He thrust again and she flinched, and he knew something wasn’t right but he was too far gone and his body was out of his control, and he thrust and thrust and she arched and squirmed, and clung to him. And then he shattered. And was dimly aware she had not...
He held her close, panting as he tried to regain his senses, still buried deep in her body. She was a virgin. And yet she was a widow. A virgin widow? Impossible.
His breathing slowed. He slowly disengaged and she flinched, and tried to hide it from him. “You were a virgin.” It was an accusation—and yes, he was angry. Guilty, too. If he’d known it was her first time . . .
Dammit, she should have told him. If he’d known he wouldn’t have . . . He would have . . .
She pulled the bedcovers over her nakedness. “Yes.”
“So how is it that a widow is still a virgin?”
She turned her head away.
“Are you a widow?”
“No.” He barely heard her low admission.
“So, you lied about that?”
“Yes.”
What other lies had she told him, he wondered. “And are you dying, or not?” he heard himself say in a hard voice.
Her head whipped around and she looked at him in shock. “Dying?”
“Yes. Are you?” Brutal, he knew, but dammit he felt like being brutal. She’d lied to him.
“You knew she was dying?” She stared at him in disbelief.
Ronan frowned. Who was this she she was talking about?
Meg’s mouth fell open in shock. “You did, didn’t you. You planned on marrying her even though she was dying.” She must have seen something in his face, because she gasped and said, “You wanted her because she was dying? My God, Ronan, how could you?”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded crossly. “I married you.” And was she dying or not? He needed—quite desperately—to know.
“Yes, but you planned to marry Peggy Smith, knowing she was dying.”
“You’re Peggy Smith.”
“No, I’m Marguerite Blackett-Smith. I met Peggy on the way up here.”
“You what? Then where is she?” He found himself looking around, as if Peggy Smith might be lurking in a cupboard.
“She died on the way up, at an inn just over the border.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Peggy Smith—the real Peggy Smith—died?”
She nodded. “But before she did she told me what she’d intended to do. To marry you.”
Now it was his turn to stare openmouthed. “And you thought you’d simply up and take her place?”
She had the grace to look ashamed. “Not quite. I was waiting at the Wench and Haggis Inn for my uncle to collect me. When your coachman came, I thought he’d come for me. I didn’t realize the mistake until the next morning and found you in the breakfast parlor and not Uncle Alexander.”
He didn’t believe her. It was too simple. “But you knew all about our agreement.”
She nodded. “Peggy told me. She gave me all her papers.”
“You mean you stole them.” Pain lanced through him. He’d been so wrong about her. She was worse than Lenore.
“I didn’t steal anything,” she told him hotly. “Peggy gave them to me. She wanted my help.”
“What help could you give her if she was dying?”
“I’ll show you!” Wrapping a sheet around her for decency—which annoyed him intensely—she was still his wife, dammit, even if she was a liar and a cheat!—she hopped out of bed and stalked to her trunk. He took the opportunity to grab his nightshirt and drag it back on. His body still betrayed him. His body didn’t care that she’d deceived him. His body still wanted her.
She pulled a small cloth bag from the trunk and marched back to the bed.
He watched her bitterly. He’d been such a fool. At least Lenore hadn’t lied to him; she’d just found him dull. But Meg . . .
“Is Meg your real name?” he asked as she climbed back onto the bed.
She nodded. “Yes. My mother used to call me Meg. This is what Peggy Smith gave me.” She upended the bag, tipping all the contents onto the bed, and in among a pile of bits and pieces he saw the long folded paper containing the lawyer’s agreement. Also in the bag was the fat roll of banknotes he’d sent her on the morning of their wedding.
“You married me for the money,” he said in a flat voice. “You seized the opportunity and you married me under false pretenses.”
