Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  The second time she awoke she felt different. The room had steadied. It no longer tipped and spun about her like a carousel. She opened her eyes and saw the same lantern on the wall above her head, scattering shadows across the room. There was nobody there and she felt a huge rush of relief.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Immediately her head swam and she felt nauseated; touching the back of her head, she felt a lump almost the size of a small egg. It was extremely painful. Her limbs ached too, protesting the bruises and bumps. Simultaneously she realized that she was in her nightgown and that it was more than a little tattered and stained now. Her feet were bare. Memory came rushing in. She recalled the room at the castle and the clutch of fear she had felt on realizing there had been someone there in the dark. She remembered the futility of her struggle against her kidnappers, the cruel blow to the head, then the endless darkness, sometimes rent with a brief flash of light that brought with it terror and sickness.

  No one had molested her, though. She knew that at once and felt so relieved she almost cried. Then she felt so angry she wanted to break something, wave upon wave of fury that beat at her and left her shaking. She sat down on the edge of the bed until it had passed and her body calmed its shivering and she was able to think again.

  She looked about her. The chamber was small with the one candle in a lantern on the wall showing battered wooden furniture, the bed she had been lying on, all tumbled sheets and sagging mattress, an old chest with a chipped china bowl on top and a matching ewer with faded roses painted on it. She padded across the floor to it and tipped some water into the dish. It was warm and smelled a little stale, but it was good enough to wash her face, washing away the cobwebs in her mind at the same time. After that she crossed to the window and drew back the broken shutters. There was twilight outside, the soft blue haze of a Scottish summer night that never turned completely dark. She guessed it must be late, ten o’clock, eleven? Yet that made no sense because the men who had taken her had come for her in the middle of the night. A suspicion, a fear, tickled its way down her spine.

  This could not be the same night.

  She leaned out into the night. She could see the whitewashed walls of the inn glowing pale in the moonlight, a clear sky with pale stars and the inn sign swinging in a strong breeze. The courtyard below was empty. Leaving the window, she tiptoed across to the door, wincing when the old bare boards creaked under her feet. She did not want to alert anyone to the fact that she was awake.

  She turned the knob. The door remained obstinately stuck. She was not surprised, but her heart gave a giddy little swoop down to her toes. She had been hoping it would be open, hoping she could run off in no more than her nightclothes to beg for help. It was probably foolish to plunge from one danger into the next, but she was desperate. She was not going to stay here at the mercy of whoever had taken her.

  There was the rattle of a key in the lock, and Lucy shot back across the room just as the door opened and Robert Methven came in. She felt a clutch of shock so strong her knees gave way and she sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re awake,” Methven said. “How are you feeling?”

  “You?” Lucy said. Disappointment slammed into her so sharp it stole her breath.

  Robert Methven had kidnapped her.

  Robert Methven had hit her over the head and carried her off.

  She had refused his proposal of marriage; she had refused to be compromised by him, so he had taken what she had denied him. He had hurt her and frightened her and stolen her away.

  It was the casual cruelty of that blow to the head that infuriated her the most.

  “You!” she said again. Anger and disillusionment flooded her. Her rage flared. She flung herself at him, beating her fists against his chest.

  “You abducted me! You low, scheming, underhand, conniving—” She drew a breath. The anger was in her blood and for a brief moment it felt glorious, wiping out the pain in her head and the ache in her heart that he was not the man she had thought him.

  “Devious, sly, calculating—” She pummeled him again with her small fists.

  “Clearly there are benefits to being a bluestocking,” Methven said. “You are not short of a descriptive word.” He caught her arms in a negligent grip and held her. His touch was gentle and that made her angrier still, that he could be so tender now when he had been so violent before.

  “I thought better of you!” she finished bitterly.

  “Thank you,” Methven said. “I am honored by your good opinion.”

  Lucy fought a battle against a treacherous urge to cry. It was the sickness and the blow to the head, she told herself. It was not because she had been so disappointed in him. He meant nothing to her. His betrayal meant nothing. Inside her the fury still boiled, but she knew that physical violence was pointless against a man as strong as Methven. She would need wit and guile to escape him—or a pistol if she could find one.

  Her head ached suddenly with a vicious spike of pain and she swayed. Methven steadied her and suddenly she could not bear his gentleness. “Don’t touch me!” She wrenched herself from his grip. “You hit me—”

  There was too much anguish in her tone. She could hear it. She did not want him to know she cared.

  “You’re mistaken.” His voice was rough now. “I’d never hurt you.”

  Their eyes met and Lucy’s heart felt as though it turned over in her chest. There was such a wealth of protective fury in his eyes. She could feel it in every tense line of his body, wound tight. Then he turned away. “It was your cousin Wilfred who had you kidnapped,” he said, over his shoulder. “He hired men to carry you off.”

  He offered no proof, made no further attempt to persuade her he told the truth. It was as though in that moment when they eyes had met Lucy had known he did not lie.

  “Wilfred?” she said. “Why would he do that?” She felt astounded. It was true that Wilfred had paid her extravagant attention that night at Brodrie Castle, but he had scarcely been serious in his addresses to her. Unless he truly was so deep in hock to the moneylenders and all the rumors that he needed to marry a fortune were true.

