The proprietor of the inn was pleased to accommodate her ladyship’s party. Within half an hour Miss Findlay was safely ensconced in an upper bedchamber, awaiting her bath and supper. Juliana saw her settled and bid her to go to sleep, then hurried back down the stairs in search of the inn’s proprietor.
Surly servants, dusty roads, vomit, and ruined boots were unpleasant enough, but finding Fitzwilliam was a much stickier problem, and it became stickier the closer they got to Inverness. They were still several hundred miles away, but surely someone at the King’s Head had heard of Castle Kinross? The innkeeper was the most likely person to help her, but when she stepped into the dining room she found only a handful of dusty travelers taking refreshment there. She hesitated for a few moments, hoping a servant might appear to direct her to her host, but she waited in vain.
“Where in the world is everybody?” she muttered crossly as she made her way down the hallway toward the entryway. Several carriages had arrived while she was upstairs with Findlay, and the ostlers were dodging about, trying to accommodate them all. She ventured out, hoping to find Stokes, but he wasn’t in the yard.
Juliana stepped away from the bustle of guests and servants coming in and out the door, and leaned back against the side of the inn with a sigh. It was a warm day. She closed her eyes, let the sun caress her face, and tried to calm her mind. She’d spent so much of the past few months scurrying from one place to the next it felt strange to be still and let her thoughts go quiet.
She took a few deep breaths until her frayed nerves calmed a little, then began once again to ponder a way out of her dilemma. That is, the dilemma of having come hundreds of miles in search of a man who might not wish to be found.
Not even by her, his dearest friend.
Why hadn’t he answered her letters? Oh, what a fool she’d been to go haring off to Scotland after Fitzwilliam! Even if she did find him, he might refuse to return to England with her. If he’d wanted to come home, he would have done so by now.
Tears gathered under her eyelids, but she fisted her hands and held them back, furious with herself. What good would tears do her now? She was at a shabby inn in Gretna Green, ankle-deep in vomit. It was too late to change her mind now, and even if she could, she wouldn’t. In the end, her decision to come to Scotland had been a simple one. She needed Fitzwilliam’s help, and as surely as she was his dearest friend, he was also hers.
She knew Fitzwilliam, from the exact shade of his blue eyes right down to the size of his boots. She knew every corner of his heart. She couldn’t explain why he hadn’t answered all her letters, but she knew he’d never turn his back on her.
She only had to find him.
Juliana opened her eyes and blinked against the sun. The commotion in the yard had died down, but Stokes still hadn’t turned up. Perhaps she’d just go on to the stables then, and fetch him herself. That way she could be sure he’d secured a post chaise and horses for early tomorrow morning.
She straightened from the wall and had taken two steps toward the stables when a man walking across the inn yard caught her attention. She had no reason to think he was coming toward her, yet she stilled, her breath held, unable to look away.
He was some distance still—far enough so she couldn’t properly see his face, but he was tall and broad, with a headful of long, rather unruly dark hair. Perhaps he was handsome, but Juliana had spent too much time among the ton for a handsome face to unsettle her. London was rife with Corinthians, bucks and dandies, gentlemen of fashion and taste, of intelligence, grace, and uncommon beauty. She’d long since considered herself immune to even the most striking of male specimens.
But there was something about this man—
He looked up then, and Juliana froze, her heart stuttering in her chest. The angular jaw, the strong cheekbones, the square chin—there was only one man in the world with such an arresting face.
Fitzwilliam.
Had she said his name aloud? Had she shouted it, or whispered it?
He was coming toward her, and every part of her tensed to run to him. Every muscle, every nerve screamed at her to throw herself into his arms, but something held her back. Some instinct she couldn’t explain kept her feet rooted to the ground.
