The Bride Says No

by Cathy Maxwell

  “It didn’t sound ridiculous to me at the time. And it doesn’t sound ridiculous now.”

  “But it is. Tara, love is a myth, an illusion . . . a fantasy. Men and women are too selfish for such an emotion to exist between them for any length of time.”

  “You sound so jaded.”

  The accusation stung. “Not jaded, experienced. I’ve seen both sides. I had a marriage in which the earl passed me on to the highest bidder. And I tossed it all away because I thought I was in love.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “With Peter Pollard?” Aileen shook her head. “I don’t know anymore. Certainly I had intense feelings for him, or could that have been a reaction to Geoff’s cruelty? In the end, it doesn’t matter.” She soothed a hand over her sister’s shoulder. “What is important is that for women of our station in life, there are expectations. I was foolish to believe I could do otherwise.”

  “But what if I want more?”

  Tara’s question hung in the air between them a moment before Aileen informed her sadly, “There is nothing more. You should use my life as a cautionary tale.”

  A flash of rebellion came to Tara’s eye. “I am not you—” she started, but she broke off as the door to her bedroom opened. The two lads with the bathwater came out with empty buckets, followed Mrs. Watson. She was a petite, thin woman with steel gray hair and a kind nature. She appeared a bit flushed, and Aileen could only imagine the running around she’d been doing to hastily prepare for Tara’s arrival.

  “Lady Tara, welcome home,” she said, bowing her head in welcome.

  “Even dressed as I am?” Tara asked.

  “We will accept you any way we can receive you, my lady,” Mrs. Watson answered. “And clothes can be changed . . . which I suggest you see to now,” she added briskly.

  Tara looked to Aileen. “This is why I had to return. It’s been too long since anyone just accepted me for being me. And it is good to be surrounded by Scottish voices, and Scottish attitudes.” She smiled. “Excuse me, Aileen. I am now under instruction to change from these clothes. I’m thankful the lad I purchased them from didn’t have fleas.”

  “I didn’t have time to assign a maid, my lady,” Mrs. Watson said. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Watson, that will be all,” Tara answered. “I know how to undress myself, and I shall appreciate a moment alone.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Tara walked into her room and turned, holding the door and preventing Aileen from chasing after her. “We’ll discuss this later, sister,” she said. “I’m tired to the point of fatigue.” She shut the door, practically in Aileen’s face.

  “It is good to have her home,” Mrs. Watson said. “So very good.”

  “Aye, it is,” Aileen murmured absently, wondering why Tara had really bolted days before her wedding.

  Her sister was not being honest. She told some of the truth, but not all.

  Geoff had been a mere baronet’s son. His had been a difficult nature, and Aileen knew all too well why his father had been willing to pay to see him married. However, Mr. Stephens was allied with a powerful and undoubtedly proud duke. In spite of the unconventional circumstances of his birth, he had a good reputation. Aileen prayed her sister knew what she was doing.

  She also hoped Tara understood why she was doing it.

  Aileen knew all too well that the “whys” were always more important than any other questions.

  In the safe haven of the room of her childhood, a room of soft blue, rose and greens, Tara finally drew her first relieved breath.

  She had done it.

  She had escaped London, escaped a future mapped out for her, escaped a genteel life of affluence, security, prestige and honor. She’d run away from it all.

  Tara walked over to the window. Her room overlooked the back of the house. Aileen was a gardener, and Tara could see the work of her sister’s hand on the flowerbeds and an herb garden that had not been there before. The world was peaceful here, not hectic and uncaring like London. Tara hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the valley.

  Her eye went to the stables a short distance from the house. A line of beeches formed a boundary between the garden and the important business of breeding the racehorses for which Annefield was becoming renowned. Who would have thought their father’s whim would turn out so handsomely? Then again, the success of the breeding program was not by his hard work. That was owed to another—and she wondered if he was there.

  Through the trees, she glimpsed a handsome, big-boned bay tethered to the hitching post. Her heart sprang to life.