  “I imagine he planned to force you to wed him,” Methven said. “Or possibly to prevent me from marrying you so that he could claim my lands. He knows I have to wed one of his kinswomen, and if he got wind that I had chosen you...” He let the sentence hang.

  Lucy raised a hand to the bump on the back of her head. “They knocked me out,” she said.

  “Aye.” That rough tone was back in his voice again. “That was why you were unconscious for so long.”

  “I was sick.” Lucy was remembering the bowl and the cool press of the cloth against her forehead. Had it been Robert Methven who had sat with her while she was so ill? She looked at him, but his face was impassive.

  “I’m sorry for that,” he said. “They were rough with you, but they said they had not hurt you. They had been well paid not to.”

  “Oh.” The heat flamed into her face. She knew what he meant: the hurts she might have taken. “You...asked them?”

  “At the point of my sword.” There was grim humor in his voice. “I’m glad it’s true. They would probably have sworn red was blue to escape me.”

  Lucy could imagine, imagine his anger and the men’s fear. It made her shiver.

  “What of Wilfred himself?” she asked. “Where is he now?” She felt cold that her cousin could treat her with such cruelty. They had never cared much for each other, but this was outrageous, shameful. She sat down on the bed again and drew the lumpy eiderdown around her, seeking comfort from its folds.

  “I have no idea where he is,” Methven said. He sounded indifferent, but Lucy caught the hot thread of anger buried deep beneath his words. She was almost afraid for Wilfred now. “I caught up with them here,” he said. “Cardross was taking you to his castle at Cairn Rock, along the coast. I sped him on his way there, on foot, naked, in the rain.” He shrugged. “Lucky fo
r him the rain has stopped now, though he may already have caught his death.”

  Lucy’s gaze snapped up to his. “You took his clothes?”

  “He was lucky I didn’t send him to the bottom of the loch,” Methven said. “If he had touched you I would have killed him.”

  Lucy stared at him for a long time. “You mean that,” she said, frowning a little.

  “I do.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “He was waiting here for you, all lordly, pleased with himself and his plans, not a little drunk, which made him all the more full of his own importance...” His shoulders moved as though shaking off a distasteful memory. “He’s a grotesque apology for a man, to try to use a woman against me.”

  “Thank you for coming after me,” Lucy said. “I was less than grateful earlier. I apologize.”

  A faint smile lightened the grimness in Methven’s eyes. He looked across at her. “I’ll always come for you,” he said. His tone was fierce. “I’ll always protect you.”

  It was a promise. It sounded as though he was claiming her. Silence fell between them, sharp with awareness.

  Lucy broke it, wrenching her gaze away, looking around, taking in the slovenly room, the sagging mattress.

  “Where is this place?” she said.

  “An inn near Thurso.” Methven looked around too and gave a grimace of distaste. “I apologize. It’s a little Spartan in its comforts for the daughter of a duke, but if you are hungry they might be able to rustle up some bread and cheese.”

  Lucy shook her head. She was not hungry. What she really wanted was a bath, but she doubted the inn ran to such a luxury, especially not in the middle of the night.

  “It will do until tomorrow,” she said. “When you take me back to Durness.”

  He did not answer her. She looked up and saw the quizzical expression in his eyes as he watched her, and suddenly her stomach dropped and she felt as though she could not breathe. She understood his earlier words then. He was claiming her.

  “You are not taking me back to Durness,” she said slowly. She felt chilled all of a sudden.

  “There would be no point.” Methven sounded blunt, unsentimental, making her face the truth. “It’s too late. It was already too late when I found you. You have been missing for a day and a night, Lady Lucy. If I take you back unwed you will be ruined.” He smiled. “You really will this time.”

  Silence again, broken only by the sigh of the wind against the shutters and the hiss of the logs as they settled deeper in the grate. Lucy swallowed hard. She could hear her blood beating loud in her ears.

  Marriage. Or ruin.

  Her perfect reputation, her perfect life was in tatters. This time there really was no escape.

  She looked at Robert Methven.

  “So as I am already ruined you are taking me for yourself,” she said. She was starting to feel afraid. She could feel the chill of it seeping through her blood. This was impossible. There had to be a way out.

  He shrugged. “If you wish to put it like that. If you were feeling particularly grateful to me, you could say I am saving your reputation.”

  “Grateful!” Fear and disbelief blocked Lucy’s throat. “I refused to be compromised by you! You cannot simply take what is denied you—” She broke off because of course he could take what was denied him. She was here, in his power. She did not believe he was a man to take by force, but suddenly she was sure of nothing, alone here with him, frightened, in pain.

  She felt the sagging mattress sag farther as he sat down on the end of the bed. He did not answer her immediately, and in some way his quietness was more frightening than the implications of his actions. It meant that he had already thought through everything that needed to be considered. He had decided what he was going to do. He was determined and she would never be able to change his mind.

  “Lady Lucy,” he said, “I am offering you the protection of my name. It is all I can do to help you now.”

