The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses

by Janna MacGregor

  Her brother took a step toward her, then pivoted on a foot and broke into a frantic run.

  With every beat of her pulse, pain thumped throughout her hand and spread up her arm as if laying siege to her body. Instinctively, she raised her hand above her heart and pressed the wound close. The sticky liquid seeped through her clothing, and a heady metallic smell wafted through the air. She turned from the smell and took a deep breath, hoping it would calm her thundering heartbeat. She wobbled on her feet. The sight of her own blood always made her feel faint. It was ironic, really. She was a farmer and never bothered by it when she hunted or dressed a fowl for dinner. Nor did it bother her to take care of Bennett’s many scrapes and bruises.

  However, when she saw a drop of her own blood, her mind reeled with images of poor Faith lying on the field with her broken leg covered in blood.

  She shifted her feet apart to steady her stance.

  “Miss Lawson?” A deep voice hovered above as if an angel called her forward. It reminded her of brandy—smooth, dark, rich. “I was on my way to the house when I saw you and the boy.”

  She shook her head to clear the miasma that blanketed her. With a stumble, she squared her shoulders.

  “Miss Lawson, are you unwell?” The warm voice was one she now recognized and came from over her shoulder.

  This was no angel. If she fainted on the spot, she would count it as a blessing. She’d not have to deal with him.

  “Miss—”

  “My lord.” She swallowed to clear the thickness that clogged her throat. She turned her head to glance behind her. The movement caused her to sway, but she willed herself to remain standing. “No. I’m injured. That was my brother you saw.”

  The whirl of a black greatcoat swept by her. Suddenly, the Marquess of McCalpin stood before her. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the hand she held close to her body.

  “Stop.” Her whispery plea sounded weak to her own ears. Her body took control at that moment, trying to rid itself of the shock by shivering uncontrollably. “Please. I’ll—I’ll faint if you come closer.”

  He ignored her command and took the forbidden step forward. A response so typical of a male—always charging ahead when the most prudent action required one to analyze the situation. The vision of him swam before her eyes. Her shivers intensified, and her whole body shook.

  “Will you allow me to examine your hand?” He reached for her, and she pitched forward.

  Her vision grew dark, and the ringing in her ears increased. Abruptly, the world tilted sideways as she fell. When he caught her, warmth enveloped her and arms of banded steel held her close. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. The scent of pine and leather layered with something male chased away the iron scent that had invaded her nose. For a moment, all was well in the world. Unfortunately, her relief was short-lived. No doubt, her blood was staining his clothing. She tried to pull away, but his arms held her tight.

  “I’ll ruin your coat,” she whispered.

  “Shh.” He studied her face. “I’m going to lean you against the wall and get something from my mount.” He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment as he lowered her into a sitting position.

  She sat still and observed his movements. He stepped to his horse, a big dappled gray, and opened a bag tied to the saddle. It took too much effort to watch anymore. She rested her head against the rock wall. A slight breeze caused her hair to dance about her face. She lost track of time. It was difficult to concentrate. Somehow, he’d reached her side and knelt before her. The blade of a knife caught the light with a flash of silver.

  “A knife?” Her voice echoed inside her brain as if she were talking inside a barrel.

  He took her injured hand in his, the gentle touch reassuring.

  “I can’t look down or I’ll faint.” She closed her eyes. The effort kept her from swooning and hid the sight of her blood.

  “You don’t need to watch. I’m just cutting the glove away from your hand. I can’t see how badly you’re injured unless I examine the wound.” The low rumble of words buzzed around her like a giant honeybee. “Will you allow me to do that?”

  She shook her head and tried to pull her hand away. These were her last pair of work gloves, and she didn’t have any extra money to replace them.

  “Please, don’t.” Her family’s humiliating circumstances caused her face to heat. Why couldn’t the flush have settled in her body instead of her face? At least she’d have some much-needed warmth. She took a deep breath to salvage some dignity. “They’re my last pair.”