She flushed. “Yes, I did. But I never meant to cheat you. I read that agreement after I’d met you at breakfast that first morning. And I saw how similar my name was to Peggy’s. And she’d told me you didn’t want a wife, just a marriage certificate, that all she had to do was marry you, stay here for a month and then leave. And for that you were prepared to pay five hundred pounds.”
“So you snatched at the chance to make some money.”
“I did. I have none, you see, and no prospects. I never intended to cheat you.” She eyed him shrewdly. “You married me for money, too, didn’t you?”
But he wasn’t buying into that. His motives and Great Aunt Agatha’s will were none of her business. He hadn’t lied to her. He hadn’t betrayed her, hadn’t charmed her into wanting more than . . . He clenched his jaw and said nothing.
“But I didn’t know you wanted to marry a dying woman. Peggy never mentioned that. It seems very strange to me. Quite . . . macabre.”
“I needed to be married, but I didn’t want to be saddled with a wife.” It sounded as ugly as he’d thought it when Adams had first suggested it. He was even more ashamed of the plan now, but he’d done it, so he wasn’t going to make any excuses.
He saw the moment she understood he’d expected his wife to die. Her eyes widened with shock and she blanched, realizing the implications. “I’ve never heard of anything so cold-blooded in my life.”
“You were quick enough to step into the shoes of a dead woman.”
“And now you’re stuck with me.”
“That’s right. And you’re stuck with me.” They were each as bad as the other, he thought.
They sat glaring at each other across the rumpled bed. “If it was a ‘misunderstanding,’ why didn’t you tell me before the wedding?”
She hunched a thin shoulder defensively. “There wasn’t much time—you were busy with that mare. And then in church I started to explain, but you brushed that aside and told the minister to get on with it, and I thought . . . why not?”
“And you had my five hundred pounds by then.”
“Yes. I did.” She made no excuse, simply looked at him with those wide gray eyes, chin raised, guilty but unashamed.
Her refusal to defend herself infuriated him. He didn’t want her to admit it was all about the money. He wanted her to fling his accusations back in his teeth. He wanted her to say . . .
Pain twisted inside him. He was a damned fool. Blinded by lust. Again.
Only this time—No, he was a damned fool.
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“You damned well will not!” he snapped. “You’ll stay till after Hogmanay. You have a contract to fulfill.”
“Very well.” She pulled the bedsheet tighter around her, which infuriated him all over again. “And now, please leave.”
He rose and stalked toward the door. And hesitated. She’d been a virgin. “Are you . . . are you all right?” he said in a voice that came out gruff. “I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean.” Her face was turned away from him. “And I’m quite all right, thank you.” Her voice wobbled.
Ronan hesitated. Damn it, she was going to cry. He hated hearing women cry. “Ach, Meg—” he began, and took a couple of steps toward her.
“P-please leave.”
Swearing under his breath and feeling like a complete brute, Ronan left.
For the next few days Ronan went about his business, trying to ignore the blasted situation, but it was impossible. His wife stayed right out of his way so that h
e never saw her.
And dammit if he didn’t miss her. The lying little cheat!
His servants had resumed their efficient, invisible ways. There was no smiling and whispering in hallways, no attempt to send him to inconvenient corners where he’d just happen to bump into his bride, and there was not a sprig of mistletoe anywhere to be seen in the house. Ronan knew. He’d looked.
The house felt like a cold and empty barn.
The only time he saw her was at meals, and then the conversation was polite and banal and utterly impersonal. He hated it. Why the devil had she lied? If only she’d been Peggy Smith.
No, for then she would have been dying, and he didn’t want her to die.
He wanted her to stay here with him forever. Or he would, if she weren’t such a cold-blooded little liar. If she would just offer him some reason, some excuse . . .
Ronan spent the days working himself to exhaustion, trying to drive out the questions that plagued him. He’d asked her her plans and she’d told him quite willingly. After Hogmanay she would return to London. She would abide by the terms of the contract and never bother him again.
She would bother him the rest of his life. No matter where she lived.
