James took the bundled pages and scanned them quickly. Both their names were there, his in a barely legible scrawl, hers in a neat, feminine script. The date appeared correct, as did the spelling of his name. “Not that a signature on the register is absolutely required under Scots law,” he murmured, the solicitor in him already sifting through possibilities. “But it does serve as an unfortunate piece of evidence.”
Georgette whirled on him. “You told me we weren’t married.” Her finger pushed into his chest in relentless condemnation. “I refuse to believe that this farce of a ceremony could be any more legitimate than the fun you had over the public table at the Blue Gander! Why, the man isn’t even a registered official!”
Beside him, he could see the blacksmith’s eyes grow wide, no doubt in response to such a visible display of their purported “happiness.” James covered her accusing finger with his own hand and pushed her arm down gently. “It doesn’t take a man of the cloth or the law, Georgette. It takes only a solid citizen witness, claiming intent. The smithy is clearly that. He officiates half the marriages in Moraig.” James knew from personal experience. One of the most depressing parts about being the town solicitor was dealing with the desperate requests of people who regretted their irregular marriages. It was one of the reasons England had passed Hardwicke’s Marriage Act. It prevented foolhardy mistakes such as this.
But this was Scotland, not England. And James was not yet convinced this was a mistake.
“So we are married.” Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
The blacksmith broke in. “Well, you started the process.” He squirmed a bit, an odd sight for man of his size and profession. “Was it . . . I mean, did you . . . finish it?”
“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice sounded hollow.
“He means did we consummate it,” James explained.
“ ’Tis none of his business!” she exclaimed.
But it was. It was an entirely legitimate question. And because of it, the issue of whether they were married was still a matter of legal interpretation.
“Thank you,” James told the bemused blacksmith by way of ending the awkward conversation. This was a discussion best continued in private. He eyed the woman shifting beside him. Her color was high now, her lips a flushed shade of red. She was unspeakably beautiful, spitting mad, and looking to make someone pay. If they had they been married properly, with a posting of the banns, the issue of consummation would not be a point of concern.
But they had not embarked on a regular marriage. They had eloped. That made things more difficult, but also offered a possible way out.
Georgette had made it very clear she did not want this outcome, no matter that she had seemed close to tupping him a half hour ago. It struck him as unfortunate that there could be no exploration of the promise in this marriage. But with the way she had stiffened at the blacksmith’s congratulatory remarks, and the way she had colored up now at the discussion of consummation, he more than had his answer.
If she wanted it undone, he would do his best to give her that, his pride and feelings be damned.
GEORGETTE WAITED AS James slipped around the side of the shop and came back leading a saddled horse. It was a fine-looking animal, all rangy chestnut limbs and springy steps. No wonder he had been so anxious to find it, and angry with her when he thought she had something to do with the stallion’s disappearance.
He stopped in front of her, lines of strain visible around the edges of his mouth where beard overtook skin. Georgette wanted to put her hand on his lips and ease some of the worry she saw branded there, but instead she lifted a hand to the horse’s nose. It was like stroking crushed velvet. The horse pushed impatiently against her hand, demanding more attention.
Unlike the man.
She dropped her hand and surveyed the horse’s owner. James MacKenzie had shown her a good deal of decency today. If she had trapped him into a marriage he didn’t want, she was going to be damned twice over.
“So are we or aren’t we?” she asked him, her voice low enough so the smithy couldn’t hear. Her mind seemed squeezed from four sides. She had gone from thinking she was married, to believing she wasn’t, and back again in the space of less than an hour. It was enough to make a woman want a glass of brandy.
He picked up her hand. He had a habit of doing that, she noticed. Touching her, when it didn’t need to be done. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. In London, such an action would be considered vulgar, particularly lacking gloves as they both were. The feeling of skin on skin was shockingly improper. But the way he did it, so easy, made it seem more a meeting of minds than an attempt to seduce her, or worse, shackle her to him.
“It is not that simple,” he told her as they began to walk, his big fingers working circles over hers. “By Scots law, we are nearly there. We are lacking only consummation, or cohabitation with repute.”
Georgette swiveled her head to meet his profile. Surprise did not begin to describe the sentiment scuttling through her. “We did not . . . ?”
“No.” He did not look at her, kept moving forward. But his voice sounded firm on that point. She was reminded that he, at least, had his memory restored.
A curious sense of disbelief prodded at her. “But we spent the night together. We did things.”
“Things.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Yes, well, that was not one of the ‘things’ we did.”
She stopped short and pulled her hand out of his. “You tossed my corset on a drapery rod and watched me jump on a mattress!” Unclothed, her mind screamed, though she could not bring herself to give voice to that part. “We were both undressed when I awoke. It seems a stretch to believe that did not happen.”
“I’ll not say we didn’t want to, Georgette, or that it was easy.” He took a half step to face her, one hand still firm on the reins. “It was just that I thought it would be better to wait until morning, when you could no longer claim a clouded judgment.” He reached out his free hand and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted you to remember it, wife. In bone-shaking detail.”
