The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  The moment his mouth found hers again, she knew it was still true. She loved Hugh Courtney—she’d loved him since his lips first touched hers, all those weeks ago. That kiss had been soft, gentle—the sort of hesitant kiss a gentleman shares with a lady he’s never kissed before.

  But Hugh wasn’t kissing her gently now. Tonight, his kiss was angry, and passionate, and exploding with desire and despair. His hands were twisted in her hair, stilling her for the desperate stroke of his tongue across the seam of her lips.

  “Open for me, Isla.” He tore his mouth from hers, and his hands slid from her hair to her face. “Let me…” He cradled her cheeks in his palms, his thumb toying with her lower lip, opening it for his kiss. “I need to taste you.”

  Need. Oh, God, she needed him, too. As much as she wished that weren’t true, and as many reasons as she had to push him away and flee before this went any further, she knew it was already too late. She’d open for him—her mouth, and her heart—because she couldn’t make herself do anything less.

  She parted her lips, and Hugh surged inside with a desperate groan. His mouth was hot and wild, his tongue insistent as it slid against hers. He delved into every corner of her mouth, thrusting and stroking until a trembling began deep in her belly, and she threw her arms around his neck to steady herself.

  He kissed his way across her cheek, then his lips closed on her earlobe. “Is this what you wanted, Isla?” he rasped, his warm breath in her ear. “To drive me mad?”

  For a fleeting moment Isla tried to make sense of his words, but then his mouth was on hers again, devouring her, and she could taste the rich brandy on his tongue…

  “Answer me, damn you.” He skimmed his big hands down her neck and over her rib cage, then lower, until he was gripping her hips. His fingers tightened over her curves, another rough groan tearing from his chest as he backed her up to the table and held her against it with his body. “Are you trying to drive me mad?”

  Drive him mad? Isla’s head was spinning with desire, but she managed to tear her mouth free of his for long enough to grasp at a moment of sanity.

  What he was saying…she couldn’t make sense of it. A man couldn’t be driven mad by a woman he didn’t want, and he’d made it clear he didn’t want her.

  Had he forgotten how it had ended between them?

  Please don’t ever contact me again…

  “I don’t…how could I…even if I wanted…”

  He laughed, but there was an edge of bitterness to it that made her stiffen, and Isla fell silent. She didn’t have the answer he’d demanded. All she had were more questions, all rushing to her lips at once.

  He didn’t give her a chance to ask any of them.

  He lowered his head to nip at her neck. “It wasn’t enough to ride by my house every day, was it? Do you know I waited for you, every single day? I told myself not to watch, that no good could come from seeing you. Every day, I promised myself I wouldn’t do it, and every day, I broke that promise.”

  Why was he saying these things to her? None of it was true. It couldn’t be. She gripped the hair at his neck and tugged his head back, so she could look into his eyes. “You waited for me to ride past Hazelwood?”

  His fingers tightened on her hips, and his breath was tearing through his lungs. “Does it make you happy to know that? To know I couldn’t stay away from you, even after I’d lost all hope? To know I’d wait all day, just for the briefest glimpse of you?”

  Couldn’t stay away…briefest glimpse…

  No, this was all wrong. His words, the anguished look in his eyes—none of it made any sense. Isla braced her hands against his chest and shoved him away from her.

  He released her at once, but he didn’t back away. He stood over her, his chest heaving, staring at her with dark, burning eyes. “You were trying to torture me, weren’t you, Isla? Well, you did a damn admirable job of it.”

  Isla let out a stunned laugh. Torture him? It had been she who’d been tortured. She’d been left with a shattered heart that would never be whole again. “I don’t believe you ever waited for me to ride past Hazelwood. You’re lying. Even if you did happen to see me, it wouldn’t have mattered to you, because—”

  “Because what?” He grasped her shoulders in his hands again. “How could it not matter?”

