The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  “Drop it,” Max repeated, shaking the other’s wrist.

  “Aye,” Niall said quietly. “Aye. All right. I give up.”

  Relief brought Kirsty to her knees and she knelt, hearing the squelch of mud, feeling it seep through her skirts, but caring for nothing but that the horror would be over. She murmured, “Thank God ye see reason.”

  Max got to his feet and offered Niall a hand. He refused it and stood up alone—and rushed Max, the knife held high and poised to strike.

  They struggled, each grappling to gain a hold on the other. Once more Max took Niall’s wrist in his strong hand and shook, and shook, trying to knock the knife loose.

  Desolate, Kirsty hunched over, not caring that she was drenched and covered with slimy earth.

  Max’s cry brought her head up. He was wounded, but she didn’t know where, or how badly until he forced Niall closer to her and she saw a gash that had opened his jaw. Blood poured from the wound.

  “Die!” Niall shrieked. “How many times do I have to cut ye t’kill ye?”

  “Like you cut me in my rooms at the castle, you mean.” Max’s words came in gasps.

  “I should have waited for ye to sleep. I’d have had ye then.”

  Locked in mortal combat, they swung around, and Kirsty saw the moment when Max tore the knife from her brother’s hand. “What were you searching for in my rooms?” Max asked.

  “Nothin’,” Niall said. “I didna touch ye’re rooms. Ye’ve nothin’ I’d want except what ye’ve no right to—my sister. I saw the other one, the one who threw the books down.”

  Max’s blood soaked the front of his linen. He’d soon grow weak.

  “Please, Niall, if ye love me, let him go,” Kirsty pleaded.

  “So that he can stab me.”

  “He’d no’ do that.” Not as Niall had done.

  But Niall didn’t let go. Instead he continued to fight, until the inevitable occurred and Max’s superior strength won out. Niall stumbled, and Max cut him. It was a deliberate cut to the arm, not meant to kill, but to wound and incapacitate.

  Instantly Niall clamped the opposite hand over the torn flesh and bowed his head. For moments he just stood there, bleeding through his fingers.

  “It’s over,” Kirsty said, desperately casting about for how she should get them back and cared for. “I’ll dress your wounds.” She hauled up her skirts and began to strip lengths from her petticoats.

  Max’s next yell was the most desperate he’d made and her head jerked up to see him flying backward, arms and legs outstretched, directly under the hooves of his horse. Niall was bent over, his shoulder lowered as he must have used it to thrust Max at the Thoroughbred.

  Kirsty ran at the horse. If she could grab its reins and drag it away, Max would be safe. Even as she ran, she knew she would never be in time.

  Max hit the ground and the beast skittered sideways, dancing nervously. One powerful leg rose and in that second she saw the hoof aimed at Max’s head.

  She closed her eyes and covered her face.

  “Away wi’ ye,” she heard Niall cry. “Dinna interfere where it’s no’ your affair.”

  Kirsty dared to look and was in time to see another horse and rider that had arrived unnoticed amid the noise and flurry. The man had caught the reins of Max’s horse in time to drag it away, in time to make that deadly hoof barely miss Max’s skull.

  Niall made another rush at Max, but this time he didn’t go far. The stranger leaned down to catch his collar and knock him off-balance. Pulled backward by the newly arrived and powerful horse, Niall staggered and almost fell before he was thrown against the mare.

  “On with you,” a very cultured voice said. “Mount her now and make your way from here as fast as you can. If you want to be alive in the morning.”

  “I’ll no’ leave my sister,” Niall said, but the fight was gone from his voice.

  “I will not tell you a second time,” the newcomer said. “Your sister shall come to no harm. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  Niall opened his mouth to protest, but caught sight of Max’s slitted eyes as he advanced down on him, and pulled himself onto the mare’s back instead. Momentarily confused, he turned in all directions before heading off, not north, but south and toward home.

  Shaking, beyond attempting to control her limbs, Kirsty collapsed on the ground and bowed her head.