He didn’t call her name, or run to her. Why did he hold back? He’d be shocked to find her here, and perhaps angry with her for coming so far. She’d written and told him to expect her, but perhaps he hadn’t received her letter yet, or…
Alarm darted down Juliana’s spine. He didn’t hold himself like a man who was angry, or one who was in shock. He wasn’t stiff, but loose-limbed and graceful—the sort of man accustomed to physical activity, and comfortable in his body.
He didn’t walk like Fitzwilliam.
He drew closer, and closer still. By the time he stopped in front of her, Juliana was so agitated she was sure he could hear her heart thundering in her chest.
He said something to her—something about assisting her—but she could only stare wordlessly up at him, a gasp frozen in her throat.
He wasn’t Fitzwilliam.
He had Fitzwilliam’s brow, his nose, his sculpted cheekbones, but this man was too rough, his features too aggressive, his manner too stern to be mistaken for Fitzwilliam, who was all smooth, polished charm.
He was speaking to her still, but Juliana didn’t try to make sense of his words. She was staring at his hard lips.
His mouth is all wrong.
It was too wide, with a hint of ferocity in the lower lip. His voice was deeper, too, and though not unkind it was raw somehow, as if he were accustomed to barking commands, and had done so a few times too often.
Dear God, who was this man? She might have been looking at Fitzwilliam’s mirror image, but through a cracked glass that distorted the reflection.
He was still talking, saying something about running away, and a missing bridegroom, and Gretna Green…
Gretna Green. The vowels lengthened in his mouth, and his tongue wrapped around the r’s in a distinct Scottish burr. That lilt in his deep, smoky voice made her shiver, as if musical notes were darting down her spine.
He was Scottish. A Scotsman who looked just like Fitzwilliam.
What was happening? She’d never laid eyes on this man before. Fitzwilliam hadn’t ever breathed a word about having family in Scotland, but it was beyond comprehension two men could be mirror images of each other without being related.
Indeed, they looked so much alike, it was impossible not to think they were…
Brothers.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I don’t…it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, dazed.
“He told you he loved you to get you to come with him to Gretna Green, didn’t he, lass? But now he’s gone and left you, hasn’t he?”
Questions were tumbling through Juliana’s mind, knocking everything about and leaving wreckage in their wake, but for some reason, this caught her attention. It penetrated the haze of shock, and a suspicion began to take hold.
Missing bridegroom…left her…Gretna Green…
Oh, no. This Scottish version of Fitzwilliam thought she was a runaway bride!
Well, how absurd. That is, she was aware she wasn’t looking her best at the moment. Her hair was a nest of tangles, her riding habit was creased and dusty, and even the fresh air couldn’t disguise the unpleasant aroma hanging over her like a noxious cloud. Even so, it was ungentlemanly in him to make such an assumption, no matter if she was at Gretna Green.
Juliana drew herself up and fixed him with the most dignified look a lady with vomit on her boots could manage. “Left me? No! I’m not a—” she began, but then clapped her mouth shut before she could do something stupendously foolish.
Like tell him the truth.
Perhaps I am a runaway bride, after all.
Fitzwilliam had a brother. By the looks of it, a twi
n brother. A twin brother who must know where he was, and who even now was likely on his way to Inverness, and from there, to Castle Kinross.
She could ask him to take her along with him. That would be the simplest approach, but instinct held her back. Fitzwilliam’s brother or not, Juliana didn’t know or trust this man, and she hadn’t the least intention of putting herself under his protection. She’d come too far to risk making a mistake now.
Still, this giant Scot was a precious gift, and he’d just fallen right into her lap. She intended to seize it—him—before he could slip through her fingers. She cast a frantic gaze around the inn yard, praying like she’d never prayed before that she’d find…yes! Thank goodness. There was Stokes, just coming out of the stables. “There’s my husband now.”
She bit her lip as Stokes inched his way across the inn yard. Oh, dear. He didn’t look much like an eager bridegroom. He was hobbling along as if his gout were bothering him again, and even from this distance it was plain to see he was old enough to be her father.
