by L. L. Muir
He finally pried his gaze from the squirming flesh to look at Bridget. He blinked rapidly, then smiled once again.
“What do you want?” He asked again.
“I’ve already told you!”
He raised a brow. “And how would you pay for such things?”
Of course! She'd seen his ugliness, so he'd lost the ability to woo her. He'd completely revealed the monster within to get back the opportunity he’d lost.
“My dowry,” she shouted. “Now release me! Allow me to help the babe!”
He took a deep breath, then seemed to find the air no longer palatable and dragged her to the door.
“You may have what you wish…as soon as we are wed. And not before. We shall marry in the fall. This mine is not yet played out, but it should be by then.”
“Let me save the babe!” She struggled one last time, no doubt ripping the flesh on her wrists. “Please! God help me!”
He let her go, but blocked her path, whichever way she tried to pass him. When she tried to plow through him, he caught her up in his arms and squeezed until she stopped fighting. She thought her lungs would explode.
He tossed her into the carriage and followed after, grabbing her sleeve as she tried to exit the other side.
“How will you explain your torn sleeve to your brother, Bridget? Will you tell him I defiled you, so that we might marry tonight? I still won’t close the mine until September.”
“How will you explain it, Baron? Let me save the babe and I'll play your game.”
Braithwaite turned to Marlowe.
“Put him inside and burn it.”
“Nooo! The babe lives!”
“And what is 10 pounds to me?”
“It's a babe! A future slave for you! Let me save it!”
“And another can be purchased for 10 pounds, my dear. Now sit up, find your hat, and decide what you will tell your brother about your cheek and your wrists.”
The carriage pulled away in spite of her clawing and pounding on its driver. When the brightness of the fire caught her eye, she stopped, bracing herself to hear a small cry…but it never came.
CHAPTER FORTY- THREE
Bridget’s feet were frozen to the end of the gangplank. She couldn’t move. Vivianne and Mallory turned back to see what was keeping her and frowned. She could feel the baron hovering just behind her, could almost feel his breath on her neck while he waited for her to make her next move.
But she couldn’t.
Just beyond her friends, a woman stood with a crying babe in her arms. And if they were fellow passengers, Bridget wanted no part of the journey!
The baby cried. Mallory turned toward the sound, then quickly turned back to Bridget with wide eyes. Thankfully, her cousin was quick to hide her understanding, for, if the baron noticed, he would know Bridget had told others about that day. And he might find a way to torment Mallory and Vivianne too.
Mallory backtracked onto the gangplank and chattered away while she took a firm hold of Bridget’s elbow and led her onto the ship with gentle, but firm guidance. “Oh, Bridget,” she cooed. “When will you get over your fear of sailing? You certainly don’t want to spend another long journey in a carriage do you? Come now.”
Vivianne gave Bridget a rewarding hug when her feet were finally on the ship. “He suspects nothing,” she whispered.
Since that horrible day, Bridget had avoided children at all costs, worried that a crying babe might send her mind reeling. She understood her guilt all too well; if she hadn’t misled the baron to believe she would consider his suit, he would have never taken her on that outing. He might have never have taken Jameson from his wife’s side. The father and possibly the child might have lived.
Her conscience weighed heavy with three deaths upon it. Even sharing the horror with the sisters of her heart couldn’t lessen her load. It was a burden she would always bear. Even her large dowry couldn’t buy her hands clean again.
The training she’d sought hadn’t only been for their scavenger hunt into Scotland. She’d learned to wield all sizes of blades in hopes of killing a monster. Why none of his tenants had done it before was a mystery, but no matter. She’d see it done, before he killed her, even if she hanged for it.
But to keep her mind from dwelling on the horror, both past and future, she clung to the hope of closing that mine, and the hope that she, too, might rise from the dark hole in which Braithwaite had placed her that day. Only she would need her wits to do it.