  The strength in his grasp kept her from successfully removing her hand from his.

  “Trust me,” he whispered, “they’re ruined. May I cut it off?”

  With no other choice, March reluctantly nodded her assent. A few tugs, and her fingers were free. “What do you see?”

  The heat of his hand beneath hers was a startling contrast to the coolness of her palm. He must have taken his glove off. The comfort of his touch settled her shakes until they diminished into slight tremors.

  “It’s a nasty cut that will require a few stitches. I need to wrap your hand until I get you to the house.”

  “I didn’t know you were arriving today.” She had no idea if she was speaking aloud. The blood had robbed her of her senses.

  “Our last meeting left me curious. I decided to visit sooner rather than later, and hoped you could answer my questions.” The gentleness in his voice matched the compassionate touch of his hand.

  She dared to open her eyes, and he was staring at her. The blue in his eyes was deeper than any sapphire. Her David was back—not some arrogant goat who sauntered about the world as if it owed him everything. Today, he would slay any foe that threatened his world.

  “Oh.” What a moronic thing to utter.

  She clenched her eyes tight and tried to think of something witty. When she opened her eyes, he had untied his neckcloth and was wrapping it around her hand. She couldn’t look down so she concentrated on the sun-kissed skin of his neck, layered and corded with tendons and muscles that peeked from the opening of his shirt. Good heavens, could the man’s beauty not bother her for any length of time?

  When he rested on his haunches above her, she dared not steal a glimpse of his muscled legs. Either a view of his legs or the sight of her blood would be the death of her.

  “Stay here and I’ll fetch Donar.” His hand still rested under hers. He pressed her hand against her chest and caused another wave of lightheadedness. “Keep your hand elevated.”

  He left her side, then brought his horse around.

  “I’ll help you stand.” Without waiting for her acquiescence, he pulled her up. When she weaved unsteadily, he brought her against his chest. “I’m going to pick you up and lift you onto the saddle.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “You can’t. I’m too … too large. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Are you calling me weak? You insult me after I’ve taken great care of you?” His gaze captured hers, and the tiny lines around his eyes hinted at his amusement. “Are you ready?”

  Before she could protest, he lifted her onto the horse’s back. “Grab his mane with your right hand and hold tight.”

  She did as instructed. At this point, she didn’t have the wherewithal to argue. Her vise-like grip had to be painful for the horse, but it was the only way she could ensure she’d not fall off the other side.

  Gracefully, McCalpin lifted himself into the saddle and settled behind her. He reached around her and gently took the reins draped to the side. “Easy now. Lie back against me, and I’ll get you home.”

  He reeled Donar in the direction of the house. Across the field, Hart raced toward them on one of the draught horses the estate owned. He came to a sudden stop. Donar danced back several steps as if displeased with the intrusion of the workhorse.

  McCalpin patted the dappled gray and murmured something that immediately calmed its skittishness.

  “I just returned from the village, and Ben
nett told me what happened. He’s coming with the cart.” Hart didn’t spare a glance at McCalpin. His eyes widened when he saw the bloodstains. “How bad is it?”

  McCalpin pulled her tight against him. His warmth embraced her, and the shock of the accident had suddenly made her very tired. Everything, including the conversation, moved slowly.

  “She’ll need it sewn up, but the cut was straight.” The scent of pine joined the heady experience of his arms enveloping her. If she had perished, then this was surely heaven.

  “I’ll inform Mrs. Oliver. She’s the best with cuts that require stitches.” Hart reeled the draught horse around, then galloped away.

  McCalpin bent his head toward hers. If she wasn’t mistaken, his chin had just brushed against her ear as if imparting a great secret. “There’s no cause to hurry. It appears the bleeding has stopped.”

  With a voice as smooth as thick velvet, she could listen to him for hours, maybe days, even if he were reciting the ledger from her household accounts. All she could manage was a nod.