And who was she running to with his five hundred pounds? Some man?
He’d found out about “Uncle Alexander.” Old Miser Murfitt. He wouldn’t wish a dog to live with that old man. If that’s where she was bound, he could understand why she’d snatched at the money.
Not that he forgave her. He could see her reasoning, that was all.
On the morning of the third day at breakfast she asked him for the address of the man in London who’d arranged the contract with Peggy Smith.
“Why?”
“I was going to tell you that night when . . . But you were so beastly I never got the chance. And I didn’t think you’d care, anyway.” She showed him a drawing of two little girls.
Ronan frowned. What had these children to do with her?
“Peggy Smith had two little daughters. She paid a neighbor to look after them, but I want to ensure that the children are all right. I’ve been worrying about them.”
“She had children?”
“Yes, two little girls, aged five and three. I hoped your man could check on them and inform the woman caring for them that I’ll be down to collect the children after the New Year.”
“You’ll collect them? Peggy Smith’s children? Why?”
“They have no one else.” And at those simple words the hurt and guilt he’d carried around like a hard lump in his chest started to unravel
“Yes, but why you?”
“When Peggy was dying, I promised her I’d do whatever I could to care for her children. That’s why she was marrying you—to provide for her children’s future.” She turned over the card to show him the scrawled note on the back. “I’m going to raise them as if they were my own. We will be a family.”
And suddenly Ronan realized he’d been an even blinder fool than he’d thought. Yes, she’d lied, and married him for the money. But she wasn’t cold-bloodedly stepping into a dead woman’s shoes—and he could talk, plotting to marry a dying woman. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that she’d pretended to be someone else.
Who could blame her, when Miser Murfitt was the alternative?
His heart full, he folded his napkin and for something to do, poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’ll write to Adams’s nephew. He drew up the contract.” He stirred in a lump of sugar. He never took sugar. He pushed the coffee cup aside. “He’ll be coming up to Edinburgh at Christmas. If you wanted, he could bring the little girls with him.”
She gave him a startled look. “Bring them here?”
“They’ve just lost their mother. Better they be with you for Christmas.” He looked at her and added, “With us.”
“Us?” She fixed those wide gray eyes on him, and he felt his last defenses crumbling.
He cleared his throat and said, “This house has been too long without children.”
There was a short silence. Meg’s heart was beating so loudly she thought he must hear it. Did he mean what she thought he did?
With a shaking hand, she set her napkin aside. “Ronan, what are you saying?”
He pushed his chair back and walked around the table to her, six feet of brawny Scotsman looking down at her with troubled blue eyes. “Ach, Meg, I’ve been a damned fool. I’m sorry I said all those hurtful things to ye.” His Scots burr deepened, as it did when he was moved.
“And I’m sorry I deceived you,” she said, her heart full.
“Meg, if ye want to stay—after Hogmanay, I mean—ye can.” He ran his fingers through his hair, rumpling it, and said awkwardly, “No, not ye can—I mean, I want ye to stay. Here. With me.” He swallowed and fixed on her a gaze of painful intensity. “So, will ye?”
Meg rose and set her palms lightly against his chest, over his heart. She could feel it thudding almost as fast as hers. “Tell me, Ronan James McAllister, why do you want me to stay?”
He swallowed again, and couldn’t seem to find the words. But the love shone from his eyes.
“Is it perhaps because I love you?” she said softly. Her eyes blurred with tears. “And because it would break my heart to leave you? Because it would, Ronan, it would.”
He nodded, his heart full. “Aye. That would be it.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the pent-up grief and hurt and love in his heart. “I love ye, Meg McAllister. And I don’t ever want ye to leave me. Will ye stay, Meg? Will ye be my wife in truth?”
“I will,” she told him on a sob. “Oh, Ronan, I will indeed.”
Epilogue
“Christmas is all verra well, but Hogmanay is a lot more fun.”