Embarrassing him with a ruined reputation hadn’t come to fruition, but perhaps that was for the best. What if he’d lashed out in anger at someone besides her? Someone who couldn’t defend themselves like she could?
But she did hold one secret that might save her life one day soon—a small detail about her dowry. Thanks to her grandfather’s will, she had sole control over her property. Braithwaite wouldn't be able start new mines on her land without her approval, and she suspected his lust for coal was his sole motivation for wanting her hand. But of course, she wouldn’t explain any of that until the first mine was closed, or until he threatened her life. And if something should happen to her, the documents stipulated her lands would either go to her offspring, or back to her brother.
She looked forward to seeing the look on his face when he was informed.
Of course, the monster might find a way around such things. If he kept her locked up, forced her to sign papers, or hired someone else to forge her signature, he might make do for a while. But he'd at least have to produce her hale and hearty when her brother visited.
However, Phinny would never visit a sister he believed was dead.
If the worst happened, she hoped she might haunt the baron long enough to see his expression when he told Phinny she'd died of an accident and her brother demanded the return of her dowry!
But that wouldn’t help Braithwaite’s people. She needed to stay alive long enough to help them—even if it took the worth of her dowry to do it.
In the end, she’d told Phinny she’d witnessed the birth of a child and it had ended tragically. She’d gotten hysterical; the baron had been forced to hold her back. She’d bumped her face in the struggle. Phinny was dismayed, but appeased. He’d treated her tenderly for weeks afterward, and never chided her when she’d insisted that she would never have children. When that proved to be true, would he remember?
Poor Phinny. She hoped he never discovered the baron’s real nature. Not having the power to interfere would simply eat him alive.
~ ~ ~
She refused the ship’s fare, claiming an unstable stomach. She’d refused to join her grandmother in the cabin allotted them, insisting she would be sick if she wasn’t allowed to watch the sea. At the risk of appearing petulant, she refused to go below, into the darkness, until she could no longer see the water.
She merely wished to avoid entering any and all shadows until she had no choice. When she was left to herself, she kept her mind on happy thoughts.
Rory Macpherson, for instance.
His image was growing dimmer by the day. She longed to hear his laughter, his whisper, even his quiet breathing. Why couldn’t she have done a surer job of committing his features to memory?
Desperate, she recalled the kiss behind the door, the feel of his lips, the look in his eyes, and suddenly she could see him clearly again, as if he were standing before her!
“The Baron wishes ye to go below, m’lady, and join him for supper. He was quite firm, if ye ken my meanin’.” The man before her wasn’t Rory after all, but one of the seamen.
Suddenly, a wild thought filled her head and spread to her heart. She grabbed the man’s arm.
“I understand. But tell me, sir. Are any of your companions called Rory? Or Macpherson?” She looked behind her to see that no one was listening. “Are any of them tall, with hair the color of mine, perhaps?”
If Rory was on board, hoping to rescue her from herself, she couldn’t allow it, but it would cheer her considerably if the man tried.
To see his face again! To kiss him just once more! To prove the past two weeks without him weren’t the lifetime they seemed.
“Ye mean Rory Macpherson?”
She had to stop herself from hugging the man. He knew Rory!
Noting her excitement, he shook his head rapidly. “Nay, my lady. Macpherson boarded another ship. Days ago. A trade vessel. Off to who knows where.”
Her disappointment must have shown.
“I am sorry, my lady.” He shuffled his feet. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but the baron seems an impatient blighter…”
She tried to smile. It was for the best. “You are correct, sir. I shan’t dawdle.”
CHAPTER FORTY-F OUR
Rory halted one of the empty carts, tied his horse to the rear, and climbed wearily into the back. The warped wood welcomed his haggard, sleep-deprived body, and with an arm to cushion his head from the jarring road, he relaxed for the first time in days. For the next two nights, he’d get nary a long blink, so he’d take what he could now.
