Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  “You are a foolishness, but a sweet one.” He ran a finger over the rough fabric that stretched across her breasts. “This, milady thief, is neither silk nor brocade.”

  The sensations his wandering touch created were unbearable. Fia bit her lip to keep him from seeing her weakness, but her breasts were not so easily tamed. Her nipples hardened and peaked, as though eager for him to repeat the touch.

  His grin widened. He captured one of her hands, running his thumb over her ink-stained fingers. “And this is not the hand of a lady.”

  She clenched her fist. “If you wait much longer, Duncan himself will come and tell you exactly who I am. Neither of us would benefit from that.”

  “I’d enjoy seeing MacLean’s face when you explain how you came to possess his best candlesticks,” he retorted. “But I suppose you’re right and I shouldn’t tarry.”

  “Then leave. I’m not stopping you.”

  “Oh, but you are. I came for my gold, little thief. Hand it over and we’ll part ways.” His gaze drifted over her, lingering on her bottom lip.

  Fia noticed with rising trepidation and excitement that Thomas’s eyes glimmered with the heat of sun-drenched moors. She couldn’t let this go any farther. As muddled as he made her feel, if he attempted to kiss her or more, she’d not have the strength to refuse him. She’d never seen such a handsome man, and his touch instantly turned her bones to butter.

  It had taken every bit of her resolve to halt his kiss in the garden, and she doubted she could do it again. She simply hadn’t had much experience with kissing and such; Duncan had seen to that. Even now she grimaced at the memory of what her cousin had done to the Duke of Argyll’s youngest son when he’d stolen a very brief kiss. But not even the handsome son of the Duke of Argyll had left her aching and breathless the way the Sassenach’s touch did.

  She couldn’t allow him to kiss her again, or it would prove her undoing. Still, she wasn’t about to hand over her hard-won gold.

  To buy time while she found a solution, she blurted out, “My great-grandmother is a real ghost, you know.” She could tell by the flicker of interest in his eyes that she had his attention, so she quickly pressed on. “My mam flitters across Loch Buie, howling and a-moaning, scaring the people of the village nigh to death. She wears a gray gown, I think. Or perhaps ’tis brown—”

  “Cease your prattling, comfit.” His eyes glimmered with humor as he flicked a careless finger over her cheek. “I won’t be distracted from my gold.”

  “Och, no. I just thought you might wish to know what the blurry figure is who waits for you when you go to sleep at night. She’s a tenacious ghost, she is, and not for the unwary.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I do, for I’ve seen many.” She lifted her brows. “Do you believe in fairies?”

  “No.”

  “Pixies?”

  “No.”

  “Banshees? Stiths? Witches?”

  His mouth began to form the word “no” yet again, and she burst out, “Och, there must be something, Sassenach! Have you never lost something and then found it in the place where you already looked? Or come to a place you’d swear you’d seen before, but ’twas impossible? Surely, you believe in magic of some sort!”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “How did your grandmother die?”

  Fia had to hide a grin. She could tell he wished the question back as soon as he asked it, so she hurried to answer. “’Twas rumored my grandfather killed her with his own hands.”

  “Did she tell senseless stories?”

  “Nay, she didn’t have the gift. To be honest, Grandmother was as demanding a woman as ever lived. Poor Grandfather could neither drink nor fight without her harping from dawn to dusk.”

  “A harpy, eh?” He murmured, tracing feather-light circles on her jaw with one thumb.

  Fia steeled herself against his touch. “Aye. ’Twas said her voice could freeze a running river in the height of summer. Grandfather finally lost his temper and slammed his mug upon the kitchen table, smashing it to pieces, and ordered her to leave him and ne’er return. And she did.”

  The Sassenach’s brows snapped together. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “So everyone thought. When he realized what he’d done, he wept for twenty days and twenty nights.”

  “He must have loved her after all.”

  “Och, nay! ’Twas just that he could never drink from a mug again as it reminded him too much of the whole affair. He said ’twas enough to sour even good whiskey.”