  Ruary Jamerson was here. His presence at this very moment of her homecoming had to be a divine sign.

  Aileen might not believe in love, but Tara did.

  She turned and took two steps, ready to run down to the stables, but then paused.

  What was she going to say? What should she say?

  She’d been so intent on coming back to him that she hadn’t given a thought of how she would explain herself. It had been three years since they’d had that last argument. Three years since she’d spurned his suit and walked away.

  But Ruary had never left her thoughts. He was the man by which she had judged all others. She’d even dreamed of him. Indeed, the closer the time had drawn toward her wedding, the more frequent and vivid her dreams had become, until she’d faced the truth a week ago: she loved Ruary Jamerson, and she always would. She just hadn’t realized it until that moment and with a wedding to another man staring her in the face.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass above her dressing table. She’d changed over the years. Her looks had matured, sharpened. Gone was the softness of youth. She was a woman now, one who finally knew her own mind.

  And one who was dressed in a lad’s garb and smelled foul of her own odor and sweat.

  Tara began ripping off her clothes and within seconds was scrubbing herself in the tub. The fine-milled soap smelled of lavender, and she lathered herself twice to be certain the stench was gone.

  Mrs. Watson had already hung a few of the dresses from Tara’s portmanteau in the room’s wardrobe, and she’d placed shoes and smallclothes in the drawers. Tara grabbed the first garment available, a creamy gauze trimmed in her favorite Belgian lace. Was it too fancy for Annefield? She didn’t care. She couldn’t waste a second longer before confessing her love to Ruary and begging his forgiveness.

  Within minutes she was out the door.

  Chapter Two

  The chestnut challenged him on this clear summer day. The horse’s nostrils flared and he kept his head high, pulling on the lead line, but Ruary Jamerson was patient. He’d not met a horse yet he could not conquer. His pride demanded it. And this stallion was a beauty. With his spirited nature, he would win races from here to Newmarket, which would please the earl of Tay and burnish Ruary’s growing reputation as a top-notch trainer.

  Stone and timber stalls lined the yard in a horseshoe shape. Ruary believed horses learned more by watching each other than they did from any man. The lads laughed at him, but his methods worked. Annefield had produced two renowned racehorses, and this chestnut could be the third. Already there was a list of buyers interested in him.

  The fourth wall held a wide entryway lined with storage and grain rooms. Vehicles, plows, rakes and the like, along with cows, chickens and pigs, were kept in the other barn off and away from the horses.

  Annefield was a large estate, but it was no longer Ruary’s only stable. He now trained horses throughout this area of Scotland and had received offers from as far away as the Netherlands. Not that he would ever leave the Tay Valley. This was his home.

  Keeping a critical eye on the bay, Ruary said to the stable lads watching him work, “I see no lameness.” He held up the lead, a signal for the colt to slow down. “Exercise him on the morrow. Our regular schedule, but start him easy. Build him up to gallop the last three-eighths and we’ll go from there.”

  “A
ye, Mr. Jamerson,” Angus, the head groom, said. “Will you be here for the morning ride?”

  “I’m not planning to be,” Ruary answered. “Breccan Campbell wants me to look over some stock. I’ll come later.” He started gathering the colt’s line. The horse followed, his head low, submissive. Ruary patted his neck. “We did well, Angus.”

  “I didn’t agree with you when you said you wanted to breed his dam to Emperor. Thought the stud too hot, but he must know how to run, because this one does.”

  “I wouldn’t place money against him.”

  “Neither would I, Mr. Jamerson. Neither would I.”

  Mr. Jamerson. The respect in the groom’s voice filled Ruary with pride. He’d worked hard to reach this point, and it had not been easy.

  He’d been an orphan, a Romany by-blow no one had wanted. His mother had been blonde and fair, a kitchen maid whose good looks had caught her the wrong sort of attention. His father had been swarthy and dark. Together, they had created a son who had his mother’s blue eyes and father’s black hair. He stood six feet tall, and he had square shoulders and a horseman’s grace. The ladies had always been wild for him.