He blocked the image of Bridget Kennison from his mind. If he didn’t, he’d get no rest. Two days. In two days, he’d let his mind fill with nothing but her.
~ ~ ~
The power of the sea had once terrified Bridget. A voyage with her mother was a blurred memory of darkness and nausea, and that same miserable bucket she'd clung to for days. This time, she welcomed anything that might take her mind off what may happen a sennight hence. However, standing at the bow, watching the rise and fall of the railing with the rolling water beyond, she felt no sign of illness. The wind rushing past her cheeks was thrilling, however, and for a moment, she was able to forget who she was and the fate that awaited her.
She imagined herself as a bird skimming the water, waiting for the flash of a fish to entice her to dive below the cold hard surface. She leaned over, looking deep into the streams of shadows ahead of the breaking water aside the bow, hoping for a glimpse of life she knew thrived there.
The bow dropped sharply and her torso slammed against the rail, her head and hair flung down toward the water, her mind reeling with fear—she was about to fall overboard!
She flung herself back, up and back, until she was safely away from the side. And there beside the rail stood Braithwaite, eyes gleaming from more than the wind whipping past them. It was only then that she felt a warm pressure on her back—the memory of a hand pressing her forward.
Braithwaite waited, smiling. He watched for the moment she would realize what he’d done. When she furtively searched the deck for witnesses, he laughed outright.
No one was paying them any attention as the ship plunged over and over again. All hands were busy keeping their balance.
“Don't worry, darling,” he shouted across the space that now separated them. “I wouldn't have allowed you to fall overboard. It was only a jest.” He stalked toward her, but she stood her ground. When she didn’t retreat, he stopped and frowned, disappointed. “I don't suppose you were thinking of jumping...to avoid marrying a man like me.”
“You know I would not.”
When he cast his eyes down, she wondered what she might have read there. Was he plotting her death even as they journeyed toward their marriage? He looked up again, raising an innocent brow, but it was too late. She could see the monster slithering back into the depths below his lashes. How could she have doubted her memory for a moment?
“What's more, Baron, my brother and the rest know I'm not prone to clumsiness.”
He laughed and closed the distance, then took one of her hands in both of his. “Silly girl. You'll have to learn when I'm jesting. If you accuse me of more, it would prove quite embarrassing.”
It was a reminder. A warning. No matter what he did to her, she was to keep her mouth shut tight. And she would…but only until he’d fulfilled his part of their bargain.
If she'd doubted before that he would eventually kill her, that doubt was gone. But if she was to have any hope of surviving him, she had to put him at ease.
“Baron, I accuse you of nothing. Surely you can forgive a young bride for having nerves.” She fought against gritting her teeth as she smiled pleasantly and wrapped her fingers around his hand. “I would like to make the most of our marriage, my lord. It is my wish to make you happy. I hope that your happiness will spread to your tenants, which will then make me happy.”
He stilled. His sly smile slid from his face as he studied her. His eyes dropped. Then, starting at her hem, he looked her over, as if he were seeing her for the first time—or at least looking for something redeemable besides the size of her dowry. When his gaze lingered on her bosom, she smothered a shiver that he might have detected since her hand was still between his.
Finally, his eyes lifted to her face. He was judging her honesty, she knew it. And she emptied her mind of anything he might read there. She had to seem the silly girl he'd believed her to be when they'd first met and flirted. She blushed and looked away.
“I assure you, my pet, we will make the most of our marriage. My happiness will be a simple thing to manage, if you're a good girl.”
She struggled for what she might have said if she’d never seen beneath his mask. He had admired her spirit, once upon a time.
She made an attempt to be coy. “And will you endeavor to make me happy as well, my lord?”
His grin was unsettling, and his thoughts were the last thing she wanted to know. But she raised an innocent brow and waited, drawing out the game, hoping it was lowering his guard.
“Come, now, Bridget. You know full well the only thing that will make you happy is my quick death.” He kissed her hand and dropped it abruptly, then walked away, laughing to himself as if he’d just exposed her to the world.
