would not mind,” she replied.
“Perhaps your sweet charms?” He traced an invisible line along her cheek. “Or the fire…the innocence?”
Victoria blushed.
“Perhaps, I could speak of a woman who, of her own free will, chose to give the only thing she had: herself. A woman of courage. One who was a far better friend to me than I was to her. Aye, I shall love you always, and count myself fortunate you were in my arms even a short while. But any more days that pass between us will be by your choice.”
“You will give me a divorce?” Victoria asked.
“I will give you anything you desire,” Iain answered, his voice shaking.
“Aye, then,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iain glanced up when Thomas entered the library.
“You asked to see me,” Thomas said.
Iain nodded, and Thomas threw himself into the high backed wing chair that sat opposite the desk.
“What have you there?” Thomas nodded to the parchment Iain held in front of him.
“See for yourself.” He handed it to his cousin.
Thomas showed no emotion when his eyes fell on the letter written in his own hand. He laid it on the desk.
“I wondered how Hockley discovered she was here.” Iain studied him. “Do you deny the letter was written by you?”
“Nay.”
Iain picked up the letter that was addressed to England’s King Henry and read it aloud.
Be it known, sire, that, though word may have reached you to the contrary, the Countess of Landsbury of her own accord, sought out the safety of one Iain MacPherson, chief protector of the MacPherson clan.
Rest easy knowing she is in the best of health and enjoys every luxury available within the MacPherson home.
Your Most Obedient Servant,
A Friend
“This goes too far, even for you,” Iain said.
“Aye,” Thomas agreed.
“I am in no mood for games,” Iain shot back.
“Forgive me, mon ami. I understand how you feel, and I agree. I wrote the letter, but I did not send it.” Iain frowned. “But the letter.”
“Until you found it, it remained where I left it,” he said, regret in his voice.
“You regret not having sent it?”
“I regret having left it there. While writing it, I…well, you know how I love French brandy. When I awoke the next morning, I thought I had done away with the evidence. Where did you find it?”
“Behind the sideboard.”
Thomas shrugged. “As I said, you know how I love French brandy.”
“If you did not send it, then who contacted
Hockley?”
“There was only the one copy.”
“A mystery.”
“Indeed.” Thomas’s lips drew together thoughtfully.
“It was not, by chance, your cohort?”
A flash of surprise crossed Thomas’s face. “Cohort? Jesu, Iain, are you sure you are not gifted with second sight?”
Iain leaned back in his chair. “There were things our good priest said. To be honest, it was your part in the matter that remained unknown to me. Had you not left this letter, I might never have known.” He paused. “I assume you will not consider giving up the brandy?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Aye, then,” Iain said. “You may as well pour us both one.”
* * *
“Nay,” Victoria whispered with a stern shake of her head as Liam opened the door to her chambers. She stepped inside the antechamber, waited until he entered, then closed the door behind him. “I will not keep it from him. God help me if he ever found out. I have already kept silent too long. Either you tell him,
Liam Fraser, or I will do it for you.”
“Now, lassie—”
“Do not think to soothe me with your sweet talk, Father. And you had best make short work of the matter, or you will be explaining to my husband why I call you that in public.” She ignored the flush that rose in his cheeks.
“You would not do that,” he said in a near whisper.
Victoria crossed her hands beneath her breasts. “I would, and very soon.”
He turned even paler.
“Liam, if you had not been there the day I made the discovery, I would have confessed all to him.” She smiled gently. “You cannot expect me to keep the
knowledge from him?”
“Do you realize this could shake not only the foundation of the Fraser and MacPherson clans, but Clan Chatten as well?”
“I understand ’tis powerful.” She crossed to the chaise lounge near the window and sat down. “There is no denying that.”
“Aye. And that being the case—”
“Liam,” she cut in, “do you think we have the right to keep it from him?”
Liam strode to where she sat and sank down beside her. He sighed. “I suppose you are right.”
“It is not so bad as all that, is it?”
“The lad will be pleased to hear the news. We have been enemies a long time.”
“Nay,” Victoria said. “You and Eric were enemies.”
“Aw, lassie,” he said, “’tis the same thing.”
* * *
Victoria watched the two men from the solitude of the couch. Liam sat motionless in the chair opposite Iain’s desk. Iain hadn’t moved, other than to turn the pages of the journal. At his muttered, “Christ,” she knew he understood the full meaning of the document.
A muscle in his jaw jumped and he looked up.
“I am sorry, Iain,” Liam said.
“Why?” Iain asked. “Because the man I thought was my father was not, or because the one who is my father I have been fighting my entire life?” He shook his head. “I cannot regret the first. Eric was never a father to me.”
“And the latter?”
Iain laughed harshly. “Seems fate has found her revenge.”
“We have all paid,” Liam said.
“Including Eric,” Victoria said, drawing the attention of both men. “He threw away the most precious thing of all.”
“They?” She rose and came to him.
He took her hand in his.
“Aye, love. All my tomorrows.”
###
Lord Grayson’s Bride
Tarah Scott
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my beta readers Debbie McCreary, Melba Solis-Zuniga, and Sweet Lily, aka, Lily Baldwin. I really appreciate your time and feedback. You guys are the best! Of course, thank you Kimberly Comeau for making sure all the details were right. Thanks to Erin Dameron-Hill, who created another perfect cover.
Chapter One
Inverness, Scotland September 1820
The hairs on the back of Nicholas’ neck suddenly stood at attention and he looked up from his cards. Henry Maxwell stood in the doorway of the card room, a troubled frown on his face. Nicholas silently cursed. What had his fiancé done this time?
He returned his attention to his opponent and, with half a dozen men watching, laid his final card, the king of clubs, on the table. A combination of exclamations went up in unison with Lord David Wylst’s muttered oath. The baron had expected his jack to win. The onlookers lifted their glasses in salute and took heavy swigs of their drinks.
“I am happy to take your marker,” Nicholas told Wylst, knowing full well the paper would be worthless.
Nicholas didn’t wait for the response he saw in Wylst’s eyes—at the very least, a demand for a rematch to win back his losses, at the worst, an accusation that the only way a Scot could best an Englishman was to cheat. The thought was confirmed when Nicholas rose and Wylst’s gaze flicked to his kilt. A corner of the baron’s mouth turned up in derision. Wylst was fool enough to openly betray his thoughts, despite the fact they were in the Scottish Highlands, not England.
Nicholas started toward Henry.
“You have the luck of the devil,” John McEwan commented as he passed.