“Him?” The man’s tone was incredulous, but at this point Juliana didn’t care if he found her pretend marriage scandalous. She only cared he leave so she and Stokes could follow him straight to Castle Kinross.
“Yes, indeed. He’s, ah…that is, we’re husband and wife.”
A pair of dark brows too elegant for that rugged face drew together over his eyes. He gave her a long, measuring look. “Beg your pardon then, madam.”
He bowed, and turned away with the sort of shrug generally reserved for stubborn children and barking dogs. Ah, good. He’d clearly washed his hands of her, just as she’d hoped he would.
Juliana kept an eye on him as he mounted a towering gray stallion. As soon as he rode out of the inn yard, she ran to meet Stokes. “Quickly, Stokes! Go back to the stables and secure two horses for us.”
Stokes gaped at her as if she’d lost her wits. “I thought we were staying the night!”
“No, there’s no time. I’ll explain it all once we’re on our way. Go on, hurry, while I run upstairs and have a word with Miss Findlay.”
Stokes hurried off toward the stables while Juliana ran upstairs. She returned a few moments later to find him in the inn yard, waiting for the ostler to bring them fresh horses.
When he saw her, he shook his head. “You don’t expect Miss Findlay to mount and ride today, I hope.”
“No, she can’t. I’m afraid she’ll have to stay behind.” Juliana didn’t like to leave her companion alone at the King’s Head Inn. Findlay was upset, and it wasn’t proper for Juliana to travel without her. Then again, worrying about propriety at this point was rather like buffing a pair of riding boots stained with vomit—a wasted effort.
Poor Findlay was in no shape to chase a vigorous Scotsman from Gretna Green to Inverness. Juliana had no choice but to leave her behind with funds to hire a private coach to take her back to London.
As for her and Stokes…
For most people it was a four-day ride from Gretna Green to Inverness, but Fitzwilliam’s brother looked as if he could do it in three. There was no way they’d be able to keep up with him in the coach. No, they had no choice but to do it on horseback, and take care he didn’t notice they were following him.
It was going to be a long three days.
Still, for the first time since this ill-conceived journey began, hope unfolded in Juliana’s breast. At last, everything was falling right into its proper place.
* * * *
If she hadn’t smelled of vomit, Logan might not have noticed her at all.
If the wind had been blowing to the south rather than the north, or if she’d been standing a few feet further from the doorway, he would have passed by her without a second glance. It wasn’t as if she was the first runaway bride he’d seen at the King’s Head Inn. They all stopped here, the guilty bridegrooms and their ill-gotten spouses.
He’d been dismayed the first few times he’d noticed the brides, especially when they were weeping. It was a six-day journey from London to Gretna Green—more than enough time for a young lady to come to regret her clandestine marriage. Red eyes and tear-stained cheeks weren’t an uncommon sight at the King’s Head.
Like most men, Logan found a lady’s tears deeply alarming, but he’d been back and forth between Scotland and England so many times these past few years, he hardly noticed the brides anymore.
But he noticed her.
She wasn’t crying.
The unmistakable smell of vomit was surprising enough to make Logan pause to glance at her, but it was the absence of tears on that pale cheek that made him stop. What sort of lady was distressed enough to cast up her accounts, but not so distressed she couldn’t squeeze out a single tear?
He didn’t have time to spare for some foolish chit who’d wasted herself on a scoundrel, yet he found himself wandering closer to get a better look at her.
English, of course—they always were. Fair hair, a delicate, heart-shaped face, stubborn chin. Her blue riding habit was creased and dirty, and yes, just as he’d suspected, she was the source of the sour smell. The hems of her skirts were stained with what looked suspiciously like someone’s breakfast.
That she was a runaway bride was beyond question, but she was the most composed runaway bride he’d ever seen. Expensively dressed, too. Her riding habit looked as if it were worth a small fortune.
Or it had been, before she’d vomited on it.