  “How fortunate for you that this is precisely the outcome you wished,” Lucy said coldly. She looked around the shabby chamber. “If it comes to that, how do I know that the story you told me about my cousin is true? Maybe you were my abductor all along!”

  Methven’s expression hardened into stone, colder, more remote than the rock of the mountain. “You may believe that if you wish,” he said. “All I can say is that I told you the truth and I would be honored if you would accept my offer of marriage this time.”

  “And if I refuse?” Lucy said. “Or shall we drop the pretense and agree that I have no choice?”

  “There is always a choice,” Methven said.

  “Not if I wish to keep my reputation,” Lucy said.

  He smiled. “That is the choice.”

  Lucy rubbed her forehead where there was a vicious ache.

  Marriage. Or ruin. The words echoed in her head. She knew how it would be if she did not wed. Her name would become a byword for scandal, the abducted heiress who returned home with a tarnished reputation. No longer would she be the perfect debutante, the perfect anything. She would be damaged, dishonored, spoken of in scandalized whispers. Her father would be mortified, the whole family disgraced.

  Accepting Robert Methven’s proposal was the only way to save herself. Yet Methven would want a marriage in every sense. He would want an heir. Darkness raked through her heart. She could not marry him. She could not give him an heir. The thought terrified her. She saw Alice’s tearstained, terrified face and felt the cold clutch of her fingers. So much blood, so much pain... She gulped back the sob that caught in her throat.

  Intolerable choices.

  Her head ached suddenly, viciously, and she closed her eyes.

  “You need to rest.” Methven’s voice was soft. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “I won’t do it,” Lucy said. She could feel panic clogging her chest. “I won’t marry you. I can’t.”

  He was watching her steadily, and the gentleness in his eyes made her want to cry.

  “Don’t think about it now,” he said. “You’ve been through an ordeal. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  She would not feel better. Nothing could fix this, not this time. She turned her face away and squeezed her eyes tight shut against the burn of the tears. She was not going to show any weakness now.

  “I need you to give me your word that you won’t try and run away,” Methven said.

  Lucy opened her eyes and glared at him. “It would give me the greatest pleasure to run away.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “In that case,” he said, “I am going to have to restrain you for your own safety.”

  Lucy shot bolt upright with outrage. “Restrain me? Don’t be absurd!”

  He smiled, implacable. “Then give me your word.”

  It would have been by far the most sensible thing to do, but Lucy was sick and tired of being told what to do. It felt like a small rebellion to thwart him, no matter how childish she secretly knew it to be. Besides, she was certain he would not go through with it.

  She turned a shoulder. “I don’t promise anything,” she said sulkily.

  He shrugged, as though her attempt at mutiny was of no consequence. “Then I must tie you up. I did warn you.”

  “You won’t,” Lucy said. “You can’t.”

  “I can,” Methven said, over his shoulder. He had gone across to the dresser and was rifling through the contents of the top drawer. Lucy could see that it was full of gaudy clothes: skirts, blouses, barmaid’s attire perhaps. He was removing something that looked like garish silk scarves.

  He meant it.

  For a second the shock held her still, and then she darted across the room toward the unlocked door. He was too quick for her. He caught her just as she was reaching for the handle, his hand closing about her wrist. “Please do not make a fuss, Lady Lucy,” he said, in her ear. “I have no intention of hurting you.”

  It was the warmth of his body and the sudden intimacy of his touch that held her motionless. He scooped her up and droppe
d her back on the bed. Lucy was thrown off balance for one crucial second, and in that moment he rested one knee on the bed and leaned in to loop the silk tie around the bedpost, twining it expertly about her wrist. Lucy pulled on it and only succeeded in tightening it to a tourniquet.

  “Release me,” she said, through shut teeth. She could not believe that he was doing this. This was a different side to Robert Methven she was seeing, a man stripped of formality, a man, she suddenly realized with a flash of insight, who had been ruthless enough to make his own way in the wilds of Canada when his family had cast him out. She had seen flashes of this resolve in him already. Now it was undisguised.

  He was laughing down at her. “Are you going to beg me?” he asked.

  Lucy glared at him. “I’m a duke’s daughter. I don’t beg.”

  “You’re stubborn.” He was tying her right wrist now. “I like that.”

  “It’s of no consequence to me whether you like it or not,” Lucy said, kicking her legs impotently. “Let me go.”

  “No.” He spoke calmly. “I don’t trust you not to run away. Not only would you put me to the trouble of fetching you back, but you would put yourself in danger.”

  “You are an oaf,” Lucy said. “A complete boor.”

  “You’re very polite in your insults,” Methven said. “Such a lady.” He tilted his head to one side. “And yet not so much of a lady sometimes. You didn’t kiss me like a lady would.” He smiled, that wicked smile that made her shiver. “I liked that too.”

  He stood back to admire his handiwork. Her arms were spread wide now, tied to the bed head, not so rigidly that she could complain of discomfort but not so loosely that she could slip free either. She lay flushed and furious, completely outraged that he had followed through on his threat.

  “So this is your idea of wooing,” Lucy snapped. “I should have guessed after your scoundrelly attempts to compromise me earlier. Do you intend to keep me tied up until I consent to be your wife?”