“More fun than Christmas?” Amy said, wide eyed.
Meg smiled. It had been a Christmas to remember, better than anything she’d ever dreamed of back in India. Almost perfect.
Almost.
She sat by the fire, knitting. Outside, snow fell gently. Ronan sat sprawled on the hearthrug, peeling an orange and tossing chunks of peel into the fire. Peggy Smith’s two little girls, dressed for bed in nightgowns and dressing gowns, sat on either side of him.
Ronan smiled and ruffled Amy’s fair curls. “Aye, sweetheart. For a start, children get presents.”
Jane frowned. “More presents?” Ronan had showered presents on them all that Christmas.
“Aye. And there’s a feast, and Mrs. Ferguson will bake a black bun.” Amy wrinkled her nose, and he chuckled. “And at night we have the best thing of all.”
“What’s that?”
“A great big bonfire, and we sing and dance and tell stories, and we roast potatoes in it, and eat them hot with lashings of butter and salt. Och, ye’ll love Hogmanay.” He handed them each a wedge of orange.
Amy ate hers straight away and immediately held out her hand for another one, but Jane waited until Ronan ate a piece himself. Peggy Smith’s oldest girl never asked for anything, was wary, almost silent and overly polite. She endured hugs with stiff courtesy, and she tried to keep her younger sister quiet, a feat which was getting more difficult; Amy was settling in beautifully.
Meg watched as Ronan fed the girls chunks of orange and told them the tale of Hector Owl and Timothy Mouse. Amy leaned sleepily against him and, when he put her arm around her, she snuggled up happily.
Jane sat straight and still, paying grave attention to the story.
Meg ached for her. From the moment the post chaise had arrived and Jane’s plain little face had peered warily out, Meg had loved the child. Loved both of them, poor bewildered little lambs.
Meg had explained that she was their mother’s friend and that they would live with her and Ronan now. She showed them their picture and the note from their mother on the back. Amy was too young to understand, but Jane did. She’d traced her mother’s name with a finger. And had said very little else since.
Jane resisted everything, and Meg knew why;
she expected everything to be snatched away at a moment’s notice.
It would take time, Meg knew. But it was Christmas, and she wanted everyone to be happy.
“Time for little girls to go to bed,” she said as Ronan finished the story. She bent and scooped up Amy, who was already half asleep.
And as he had every night, Ronan picked up Jane. So far she’d raised no objection, but had suffered herself to be carried up to bed like a stiff little doll.
But tonight . . . oh, tonight her arms came up and twined around his neck. Breathless with sudden joy, Meg met Ronan’s gaze. His summer blue eyes smiled back at her. It was a start.
They carried the children upstairs and placed them in the big bed that the girls shared. And as Ronan bent to put Jane in the bed, she hugged him and planted a sleepy, sticky, orangey kiss on his cheek and murmured, “Night.”
“Night, Janey-girl.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and he turned away, blinking.
Meg tucked them in and kissed both girls good night, and again Jane’s skinny little arms emerged from the bedclothes and she held Meg tight for a long, long moment.
When Meg straightened, her eyes were awash.
Ronan led her from the room. He carefully closed the girls’ bedroom door, then swung Meg into his arms. “Because sometimes big girls need to be carried to bed, too. So, Mrs. McAllister, has our Christmas come up to expectations?”
“Perfect, just perfect,” she murmured, planting kisses all along his jaw. And it was.
A WILDER WENCH
Susan King
Prologue
Scotland, the Highlands—1800
Hearing the fierce pounding on the door in the night, Cristina knew what it meant: men looking for her father again, either rascals or gaugers. But Johnny Shaw was not at home, nor was Mama just then. Da was running the whisky, for the moon was high; and Mama had hurried out in her shawl and sleeping braid to take the pony and warn Da about something important.
“I will be back soon, Kirstie,” her mother had whispered. “Stay with your brother. If anyone comes to the door, you must hide!”
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 30