  But his turbulent childhood had kept him humble. He would have come to a bad end if his path hadn’t crossed Old Dickie’s. A groom much like Angus, Old Dickie had been wise in the ways of horses and men. He’d spotted something in Ruary that had been different from most others, and he’d given a lost boy food and a future.

  Of course, Ruary had once come close to losing it all. He’d been foolish enough to fall in love with the wrong woman. Lady Tara Davidson had been too far above his touch, he understood that now; however, at the time, he’d wanted her. He’d loved her.

  And he had thought she’d loved him.

  Love. It could blind a man to what was important.

  If three years ago he’d tossed all aside for Tara, then they would not call him Mr. Jamerson with so much respect. That didn’t mean his heart hadn’t been broken, but he had survived—and he was a wiser man for it. Life was good now.

  He handed the lead line to Angus. “The lads are doing well with the colt.” He looked to a group of stable boys. “Who rides him?”

  The smallest, a towheaded boy of perhaps nine years of age—the same age Ruary had been when he’d started riding horses—said, “I do, sir.”

  “Keep your hand light when you work him. He’s a sensitive animal and we want to keep him that way,” Ruary said.

  “Aye, sir. And he does like to go.”

  The pride in the boy’s voice made Ruary smile. “Keep that in him.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Ruary said, “I’ll see you on the morrow, Angus, later in the day.” He started walking toward the entryway.

  Tack boxes lined the entryway’s walls that faced the windowless grain room. This was where Ruary mixed the special feed from the recipe he had developed himself. He thought to check the oat supply, but before he could go inside, a woman walked into the entryway, a woman he had thought never to see again.

  Lady Tara Davidson.

  Her unannounced appearance caught him off guard almost as much as her beauty did.

  Had he truly believed he had overcome his emotions for her?

  In this moment, seeing her with the sun behind her, highlighting her glorious red-gold hair curling down around her shoulders, Ruary’s heart slammed against his chest with a force that robbed him of breath and stopped him in his tracks.

  She was more lovely than ever. Achingly so. The years in London had added maturity to her face that enhanced her beauty.

  Her lips parted as if his presence had surprised her as well, and then she smiled, her eyes glad, welcoming—and Ruary felt as if all the solid ground beneath his feet had suddenly given way.

  Tara had come in search of Ruary, but she hadn’t expected to almost walk into his arms.

  For a second, all she could do was stare.

  He had changed . . . but in the right way, a good way. He seemed taller, stronger, more commanding.

  This is what she’d missed in the men in London. Yes, with his sharp blue eyes and dark looks, he was handsomer than the majority of them. But, save for Blake Stephens, they had lacked Ruary’s masculinity.

  Of course, Blake did not care about her. Not truly. She knew that.

  But this man, her Ruary, had once offered his heart and soul to her. And she had not valued them. She had not realized how precious a gift his love had been.

  Ruary broke the silence first, his gaze shifting away from her. “Lady Tara, how good to see you.” His words sounded rote, wooden, as if he groped for them.

  “It is good to see you as well,” she returned, equally formal in spite of the wild pounding of her heart. She had traveled a long way for him and had imagined him throwing himself at her feet in gratitude. It was a ludicrous picture. She knew that. But she had not expected this sudden awkwardness.

  Ruary stepped to the side. “If you will excuse me, my lady?” He didn’t wait for her response but began to pass her.

  She could not let him go. Not until she’d said her piece. She had given up so much, traveled so far. She reached for his arm, took hold of it. He stopped. Surprised. They now stood inches from each other.

  “I need to speak to you,” she whispered.

  He frowned at the ground. “That is not necessary—”

  “It is.”

  Ruary didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He seemed to study the rusted hinge on the nearest wooden tack box, yet she knew he was as aware of her hand on him as she was. This connection was a force stronger than any she had ever known.