  Thomas laughed, his laughter rumbling in his chest. Fia’s breath caught in her throat. He was beautiful, all black hair and golden skin. A subtle heat spread through her and made her move restlessly.

  His laughter died and he regarded her through suddenly heavy-lidded eyes. “You are nothing like your grandmother, my sweet. You have a voice like pure honey. Indeed, I would like to hear you moaning in pleasure with that luscious voice of yours.”

  It was all she could do not to twine her arms about his head and pull his firm mouth to hers. But the pressure of the bag of gold between her breasts reminded her of her purpose.

  “You should be worrying about the MacLean and nothing else,” she admonished desperately. “We have no time for this.”

  His eyes gleamed and he gave her a smile of such incredible sweetness that her heart lodged in her throat. ’Twas almost a crime to make such a handsome man and loose him on the world without warning.

  He shifted to one side, his warm hands sliding to her shoulders and then to her breasts. All coherent thought fled her mind.

  “The laird be hanged,” he murmured. “My sources say he is not to return so soon, and besides, I begin to think you might well be worth the risk.” His mouth lowered toward hers, and Fia felt herself drawn toward his lips—beautifully carved lips that would taste as sweet as warmed honey. She closed her eyes and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

  She opened her eyes and saw his mocking expression.

  She flushed.

  His grin was irritatingly smug. “I will have my purse.” His gaze locked on her mouth as he slipped a finger under the front of her gown.

  She gasped, fighting a maelstrom of shivers. “I’ll give it you! Just let me up!”

  For one agonizing second she didn’t think he’d agree, but then he stood and pulled her to her feet. “My purse, Fia. Now. Else I will come and get it.”

  Flushed from head to toe, Fia reached into her gown, halting as she saw his obvious interest. “Turn your back.”

  “Modesty?” From a woman like you? The unspoken words hung in the silence, loud and bruising.

  Fia bared her teeth in the semblance of a smile. “Very well, Lord Thomas. Watch if you must.”

  He was tall and handsome beyond belief, with a smile that could drop one’s heart into one’s shoes, but he was no gentleman. Had she written this scene, Thomas the Handsome would have fallen to his knees and promised to take her to London. He would have found a sponsor for every one of her wonderful plays and would have fallen deeply and desperately in love with her.

  Alas, this was not one of her plays.

  She yanked open the front of her dress, her fine lawn chemise on display for the world to see as she removed his purse. Fia tossed it to the ground and pulled her bodice closed, tying the laces as quickly as she could.

  In the quiet of the glen, his breath sounded almost labored. “You tempt me, wench, but I dare not tarry.” He glanced about the clearing. “Where is your horse? Or were you going to steal one on the road?”

  Fia shot him a baleful glare and picked up her bag and knife. “Of course I have a horse. Only a fool would travel by foot when a mount is available, and—” She frowned. “Where’s your horse?”

  “Now, there’s the rub, comfit. Some damned hound has chased it away, so I need yours.”

  Some damned hound? Sweet Saint Catherine, let it not be . . . “Ah, and just what kind of dog chased away your horse?”
r />   “’Twas an ugly cur.” His face showed suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Was . . . was this cur brown in color, with only half an ear?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Aye.”

  She winced. “Was his tail slightly bent at the end?”

  “Aye,” Thomas stated grimly.

  “And his left eye . . . was it but half-open?”

  “’Tis a dog well known to you, I see.” His tone was grim.

  “Och, no! I have never seen such a dog, though I must admit he sounds like a poor, sad little beastie. I daresay he’s very sweet . . . when not chasing off horses.”

  “God’s blood, you are the unluckiest wench I’ve ever encountered.” He sounded thoroughly disgusted. “You owe me a mount, milady thief.”

  “The dog isn’t mine!”

  “No?”

  Fia became intensely interested in rubbing an ink stain from her fingers. “Not really. ’Tis possible I may have seen him in the garden once or twice.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “And I may have fed him a mite now and again.”

  She could hear his teeth grinding. He would have naught but stubs left if he made it a habit to abrade them so often.

  “I will have your horse,” he stated.