Bridget's first impulse was to run to Phinny's side and stop the madness. No one would blame her for trying to save her own life first. What good would she be to anyone if she were dead?
Once she’d made certain he had gone, she stepped back to the rail and turned into the wind, willing it to clear the fear from her mind. There would be no more pretending. They were simply a bride and groom bent on killing each other, determined to be the one left standing.
CHAPTER FORTY- FIVE
The baron was ill.
With the first mate’s help, he penned a private letter to his man Marlowe, to be delivered in the event of his death. Since no one else in their party had become so, the man raved in the throes of his misery that he'd been poisoned. He never pointed at Bridget, but his withering gaze said he blamed her. If he lived, of course, he wouldn’t want an accusation coming back to thwart his chances of getting access to her lands.
She checked on him regularly for two reasons. First, she hoped he died before she needed to kill him, though she would rather see those miners helped before that happened. And second, the sight and sound of his misery gave her a perverse pleasure which would require, at some point, a sincere bit of repenting.
He was still completely miserable when they neared Whitley Bay. So Phinny decided, in case the baron’s health became even more unpleasant, that the women would proceed to the Braithwaite estate while the baron took a day or more to recover. Phinny left behind three unlucky men to escort the bridegroom when he was ready to continue.
Once again, she was shut in a carriage with Mallory and Vivianne, but this time, her grandmother joined them. One of the benefits of having the elderly woman along was that her companions couldn’t take advantage of the journey to attempt to sway Bridget into cancelling the wedding. One of the drawbacks was that Grandmother Kennison had two dozen stories about Alistair Graham to recount. And once the stories ran out, she’d start at the beginning to add details she might have omitted in the first telling.
Amusing? Yes. But it was nothing short of torture, especially when Bridget pictured herself as her grandmother had been, a lass from the highlands, bartered at the king's whim to marry an Englishman. She pictured Rory as Alistair Graham, dogging her journey to the Borders and beyond, held captive by the
English, unable to rescue her before the marriage took place, then weeks later, stealing her from beneath her husband's nose. He'd taken her back into Scotland, hiding amongst the Border Grahams, trying to win her heart, ignoring the claim her husband had made upon it.
Bridget loved the story, wished the same thing could have happened to her. But Grandmother's story wasn't like her own. Grandmother had fallen in love with her husband, and as much as she enjoyed Alistair Graham's romantic attentions, she’d wanted to go home.
Alistair had gone reiving with his southern cousins and been caught. When Grandfather had learned of it, he flew to Alistair's aid, knowing he'd never be able to find his bride without the Scotsman’s assistance. He'd helped Alistair escape, and Alistair had returned Grandmother to her husband, promising a debt to the Kennison's for sparing his neck and assuring Grandfather of his bride's loyalty.
It wasn't until Bridget's father was born, eight months later, that Grandfather began fearing the babe was not his. In spite of her assurances, he doubted her love. The boy strongly resembled him, but still he doubted. Her grandparents had come to a truce between them, and carried on as a normal couple—having more children, enjoying grandchildren—but the man could always be caught throwing her a suspicious eye.
She visited Scotland once, sailing straight to Edinburgh so her husband wouldn't suspect her of visiting her old lover, a man who had spent the rest of his life just across the border as the chosen laird of his cousin's clan. She never saw Alistair again, nor had she cared to, but Grandfather never believed her.
When Bridget's father was killed in a stampede, Grandfather mourned, but Grandmother mourned the more, regretting her husband had never truly believed the son to be his. And with that one symbol of their contention gone, something changed. They stopped pretending. Grandmother moved to London, Grandfather never tried to bring her back.
“All he had to do was ask, and I'd have come home.”
Grandmother had returned after the funeral, to see that the rest of her brood was happy, to invite the girls to come shopping in London before they were married off.