  The wild look in his eyes startled her, and her voice dropped to an uncertain whisper. “Because you don’t care what I do. Forgive me, but I think you made it quite clear after Lady Entwhistle’s ball that you never wanted to see me again.”

  A low, furious growl rose from his chest. “Yet I see you everywhere, Isla. Even when I don’t want to see you—even when I do everything I can not to see you, you’re there.” He grasped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. “Your eyes haunt my dreams.”

  A cold panic began to creep over Isla. “No. You didn’t want me. You told me you didn’t—”

  “I never told you I didn’t want you, Isla. Never.”

  “You never said it, no, but you made it clear just the same. If you ever did want me, Hugh, it was for a fleeting moment only.” Right up until the night of Lady Entwhistle’s ball, when her reputation had been called into question. Once her name had been in the mouth of every gossip in London, he’d turned his back on her.

  “No, Isla. I never stopped wanting you. I want you even now, damn you.”

  If you wanted me, why did you leave me?

  Isla already knew the answer. He hadn’t wanted her enough to overlook her scandal. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. No, it was worse than that. He hadn’t even wanted her enough to give her a chance to explain what had happened.

  She couldn’t bear to hear him deny it again. “Don’t.”

  She slapped her hands over her ears as a child does, but he grasped her wrists and dragged them back down. “Don’t what? Don’t want you?” His laugh was bitter. “Oh, I’ve tried, Isla. I’ve done everything I can to stop wanting you. I hoped these few days together would prove we’d never suit—that we’d only make each other miserable—but every moment I spend with you only makes me want you more.”

  Isla had been squirming to free herself from his grip, but she went still at his words, her arms falling limply at her sides. “You thought playing a game of chess with me would make you hate me?”

  “Hate you? Damn it, sometimes I wish I could hate you, but I can’t.” Hugh buried his face in her hair with a desperate groan. “I can’t let you go. Even after all you’ve done, even after you tossed me aside without a backward glance, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Tossed him aside?

  It was she who’d been tossed aside. She who’d had her heart broken.

  “I—I didn’t toss you aside, Hugh. I never would have.”

  “No? Then why are you betrothed to Lord Sydney, Isla? Why did you waste your smiles on me, when he was the one you wanted all along?”

  Isla stared up at him, horrified. Is that what he thought? That she’d wanted Sydney all along and had only been toying with him to…what? Amuse herself? She didn’t deny she’d made mistakes, but this…this was so unfair she could hardly make herself believe he’d said it.

  If he could believe that of her, then he could believe much worse.

  An anger like she’d never known before jerked her spine straight, and she met Hugh’s gaze without flinching. “You know why I’m betrothed to Lord Sydney. After the scandal, he had no choice but to offer for me, and I had no choice but to accept him, even though what the gossips claimed happened that night is far from the truth. But then the truth never seems to matter much when there’s a salacious story to be had.”

  “Then what is the truth, Isla? Surely I deserve to know that much.”

  Isla stared up at him, her heart racing. She’d tried to tell him the truth once before. From the moment this nightmare unfolded, all she’d wanted w
as a chance to explain herself to him. Now he was willing to hear her at last, and she wasn’t going to waste it. “There was an encounter that night, in Lady Entwhistle’s library. That much is true.”

  His jaw hardened. “An encounter between you and Lord Sydney.”

  “No. We were spectators only. The encounter was between Hyacinth Somerset and Lord Dixon. I asked Lord Sydney to accompany me to the library that night, but only because Hyacinth asked me to. I won’t go into detail regarding Hyacinth’s reasons. The gossips had it I’d lured Sydney there to entice him into an indiscretion, but that wasn’t why I brought him to the library that night. I never intended to become betrothed to Lord Sydney.”

  His dark eyes flashed with anger. “Then how did you happen to end up betrothed to him, Isla? It wasn’t more than two days after the scandal that your betrothal was announced.”

  “Yes, of course, because Lord Sydney is a true gentleman, and a true gentleman doesn’t turn his back on a lady because idle gossips have taken liberties with her name!”