  It made little difference if they ever made it back to the house. Heaven with her David was quite nice.

  * * *

  Completely ignoring her protests, McCalpin swept March from Donar and carried her inside to the kitchen. An older woman, the presumed Mrs. Oliver, waited for them by the table with everything required to mend the cut already prepared. There was even a small glass of brandy poured.

  “Miss March, let me have a look,” Mrs. Oliver clucked. She didn’t spare a glance at McCalpin. With a surprisingly quick flourish for an old lady, Mrs. Oliver had his neckcloth free from March’s hand and thrown into a heap on the floor by his side. “That cloth is ruined.”

  When the old lady twisted her hand gently to investigate the depth of the gash, March winced and grew paler than when he had first found her.

  “Mrs. Oliver, this is the Marquess of McCalpin.” The foreign wispiness in March’s voice betrayed her suffering.

  She bore little resemblance to the woman who had challenged him in London. When she’d parried his constant questions that day she sat in his study, she had a brightness and self-assuredness about her that drew his respect. Not someone easily dismissed as he’d discovered.

  Now, her skin resembled newly fallen snow, and her mouth had tightened in a line. All her shimmering defiance had deserted her. She refused to show any hint she suffered, but her pain was evident if the creases around her eyes were any indication.

  “This will sting, but we need to clean your hand.” Mrs. Oliver brought a pan of water to the table. She was extremely gentle with her as if many times before, she’d experienced March’s reaction to blood.

  March stiffened in response. Without second-guessing himself, McCalpin grabbed her other hand in his. The water beneath a frozen pond had to be warmer than her skin. He placed his other hand over the top of her hand and gently rubbed the circulation back. Mrs. Oliver nodded her approval. As soon as March’s hand hit the water, she flinched.

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Squeeze my hand. Think of how angry you were when you came to see me.”

  “What she ought to do is think of who caused all this. Rupert Lawson.” The old woman practically spit her disgust across the room. “Nothing good ever comes—”

  “Mrs. Oliver, please…” March’s voice trailed to nothing.

  The old lady narrowed her eyes. “Only reason you’re hurt, my miss.”

  McCalpin’s gaze darted from the old lady to March. “Who’s Rupert Lawson?”

  “My cousin,” March offered weakly. “How am I going to shear this week?”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Mrs. Oliver gently took March’s hand out of the water and dried it. She trickled a little brandy over the wound, eliciting a hiss from March.

  “It’ll keep it from festering when I sew it up.” Mrs. Oliver directed this tidbit to McCalpin.

  He nodded absently and took what remained of the brandy and held it to her lips. She shook her head and turned away.

  “Drink it,” he ordered.

  Her gaze darted to his. Fear clouded her eyes. Again, he held the glass to her mouth. This time she took a sip and immediately coughed.

  “Four or five quick stitches ought to do the trick,” Mrs. Oliver announced. She gently placed March’s outstretched hand on the table, then turned her back in such a manner that it hid her movements from both of them.

  He glanced around the neat, but barren kitchen. The house would once have been quite a handsome establishment. The architectural details included intricately carved moldings and two large crystal chandeliers. The previous viscounts had quite a fine taste for all things. The spacious kitchen had the facilities to accommodate a large staff. The oven and massive fireplace rivaled the ones in his father’s London home. Though it was the dead of winter, the fire consisted of only a couple of logs. Just one small roasting pot sat nearby.

  Mrs. Oliver turned briefly and gave McCalpin a nod to signal she was about to sew up the wound. She resumed her position with her back to them. Silence descended, and March tightened her hold on his hand as she waited.

  The lines around her pursed mouth reminded him of pure agony. A woman should never suffer like this.

  “If I have forty-three sheep that all need to be groomed before shearing, how will I get the work done?” March muttered to herself. “If I get on average of a half-pound per fleece … no, now that they’ve gotten into the mud, I’ll be lucky to get a quarter of a pound. What’s that amount?”