  “Hmph. ’Tis unfortunate you are forced to become a horse thief because of a poor, abused pup. A good thing we have no wayward cows about, else you might commit murder or worse.”

  “I’ve had about enough of you for one day, mistress.”

  “La, how high and mighty! What are you, a prince?”

  “Nay, I am but an earl.” He gave an insultingly brief nod. “The Earl of Rotherwood, at your service.”

  An earl. An English earl. He must be a member of the court, then! Fia said a short prayer of thanks to the saints for delivering such an Englishman. She could already see her name written in flowing script across the playbill.

  “Why did you pray for an Englishman?” Thomas demanded in an outraged tone.

  Fia winced. ’Twas her greatest fault to speak every thought out loud. “I-I’ve just always had a liking for earls. Duncan is one and . . . I am just. . . used to having one about.”

  Thomas rubbed his temple. “Sweet Jesu, you make my head ache. Just give me your mount.”

  “You’d regret taking her. She’s a Scottish horse, and she’ll have naught to do with an Englishman.”

  “I can handle her. Where is she?”

  Fia decided Lord Thomas’s attractiveness faded even as they spoke. While he was blessed with beauty of face and form, ’twas obvious his Maker had been forced to scrimp when it came to the man’s temperament. That was the real tragedy—he would have made a wondrous character for one of her plays had he possessed but a measure more charm.

  She nodded her head toward the clearing. “Thunder is tied to the big tree in the glen. Just follow the path.”

  “Excellent. Meanwhile, I suggest you hie yourself back to replace the candelabras before it’s discovered that both you and they are missing.”

  That would never happen. She’d decided on this path and one way or another, she would take it to the end. Still, she was loath to lose her horse, loath to lose her newfound gold, and, strangely enough, loath to see Thomas leave. “You’re off to London, I suppose.”

  He paused. “Aye.”

  “You’ll need a guide through the Scottish countryside. I could lead you, and—”

  “Rob me the first time I look elsewhere than my pockets? I think not, my little Scot. Though the idea of having you warm my blankets makes the offer most attractive.”

  The pig. “I’ll be warming no man’s blankets, thank you.” Fia sniffed. “’Tis time you left, for I’ve tired of you.”

  Thomas’s mouth hardened into a harsh line. “No doubt you expected to wrap me about your little finger as you did MacLean. I am not such a fool. Good-bye.” Disapproval evident in his every move, Lord Thomas the Proud turned and strode into the shadowed woods.

  For several long moments, Fia stood where she was. Had she been a heroine in one of her plays, perhaps Rosalind, the banished duke’s daughter who’d bravely dressed as a boy to make her own way in the world, she might have followed Sir Thomas into the forest and tried to trick his gold from him once again. But she wasn’t Rosalind, and the thought of facing Thomas once again seemed a dangerous proposition.

  She kicked a rock down the path. “Well, arrogant sir, you’ll not get far on Thunder. That much I’m sure of.” That would be worth seeing, too. All Fia had to do was wait.

  With a smile, she shouldered her burden once more and began to walk.

  Chapter Three

  Whatever image the name “Thunder” conjured up, this was not it.

  Thomas had never seen a more pitiful horse. Its dull, pale brown coat was rough and completely bare in places. A straggly mane hung in limp strands on a gaunt neck.

  Worse, some romantic fool had plaited the sparse mane with colorful wildflowers that drooped piteously, as if hanging their heads in shame.

  He regarded the thin, knobby legs and the swollen body with a disbelieving eye. ’Twas a wonder the horse could even stand, much less walk. “Excellent. I’ve stolen a horse not even fit for a tannery.”

  The beast slowly turned her head and measured him with a look of acute dislike.

  “God’s blood, everything about that wench is cursed.” Thomas wanted nothing more than to turn and walk away, but he needed this ugly mount to reach his ship by nightfall. “Easy does it, old girl.” He patted her neck, wondering if she could bear his weight.

  Encouraged, she attempted a spirited snort, only to end up wheezing and coughing so hard, Thomas felt obliged to thump her soundly on the back.