  “You sound as if you’re accusing me of something.” Hugh’s voice had gone dangerously quiet, and his hands were clenched into fists.

  “Accusing you? Oh, no accusations are necessary, my lord. We both know what happened. You heard the gossip and believed the worst of me.”

  “No. I never believed the gossip about you, Isla. Not one word.”

  The last thing Isla expected was a denial, and blinding anger surged in her veins. “You must have! You sent me your note that very night, asking me never to contact you again! What other reason could you have had to do so, if you didn’t believe the gossip?”

  Before she could even finish, he was already shaking his head. “No. It had nothing to do with the rumors. I didn’t care about them, or credit them as truth. That wasn’t the reason I asked you never to contact me again. I sent you that note because of something Lord Sydney told me that night.”

  Something Sydney had told him? No, it was impossible. What could Sydney have said that could have made Hugh turn his back on her? Sydney was her dearest friend. He’d never say a single word against her.

  Hugh was gripping her shoulders, his face white. “Listen to me, Isla. This whole thing—the scandal, the rumors, your betrothal to Lord Sydney—there’s something not right about it.”

  She struggled to free herself from his grip. “No. Let me go, Hugh. I don’t want to hear any more.”

  Perhaps he was telling her the truth. Perhaps he hadn’t believed the vicious gossip after the Lady Entwhistle scandal. But even if he’d had another reason for sending her that note—even if there was something she didn’t understand about that night—in the end, it didn’t matter.

  She faced him, her chin high. It was time to tell him the truth. “I was already a scandal by the time I arrived in London. There was another incident, in Scotland, and you may trust me when I say it’s not the sort of scandal a proper marquess is likely to overlook.”

  He hadn’t released her, and now his fingers tightened on her shoulders. “I told you, Isla. I don’t care what the gossips say about you.”

  There was nothing but honesty in his eyes, but Isla looked away from the truth she saw in those dark depths. Whatever it was Hugh was trying to tell her, she couldn’t listen to it. Once he knew what had happened to her before she and her brothers left Scotland, there was no way he’d ever forgive her.

  Why should he? She hadn’t even forgiven herself.

  Very few people knew about her tragic past—only her family, and Sydney. It wasn’t something she talked about easily, but if she told him now, it would put an end to this madness. Because it was madness, to deceive herself into believing Hugh had loved her once, and that there might still be a chance for them.

  There was no chance. There never had been. She’d let herself believe there was, at first. She’d loved Hugh so much, she’d made herself believe anything was possible. She’d convinced herself he loved her enough in return to find it in his heart to forgive the unforgivable.

  She knew better now. That note he’d sent her—it proved she’d been lying to herself. The truth was, she was no heroine, and this wasn’t a fairy tale.

  There would be no happy ending for her, because she didn’t deserve one.

  Isla pulled a deep breath into her lungs in an effort to control her trembling. “I think you’ll care about this scandal. It was so bad, you see, we had to leave Scotland to escape it. I was betrothed to another man, before Lord Sydney. A year ago, before my brothers and I came to England, I was promised to a man named James Baird.”

  Hugh’s head jerked back in shock, but Isla didn’t give him a chance to speak. She rushed on, desperate to finish it now she’d begun. “Obviously that betrothal didn’t end in a marriage. It ended with…” She swallowed down the tears choking her throat. “It ended with James Baird’s death.”

  Hugh’s face went whiter than she’d ever seen it. His throat worked, but he remained silent, too stunned to speak.

  “My brother Lachlan, he…James was hurting me, and Lachlan…it was an accident. A tragic accident. Lachlan was only trying to help me, to get James away from me, but when he pulled him off me, James hit his head, and…Lachlan didn’t mean to hurt him. It was a terrible accident, but all our friends said Lachlan was a murderer, and they called me a wh-wh…”

  Isla flinched away from the word, her voice dissolving into a choked sob. She’d been called a whore and a liar by people she’d never dreamed would attack her so brutally, and the word still made her shrink with fear.