  Her grip was surprisingly strong. When he’d examined her out in the field, the coldness of her hand, heightened by her roughened skin, indicated she was accustomed to physical work.

  She jerked slightly and pressed her eyes closed as Mrs. Oliver sewed the first stitch. “Help me with the figures.” Her voice thinned to a suffocating whisper as she pleaded with her eyes for his help. “I need to know how much we’ll have.”

  His heartbeat raced as he realized what she wanted. He had no earthly clue how to calculate such a number.

  Not here, not without chalk. Not without a board. Not in front of her.

  “Miss March, leave your damnable sheep worries be. You have more important things to concentrate on at this moment.” The affection in the servant’s voice was unmistakable. “Those animals will be your downfall. Try to think of something pleasant while I work.” Without a glance, she addressed McCalpin. “Perhaps, my lord, you could get her mind off those wool bags.”

  There was only one thing to do to keep March preoccupied. Gently, so as not to scare her, he brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek and brought his mouth close to hers. Her eyes flew to his.

  “Think of this,” he whispered before he brushed his lips against hers. It was the perfect way to take her mind off the needle, but more important, off her calculations.

  March exhaled and opened her eyes. Her gaze darted to his once again, and the pulse in her lovely neck throbbed in answer. The copper color of her irises was stunning, and flecks of brown and gold accented it. He’d never considered brown eyes particularly attractive, but hers were rich and sweet like warmed brandy. The dullness gone, and in its place was surprise.

  March’s servant was completely absorbed in her work. He took advantage of the opportunity and lowered his mouth to hers again. Shocked at his own eager response to her taste, he wanted to explore her luscious mouth at leisure. He drew his tongue against the seam of her lips.

  She flinched.

  What was he thinking to have stolen a kiss?

  “I apologize,” he whispered and drew back. “I’d hoped the distraction—”

  “Mrs. Oliver,” she whispered in return, “another stitch.” Her pale complexion had warmed to a hue that reminded him of the spring’s first roses.

  “That didn’t take too long, now did it? I’m proud of you, Miss March,” the old woman chortled with her back still turned. Gathering the necessary wraps to protect the stitches, she stepped away from the t
able, then stilled. With a wry smile, she winked at him. “I’m grateful for the comfort you offered too, whether she realizes it or not.”

  Completely oblivious to the old woman’s teasing, March lifted her hand and examined the wound.

  “My pleasure, madam.” He devoted his attention to March. “May I?”

  Her gaze drifted from her hand to his eyes. He focused on the brilliant pink of her cheeks and her red swollen lips. She took deep breaths, as if she’d run across the estate. She held her hand, palm up, for his inspection. Sewn in even neat stitches, the wound was pink, but there was little sign of bleeding.

  “An admirable job, Mrs. Oliver,” he offered while smiling at March. Her eyes widened in answer.

  The old woman nodded as she stepped close with clean white strips of linen. “I’ve done my fair share of tending wounds over the years. You have to be quick with the needle and not dillydally.”

  As she wrapped March’s hand, a young lad stepped into the kitchen. “Are you all right?”

  For the first time, McCalpin saw March smile, one that bespoke true affection. It was one of those rare smiles that he’d remember his entire life. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

  “I’m fine, Bennett.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “It was an accident, sweetheart. Let’s not mention it again.” Her normal refined brightness finally replaced her earlier flat tone. “Let me introduce you to Lord McCalpin.”

  The boy, who favored his sister in both features and coloring except for his startling green eyes, stepped forward and regarded McCalpin. Without any prompting from his sister, he held out his hand. “I’m Lord Bennett Lawson.”

  With a nod, McCalpin shook his small hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Bennett grinned. “Call me Lawson. That’s how men address each other.”

  “Only if you call me McCalpin.” He glanced at March. She directed her attention to her brother. Without pain and shock marring her features, she was striking. Her fondness for her brother made her radiant.