She stood a long, frozen moment, caught between the desire to lean into his touch and the need to shrug it off. James MacKenzie made her want those things they had been verbally dancing around, things she had never stopped to think about during her first marriage.
But such thoughts were treasonous, no matter how his unexpected display of tenderness made her knees wobble. Her first husband had not been above the occasional pretty phrase, or the blatant lie. She had not known his true nature either, not until she married him and discovered his penchant to spend her dowry on things like jewelry for his luxury-minded mistresses.
Unlike her cousin Randolph, the man gazing down at her now had not once hinted that he wished to marry her because of the money she had received through her wedding settlement. He had no knowledge of such circumstances, had appeared shocked to his toes by her earlier suggestion to pay him two hundred pounds to be done with it all.
But she must not forget what was at stake here. Her future, her financial independence, the rest of her life were in the hands of a man she barely knew, and would remain so unless she fixed this now.
Enjoying James MacKenzie’s caress was an extravagance she could ill afford.
She pulled away from his lingering fingers. “So can it be annulled?” she asked. “According to English law?”
His hand fell away. “The annulment of a marriage under English law is exceedingly difficult. Lack of consummation itself is not usually adequate grounds. You would have to prove I was impotent.”
Georgette raised a brow. “Are you?” No man of her admittedly limited experience would have willingly spent the night with a naked woman and emerged saying he hadn’t touched her.
He snorted. “Certainly not.” His gaze turned hot and suggestive. “And I would be more than happy to
prove it to you.”
She felt a blush creep onto her face. “Well, that cannot be the only way to an annulment. If it is, there are a horde of impotent men striding about Britain.”
That brought a chuckle out of him, and her body warmed to the sound. “One can file for an annulment on the basis of fraud as well,” he admitted. “But we both signed our legal names on the register, and I don’t believe either of us promised the other anything that we are incapable of delivering.” He paused. “You can claim one spouse or the other is incompetent. You don’t strike me as the hysterical sort, so I don’t think it’s a viable option.”
“Why, thank you,” she huffed. “Although we were both apparently quite drunk . . .”
“Intoxication is not the same as mental incompetence.” His hand shuffled on the reins. “One of us would have to be locked away in order to prove that claim.”
Georgette pondered the few options he had presented. There had to be a way. “Elsie said you were an excellent lawyer. Can’t you do something?”
“There are people who are not above lying to meet the qualifications for an annulment.” His lips hardened, and the tone of his voice matched. “But you should not count me among that crowd.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I would never expect you to compromise your principles on this matter. I just want to know what we can do within the bounds of legal authority.”
His shoulders loosened, ever so slightly. “We might be able to argue the union was never legal under Scots law. That would require a presentation of facts before Edinburgh Commissary Court, but I am afraid the evidence may not be in our favor. Proving we did not consummate the marriage may be difficult, given your lack of memory and no proof of your virginity.” He paused. “There’s no chance of that, is there?”
Her face lit with embarrassment. She shook her head mutely. She had been married to a dissolute peer who demanded his marital rights on a regular, if unfortunate, basis. She certainly could not claim she was untouched.
His eyes seemed an open, desperate question. “Would being married to me really be such a bad thing?”
“I—” She stopped, not knowing how to answer. Her fear of losing control of her life inched higher, and sneered down at her inexplicable attraction for this man. “I don’t want to be married at all,” she told him. “Whether or not it is to you is not the point.”
He stepped closer. “You said something about that last night. That you did not like marriage.”
Georgette could not remember what she had told him, but there was no denying his words parroted her own thoughts. “I did not find marriage to be a pleasurable institution,” she told him primly. “My first husband was . . . a disappointment.”
“You did not seem to mind my kiss.”
She swallowed, and her chin inched up a notch. “You pointed out I was not in my right head last night.”
“I was talking about the kiss this afternoon.” His eyes lowered to her mouth. Heat flamed through her, the same heat that had exploded when he had kissed her so expertly but an hour ago. Her lips tingled, as if they had been trained to want his touch.
She licked them uncertainly. “We do not need to be married to kiss.” Her heart pumped far too loudly in her ears.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he told her, his mouth slanting down toward hers. “Because I want nothing more than to kiss you again.”
Chapter 21
“NO.”
James stopped cold, even before she put a hand between them, her fingers pressing into his chest in warning. The word that fell from her lips, deceptively soft, was the nearest thing to a knife for severing his body’s enthusiastic charge.
“We shall not repeat that mistake,” she told him, the flicker of her eyes belying her composure. “It is not wise to keep . . . exploring such paths when I have no intention of finishing the route.”
James jerked back. He had been halfway to her mouth, despite the fact there were probably half a dozen of Moraig’s curious citizens within a stone’s throw of seeing them. He noticed she did not say she lacked the ability to explore the road he had been about to take them down. She was reminding him this was her choice, and it did not matter if he was inclined to see where this might lead.