  “I’ve surprised you,” she said. “I know my appearance is a shock.”

  “This is your home.” There was a beat of silence, then he said, “I understand you are to marry.”

  Of course he’d heard about her upcoming marriage. That was the reason for his restraint.

  Tara could have laughed for joy, but then she heard voices in the stable yard. They were not alone and she needed to speak to him, to pour out her heart. She pulled him into the shadowy haven of the grain room. They used to meet here. It had been one of their hiding places.

  He came. He followed.

  He did care.

  “I was to marry,” she admitted, keeping her voice low, not wanting them to be overheard and disturbed. “In three days’ time—but then I found I couldn’t go through with it. I bolted.”

  She had his complete attention now. “Bolted? Tara, what are you saying?”

  “You called me by my given name,” she said with a touch of wonder.

  Ruary reacted as if she’d struck him. “I’m sorry, I meant, my lady—”

  She stopped his apology by throwing her arms around him, an impetuous move that brought her right where she wanted to be. She held tight. He smelled of fresh air, shaving soap and leather. She had missed the scent of him. “You are not out of line. You never could be. It’s just that I’d feared never hearing my name upon your lips again. It sounds like music to me. How could I have been so foolish those years ago as to leave you?”

  Ruary responded with a moment of stunned silence. He stood very still, as if he was not ready to return the embrace. “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t go through with the marriage. I realized it was you I wanted. You, Ruary. I can’t live without you.”

  She expected a response. For three years, the finest men in London had begged her to say such words to them.

  Ruary’s mouth opened, but he could not speak.

  “I have shocked you,” Tara said, wanting him to know she understood and excused his uneasiness. “Our parting was difficult. I’ve thought of it often.”

  She didn’t wait for his answer but charged ahead, “I was cruel to you when I left. Do you remember begging me to choose you instead of going to London? I could not hear of it because . . . I was afraid. There. That is the truth. Father would have been angry. Yes, he would. I also feared that if I didn’t go to London, if I didn�
�t see all the world had to offer, then I would have regrets. I would always wonder, What if?”

  “Tara, you have nothing to explain—”

  “But I do. I hurt you when I chose to leave. I know I did.”

  Ruary took her arms and slowly, gently pushed her a step away. Dear God, she had so missed his touch. And there was such a look of concern in his eyes. He loved her. She knew he did. In spite of the years apart, the connection between them was as strong as ever.

  “Tara—” he started, his expression serious, but he had no chance to continue because, from out in the entryway, a woman’s musical voice interrupted the moment.

  “Hello, Angus, have you seen Mr. Jamerson?”

  Ruary released Tara’s arms as if he’d been scalded. He turned to the door, blocking Tara’s view.

  Angus answered the woman, “Aye, Miss Sawyer. I saw him earlier, but I thought he’d left.” Their voices were so close they had to be practically standing by the grain room door.

  “Marcus is still here,” Miss Sawyer answered, referring to Ruary’s horse.

  Sawyer. Tara knew the name.

  Ruary started for the door. Tara reached out, wanting to grab his jacket and hold him back, but before she could, he said, “I’m here, Jane.”

  Jane Sawyer. Of course, Tara knew her. Jane was the smithy’s daughter. They were of the same age and had attended kirk services and valley assemblies together. The Scots were more egalitarian than the English. When there was a dance, everyone was invited, although all knew their proper place.

  “Right where?” Miss Sawyer asked, her frustration evident in her tone.

  Ruary stepped out into the entry. “In the grain room.” The doorway framed the two of them for Tara’s vision. “I had to check the supplies.”

  Jane Sawyer had grown up in the last three years. Tara remembered her as being hopelessly bookish. She was now less dowdy, although her plain blue day dress was practical and obviously locally styled. She’d coaxed her dark hair into curls beneath a straw hat trimmed in yellow ribbon.

  She was pretty . . . in a provincial way, if one liked cherry cheeks.