  The relentless ache in his head increased. He could only be thankful Robert wasn’t nearby. One of Thomas’s closest companions, Robert MacQuarrie enjoyed a jest more than life itself and wasn’t above exaggerating common circumstances into a tale of mirth. If Robert ever saw Thomas on this broken-down old nag, he would hear about it for the rest of his life.

  He sourly rubbed the lump on his head. Robert wouldn’t have to exaggerate to make a mockery of this particular foray. Everything had gone awry that could go awry, and it had all been made worse by a fey Scottish wench.

  Thomas glanced back at the forest with a sharp sense of regret. The thought of her made him burn, which surprised him. He wasn’t a man to linger where fate did not wish him, but . . . damme, she was lovely. Full lips and mysteriously dark eyes were indelibly etched in his memory, and he feared her luscious breasts would haunt his dreams for many a night.

  He reminded himself grimly that she was naught but a beautiful thief with a penchant for causing trouble. She had already shoved him from a window, stolen his money, and she and her mystery mongrel had been indirectly responsible for the loss of his horse.

  “Well, Thunder, ’tis just the two of us. If you carry me well, I promise to put you out of your misery and sell your hide to the first tanner we meet.”

  Thunder yanked her head about and glared at him.

  Thomas eyed her with growing unease. Surely the stupid horse didn’t understand me. God’s blood, I’m becoming as fanciful as that wench. But as much as he tried to deny it, events were teetering on the verge of disaster. He had to get back to his ship, and quickly.

  He didn’t relish the situation. He was a Wentworth, and, as his father had told Thomas countless times during his brief childhood, Wentworths never failed. His father would have died alone and bootless before throwing a single leg over such a decrepit animal.

  But he wasn’t his father, overly focused on appearances and pedigree. If Thomas wished to succeed, he was going to have to ride the pathetic beast. Gathering his resolve, he collected the reins and swung into the saddle. There, he set his heels and urged Thunder on with a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels.

  The mare twitched nary a muscle.

  Thomas tightened the reins and tapped the horse’s sides
more firmly.

  Again, nothing.

  This time, Thomas planted his heels as firmly as he could.

  Thunder bolted forward, only to come to an immediate halt, jerking Thomas forward in the saddle. “You bedeviled, worthless bag of bones—”

  She swung her head around, showed her teeth, and lunged for his leg.

  He yanked his legs tighter to her sides and out of reach.

  She glared at him.

  “So that’s the game you play, eh?” Thomas smiled grimly. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, you scourge-ridden old nag. I’m the most powerful earl in England, and I’ll not be denied.”

  The words hit his own ears flatly. He sounded far too much like his father, blast it.

  Thunder apparently agreed, for she bared her yellowed teeth and flattened her long ears, suddenly looking like a donkey.

  That was it. Grasping the reins tightly, Thomas planted his heels into Thunder’s bloated sides and yelled, “Hie!”

  The mare hunched her shoulders and began to swell.

  “What the—”

  In a swift move, the mare dropped to her knees and threw herself onto her side.

  “Oof!” The wind flew from his lungs as Thomas went down with a bruising blow to his hip and an incredible pressure on his leg.

  It took him a full moment to realize what had happened. He was trapped beneath a fat, hide-bare nag, his leg held as securely as though shackled in iron.

  “Move, you ill-begotten, mangy bag of bones!” he roared.

  Thunder bared her teeth over her shoulder and lunged. Thomas stared at his torn sleeve in amazement, then bellowed in rage.

  He placed his free foot squarely on the horse’s back and pushed with all his might. The horse grunted, but the shaggy head didn’t even move. He tried yet again, but his efforts elicited only a heaved sigh from the horse.

  Thomas lay back panting, his struggles leaving him as breathless as the fall from the window. It was unbelievable. He, Thomas Henry Wentworth, the fifth Earl of Rotherwood, scion of a long line of immaculately bred, impeccably comported, and extremely dignified English nobility, was pinned in the cold mud beneath a fat, wheezing nag.