An heiress then, lured into a Gretna Green marriage by some fortune hunter, though for a lady who’d been seduced and ruined, she was remarkably calm.
Logan glanced around the inn yard, but the lucky bridegroom was nowhere to be seen. No servant, either. He waited, but no one approached her.
It was damned odd, but it wasn’t his concern, and he didn’t have time to stand about and wait for the mystery to unravel itself. She didn’t seem at all worried about her situation, so he didn’t see any reason why he should be.
He turned away from her with a shrug and went to his horse, but his arse had hardly hit the saddle before he turned back for another glance at her.
She hadn’t stirred a single step, and she was still alone.
Logan sighed, a curse leaving his lips as he dismounted. Damned if he knew why he should care what happened to the girl, but he had a weakness for creatures in need. Stray dogs, injured sheep, sick children, and now, apparently, runaway brides.
She hadn’t noticed him the first time he passed, but this time he strode straight toward her. She saw him at once, and her eyes went wider and wider as he drew closer. They looked as if they’d swallow her pale face, the way the tender new grass swallowed the last patches of winter snow.
Green eyes.
Not just any green, he realized with a jolt of awareness, but an unusually bright green, like a spring leaf lit by the sun.
No doubt those eyes are what got her seduced in the first place.
Logan was so distracted by the color of her eyes he didn’t notice at first that her body had gone rigid, and she was gazing at him in shock—far more shock than the situation called for.
He paused a few feet away from her, confused. “Are you all right, lass? Can I help you?”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. Color flooded her cheeks, and Logan saw she was shaking.
What the devil?
She’d been calm enough a moment earlier, but now she seemed to be fighting off a sudden panic. The flush in her cheeks receded as quickly as it had surged, and she was staring up at him as if she’d seen a ghost. Did she think he was going to hurt her? Logan held up his hands, palms out, to show her he didn’t intend to touch her. “Miss? Is your husband nearby?”
She raised stricken eyes to his. She didn’t reply, but managed a quick shake of her head.
No husband? What the devil was she doing in Gretna Green without a husband, or even a serva
nt to attend her? Unless…
Was it possible the blackguard had already abandoned her? “Has he left you behind?”
This time she didn’t appear to hear him. Her gaze was moving frantically over his face, as if she were mesmerized by his features. Logan wasn’t sure what to make of this strange behavior, other than to assume she had indeed been abandoned, and the shock had addled her wits.
He tried a few more questions, but none of them elicited a coherent response. She only gazed up at him as if she couldn’t credit her own eyes, until finally she murmured, “I don’t…this doesn’t make sense.”
Ah! So, those dainty pink lips could form words, after all. He’d begun to wonder if they were merely decorative. Still, dull-wit or not, the lady was confused, and so he took care to speak gently to her. “He told you he loved you to get you to come with him to Gretna Green, didn’t he, lass? Now he’s gone and left you, hasn’t he?”
This caught her wandering attention. Her wide green eyes went even wider, and her brow lowered. “Left me? No! I’m not—” she began, but before Logan could find out what ailed the chit she broke off, biting her lip.
Not what? Sane? Possessed of her wits?
Logan waited with as much patience as he could muster, but he never got an answer. In the next instant she caught sight of something over his shoulder and exclaimed, “There’s my husband now!”
Logan turned, but the man she indicated was at least thirty years her senior, and dressed like a servant. “Him?”
“Yes, indeed. He’s, ah…that is, we’re husband and wife.” Her words came out in a rush, as if she wished to be rid of them.
Rid of him, as well.
Logan, who’d begun to regret approaching her in the first place, was more than ready to oblige her. “Beg your pardon then, madam.” He bowed, then strode out of the stable yard. Within minutes he was mounted, and riding away from the King’s Head Inn, still shaking his head.
What an odd encounter.
Then again, Gretna Green was just the place one would expect to find a young lady who’d run off with her much older servant. Logan had seen more than one strange thing at the King’s Head.
To Wed A Wild Scot Page 2