He could not fault her thinking. If they were seen kissing on a public street, they would have even fewer options to extricate themselves. And if she let him have a kiss, he was going to want more, given the way his body announced its own intentions every time he stepped near her.
James could not even justify his own wants here. A marriage like this, to someone he barely knew, would do little to build a case for his father’s approval. Worse, he was scraping and saving every penny, trying to finance his future. He couldn’t afford a wife, especially not one whose fine clothes and manners suggested her tastes ran toward expensive trinkets. She was doing him a favor, really, by rejecting him.
Curious how his arguments sounded the weakest sort of defense, even to his practiced ears.
He stepped back a half foot, renewing his grip on Caesar’s reins. “You might consider drawing me a map, Georgette.” His chest felt thick with regret. “I get bloody lost every time I look at you.”
She did not answer. Instead, her head jerked somewhere to the right, and after a moment’s confusion, he saw what had claimed her attention. Through the sounds of Bealltainn celebrations up and down Main Street, he sensed someone was bearing down on them. Caesar sawed on the bit and danced at the person’s approach, and James placed a calming hand on the horse’s neck.
He did not recognize the man who emerged from the smoke of the town’s bonfire, which had just been lit to much clapping and whistles. It was not William, or David Cameron, or any other number of Moraig’s townsfolk who might object to their proximity to each other.
And so, James did not step away from her. If anything, he stepped closer.
The man stalked toward them, his face an angry mask. As he drew closer, James could see he was young, probably in his twenties, with hair of a similar color to Georgette’s. With his striped waistcoat and polished boots, he appeared to be a gentleman, although the image was somewhat farcical given that the glasses on his nose were twisted at an off angle and a blood-soaked bandage was tied around one hand.
Georgette’s hand touched her throat once, hovering over the little space where sound was formed. “I . . .” She breathed in deeply, as if for courage. “James, this is Mr. Burton.” Her voice sounded very small.
“Her cousin,” the man spat out. “I have been looking for her everywhere, and then when I do finally find her, it is in clearly questionable company.” Burton took a menacing step closer, and James could see the resemblance now. Beyond the fact they both had pale yellow hair, their eyes were the same unsettling shade of gray.
James shifted uneasily. She had not mentioned having family close by. A warning began to rattle about in his head.
“I am disappointed in you, Georgette,” Burton went on, his words a caustic blur. “You are well and truly ruined now, when if you had simply done as I instructed we could have cleaned this up quietly.”
James honed in on the man’s spoken words. The man was no gentleman, not to speak to her in such a way. This was a discussion meant for private ears, not a spittle-drenched accusation on a crowded street. He wanted to smash his fist into Burton’s thin nose. And moreover, he wanted to nudge Georgette, to see what she had done with the woman who had rejected him so unswervingly just moments before. Why was she standing there, dumb and mute, that wicked tongue so silent? It was not lost on him that he once had spoken that way to her himself, when he thought she had been a thief. She had shown far more spirit then. But she had known she was not a thief.
Did she truly believe she was ruined, or that she deserved this fop’s scorn?
She had claimed a man was threatening her, and here one was, in the flesh. The pieces
of evidence began rubbing up against each other, blending into an irrefutable pattern. Was this the man who had tried to force her to marry him? The thought crawled down his throat and sat inside him, threatening to explode.
“You did not let the lady finish.” James’s muscles were already coiling up, ready for use. “My name is James MacKenzie. Her husband.”
Burton’s attention shifted to him then. “One picks up a lot of information, following people about and keeping to the shadows. Seems to me the lady still thinks that is a matter of debate.”
The suggestion that the man had been following—nay, stalking—them sent James’s blood boiling. “That is a private matter.”
“Private?” Burton shook his head. “I think not. This is nothing that simple. She had an agreement with me, sir, made before she met you. A betrothal. You do not have a claim here.”
“The lady is mine,” James replied firmly. Georgette’s stated intentions rattled about in his head, but he ignored them for the moment. This man was a more immediate threat than her desire to end the marriage, and he would not leave Georgette to deal with this man alone. “We are married,” he growled to Burton. “Doubt it at your own peril.”
“James,” Georgette hissed at him. “It may not be for long.”
Now, now she found her voice? No doubt she intended to remind him he did not need to fight on her behalf. James focused on the fact that he needed to disarm this threat permanently, before he no longer had a right to help her.
“So, you see how she changes her mind,” Burton sneered. “She cannot be trusted.” He waved his bandaged hand around like a weapon. “She left a vicious dog to attack me in my own house. There’s no telling what she’ll do to you. Why, look at the bloody gash on your head. I hear she’s already tried to kill you once.”
Memory prodded at James, fully intact and demanding attention. Someone had tried to kill him today, and not just with a chamber pot. He hesitated, turning over the events of the afternoon in his mind. Did he trust her fully? She had proven she wasn’t a thief, and Caesar was safely in hand. But who was to say she wasn’t plotting something more nefarious, possibly in conjunction with the man in front of them?
What Happens in Scotland Page 19