  She couldn’t say it, and oh, God, she couldn’t look at him, because no matter how many times she told herself it wasn’t her fault—no matter how often she swore she’d never again beg for forgiveness for a crime that wasn’t hers—every time she thought of James Baird, she was overwhelmed with shame.

  If only she hadn’t gone into the stables with him…

  If only she hadn’t let herself be alone with him…

  If only she’d realized sooner the kind of man he was…

  If only, if only, if only…

  She been so naïve, so foolish. She’d walked headlong into disaster, and everything that had happened afterward—her mother’s death, fleeing the only home she and her brothers had ever known—it was all her fault. Lachlan had been branded a murderer, because of her. Ciaran had lost his betrothed, and his heart had been broken, because of her.

  Everything that had happened since then—the scandal, losing Hugh, her own heartbreak—it had happened because she deserved it for what she’d done.

  And deep down, in the coldest, darkest part of her heart, she knew the truth. All those vicious rumors that had followed her after James’s death, all the ugly slurs whispered behind her back—they were all true.

  She really was a whore.

  Chapter Eleven

  They’d called her a whore.

  Isla had choked on the word, but she didn’t need to say it. All Hugh had to do was look into her eyes, and he knew the truth.

  They’d called her a whore, and she’d believed them.

  She still believed them, and now she was falling apart before his eyes, and his throat was closing, and for one awful moment, he couldn’t say a single word.

  She buried her face in her hands, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrists and gently lowered them to her sides. “Isla. Look at me.”

  She shook her head and kept her gaze on the floor.

  “Look at me.” He touched her chin and tipped her face up to his, but when at last she dared to meet his gaze, what he saw in her eyes made his blood freeze in his veins.

  Fear.

  If Isla Ramsey hadn’t already broken his heart, it would have broken then.

  She was expecting to see disgust in his eyes. She thought he was going to condemn her. Judge her, just as her vicious friends had done. He looked into those endl
ess blue pools of hurt, and he knew she was holding her breath, waiting for the moment when he’d turn on her as they had done, and call her a whore.

  His Isla—his strong, confident girl whose smile was like sunlight to him—was shrinking into herself, cowering like a trapped animal awaiting a deathblow.

  Hugh didn’t think of how much she’d hurt him then. He didn’t think of Lord Sydney, or remind himself, as he had dozens of times, that she was betrothed. He didn’t think about how hard he was trying to forget her. He simply took her into his arms, cupped her neck in his palm, and brought her head to his chest.

  She stiffened with shock, and struggled to pull away from him. “No—”

  But he wouldn’t let her go. “Yes.” His arms tightened around her, and he realized she was shaking, her body trembling against his, and all he wanted was to take her pain away. He stroked his hand over her hair and murmured to her, his voice low and soothing, his lips close to her ear.

  “You’re so good, Isla—so strong and honest and good, and no one can take that away from you. Baird was a violent, savage man. I’m so sorry he hurt you, and I’m thankful he’s dead, but what he did to you was his sin, Isla, not yours.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “But everything fell apart after that. My mother’s death, the accusations against Lachlan… Ciaran’s betrothed turned on him, Hugh, and it broke his heart.”

  He ran a soothing hand up and down her back. “Yes, but then you and your brothers came here and started a new life in England. Do you regret leaving Scotland and coming here, Isla?”

  He half-expected her to say yes—to say she wished she’d never come here, and never met him, but she shook her head. “No. I could never regret it. I can’t imagine a life without Finn, Iris, Hyacinth, and our family here.”

  “What happened to you and your family—it was a tragedy, but in the end, you gained a new family. It didn’t steal away all your happiness, Isla. It led you to something you needed.”

  He eased her tighter against his chest and continued to murmur to her as he stroked her back. He hardly knew what he said, but he whispered to her like this for a long time, until at last she melted against him, the tension draining from her body.