  “You’d best tend to your lady,” the stranger said. “And yourself. I’ll bid you good night.”

  “Don’t go,” Max said. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “I must leave you now.”

  “Who are you?” Max cried. “Tell me your name and where you live, so that I may come and thank you formally for your aid.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was everything. Had you not arrived, I might be dead beneath my horse’s hooves by now.”

  “Get yourself and your lady home,” was the reply. “I only did what had to be done.” With that he wheeled his mount and urged him into a gallop. He made a generally northward progress but was soon enveloped in rain and mist and no longer visible.

  Kirsty hadn’t the strength to care for Max’s wound as she knew she should.

  “Darling girl,” he murmured, crouching beside her. “My coat isn’t dry, but it will shield you from the wind.” He took off his coat and wrapped it around her.

  “Ye’ve lost a deal o’ blood,” she told him. “We must get ye t’help. Your father would want t’look over your care, so it’s t’the lodge we’ll go.”

  He laughed, but without his usual abandon. “Always in charge, even when you can scarcely move. Oh, my love, my love, I think I could happily lie here with you in my arms and wait for someone to find us. I’m so tired.”

  “And what if we’re dead when they find us?”

  He pushed back the heavy wet strands of hair that streaked her face and kissed her brow. “At least we’d be together,” he murmured.

  “Och, ye’ve been readin’ Mr. Shakespeare again.”

  He drew back to study her face. “You amaze me, amaze me wonderfully. We are at a pretty pass yet you do not break.”

  “I’m broken, Max, but it’s where ye canna see.”

  A great blast of wind tore at them. Lightning tore through the heavens. “You don’t have to be broken anymore,” Max told her, “unless you don’t think you could stand a man who will doubtless have an ugly scar forever.”

  “Lady Avenall’s husband has terrible scars from fightin’ in those foreign wars. She loves him. Maybe more than if he wasna scarred at all. A woman in love doesna care about such things.”

  “And you’re a woman in love?” he said softly.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes, I’m a woman verra much in love. I always will be. Ye took my heart when ye were a gangly, redheaded laddie, and ye never gave it back t’me.”

  He gathered her in his arms. “Well, I’d never have confessed as much then, but it was at just about that time that I decided you weren’t as silly as other females. I saw from the start that you had promise.”

  She said, “Hah. Well, that’s good o’ ye. I want t’get that face tended before all your blood seeps away into the mud.”

  “It’s slowing down already. Concentrate on this important conversation we’re having.”

  Oh, she was concentrating. Bittersweet words she would never forget.

  “You’re a woman in love,” Max said softly, and kissed her lips with lingering passion. “And I’m a man in love. I love you more than my life, Kirsty Mercer.”

  “Do ye?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have followed you and Niall, knowing he blames me for destroying the family he so loves. He blames and hates me. It won’t be easy to overcome that, but we’ll manage.”

  She was cold and the cold struck inward. “Ye need your coat yoursel’.” When she made to take it off, he stopped her.

  “You do want to spend your life with me, don’t you, Kirsty? I’m not being presumptuous to think that?”r />
  “You’re no’ bein’ presumptuous.”

  “It would make you happy to be my wife and to have my children?”

  Her heart seemed to stop. “Please don’t. I canna bear it.”

  “It would make you happy?” he pressed.

  “Happier than I know how t’say.”

  “I want to see you holding our babies. I’ve never particularly cared about such things, but I do now.”

  “It comes to all men of position. Ye all need your heirs.”

  “No . . .” He broke off and raised her chin. His mouth descended on hers. He held the collar of his coat close around her neck and kissed her deeply. When he broke the contact, he barely parted his lips from hers and whispered, “Be mine, Kirsty. Forever. Say you’ll be my wife.”

  The cold in her body intensified. Her hands and feet had lost all feeling—not so her heart, or her head.

  “Is it a question that requires you to think long and hard?” He sounded playful. “I’d hoped for a speedy answer.”

  She looked into his eyes, into their glittering depths. He was all she could ever hope for, all she could ever want. She would never want another.

  “Kirsty, I’m on my knees.” He held both of her hands. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Finally the thunder rolled in the distance, grumbled among the clouds until it clapped hard and angry.

  “Kirsty?”

  “Max—” She smiled at him. “Thank ye. I’m honored, but, no. No, I can never be your wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The marquess poked his head into the breakfast room and said, “How are we this morning?”

  “I’m much better than I was yesterday morning, thank ye, my lord,” Kirsty said. “I’m rested now.” Not true, but she mustn’t show how exhausted and troubled she was. After she’d refused Max’s offer of marriage in the early hours of the previous morning, they’d returned to the castle and parted in silence. She hadn’t seen him again since then.

  The marquess came into the room and poured himself coffee. This he brought to the table. Then he returned to the sideboard and lifted several covers to examine the contents of the dishes. “Kippers,” he said, and placed two on a plate. “Never could resist a good kipper.” To the fish was added eggs Kirsty knew to be cold. She also knew the marquess had already breakfasted. Wilkie had been clearing his master’s dishes when Kirsty arrived.

  Arran joined her at the table, smiling more than she’d ever seen him smile. Each time she glanced at him he smiled. “You were somewhat the worse for wear yesterday?” he said finally. The kippers and cold eggs began to disappear as if they were delicious.

  “I’d had a difficult night,” she said, referring to the ball and all that followed. “I’m grateful to bear no lasting ill from being so cold and wet.”

  “Too bad young Max bears a lasting ill—from whatever.”

  She raised her eyes to his.

  The marquess looked away.

  “Sad,” he said, “very sad.”

  Kirsty waited.

  “I expect my brother has spoken to you about it all.”

  “I’ve no’ seen the viscount. What’s wrong wi’ Max—wi’ Mr. Rossmara? Did he take a chill? Is there some new problem with the wound?”

  The marquess sighed. “No, no. The wound will heal well enough. It’ll probably make him an even more handsome devil in the eyes of some females. And he shows no sign of a chill. Strong as they come, Max. No, but he’s pining. He hasn’t had a word to say to a soul since the night of the ball and that mysterious—whatever—that happened to the two of you.”

  “Not a word?” Kirsty asked, frowning.

  “Not one.”

  “Even when he’s spoken to?”

  “Especially then. He gets violent if anyone tries to converse with him.”

  She knitted her brows. When he’d returned her to the castle, he’d turned about at once and left without a word, but he’d gone in the direction of the lodge where his parents made their home.

  “He shouldn’t drink.”

  Kirsty looked sharply at the marquess. “Drink?”

  “Drink.”

  “Strong liquor?”

  “The strongest.”

  She struggled with the desire to say what she thought of men who turned to strong liquor in moments of frustration because they couldn’t have their own way. “He’ll come t’bless me for it,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?” the Marquess of Stonehaven asked loudly.

  She regarded him squarely. “I said he’ll come t’bless me for it.” Best be direct. Her parents had taught her that.

  “Bless you for refusing to be his wife, you mean?”

  Kirsty’s mouth fell open. The only way he could have known such a thing was because he’d heard it from Max’s own lips.

  “There you are, Struan.” The marquess greeted his brother with cheer so great that Kirsty guessed he was not pleased with his own efforts at nonchalant questioning. “Kirsty and I were just talking about that son of yours and how poorly he’s doing. Won’t get out of his bed. Refuses to eat. Won’t even speak now. And he got so drunk yesterday, he all but died from the sickness he caused.”

  “Is that what you were talking about?” Struan said, pouring coffee and piling a plate with a mountain of toast. “I hope you haven’t said anything to worry her. After all, I suppose it’s not her concern whether he lives or dies.”

  Kirsty didn’t know whether to be afraid—or furious. “Is there word of my brother, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Struan said, appearing puzzled. “Your parents sent word. I almost forgot.”

  “You did forget,” Arran pointed out mildly.

  “All right, I did forget. I’m sorry. I’ve a good deal on my mind. Max downing enough brandy for an army and getting delirious. Only name on his lips was yours, Kirsty.”

  “You did forget about her brother,” the marquess said. “You know. Word from her parents.”

  “What?” The viscount blinked, then nodded. “Niall’s well. That was the message, not that I knew he’d been ill— not like Max. I thought he’d poison himself with the drink. It can be an illness you know. The drinking.”

  “I do know,” Kirsty said, not amused. “He promised me he had no reason to drink and that he wouldn’t anymore.”

  The pile of toast before the viscount diminished steadily. He said, “I imagine that was before you turned him down.” Kirsty had been told that both of these men had already breakfasted—together.

  “Is Mr. Rossmara drunk now?”

  “Oh, no!” Struan shook his head emphatically. “Not a bit of it. And if he thought he had something to live for, I doubt he’d touch another drop. He told me he believes it’s like poison to him and that he doesn’t think of the stuff unless he’s desperate and convinced his life is over.”

  “Did he ask ye t’tell me this?”

  “No!” the marquess and the viscount exclaimed together.

  Showing no sign of embarrassment, Struan said, “He’d never forgive us for coming to you. You won’t tell him we did, though. I know we can trust you on that. But I also know it would be a great boon to him if you could find it in your heart to go to the lodge and tell him you care for him— even the smallest amount.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and sat very straight. “I love him more than my own life. I freely admit that to ye. But I’ll no’ be tellin’ it to Mr. Rossmara. We’ve t’put any such feelings behind us.”

  Struan frowned and seemed uncomfortable. “Please go and have a few words with him. Congratulate him on the birth of his sister and brother-in-law’s second son, perhaps. They’ve a daughter and two sons now, y’know.”

  She hadn’t known Ella had been delivered of her latest child. “I’m verra glad for them, and I look forward t’seein’ the new bairn.” The twist deep inside her was something she must ignore. Wanting to bear Max’s children was a futile longing that could never be fulfilled. “No doubt Mr. Rossm
ara’s pleased, too.”

  “No doubt,” said Arran, “not that he’s said a word one way or the other, and you know how much he adores Ella.”

  “She’s coming home as soon as she’s strong enough,” Struan told Kirsty. “Ella doesn’t believe in long lying-in periods, you know. Says she’s too strong and too anxious to be about her business for that.” His smile was smug, but quickly disappeared. “Please go to Max.”

  “How can ye beg me t’do it?” she said. “Y’know as well as I do that there’s no’ a future for us.”

  “You are so rational,” Arran said. “Perhaps too rational. You understand exactly what our problems are, but for now we must put Max’s welfare first. He needs to see you. By the by, I don’t know how I should manage without you as long as Max decides to hide himself away. I understand you were even at your desk yesterday afternoon.”

  “There’s work t’be done,” she told him, but she was distracted. “That doesn’t stop for anyone’s personal dilemmas. Mr. Rossmara should no’ be so selfish that he neglects his duties, either. What exactly are your problems, my lord? The ones I understand?”

  “Why,” Struan said, grimacing over his cold coffee, “you’ve just explained them very well, really. Although we understand how it is to be in love, there are times when one must put duty first.”

  Kirsty wasn’t sure what he meant, or what he was asking of her.

  “We want you to go to him,” Arran said. “Go to him and tell him you won’t leave. He seems to think you will go away.”

  “I won’t.” She never could.

  “Exactly what Struan and I have told him. But he needs to hear it from you, just as he needs to hear from you the reason you turned down his proposal.”

  She felt her cheeks turn red.

  The viscount leaned toward her. “Why did you turn him down, Kirsty?”

  With a heavy heart she said, “Because I fear that in the end I’d no’ be the wife he needs. I couldna bear it if he came t’hate me one day.”

  Struan’s gaze became piercing and the lines around his mouth deepened. “Hate you?” he said. “He’d never hate you. But I don’t know the answer to our dilemma, do you?”

  Kirsty had no idea how she was expected to answer such a question.