The Smithfield Bargain

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “This is insane!”

  When he put his hand on her arm, she flinched. His smile vanished as his fingers clamped on her elbow. She considered resisting when he steered her back to where they had been sitting, but she feared any motion would knock him from his feet. Although his manners were almost as beastly as the knights of the pad, she could not forget that she owed him her life.

  Romayne was silent as she sat and competently reloaded the pistol, a skill she had begged her soldier grandfather to teach her. If James was surprised, he said no more than she did. He sat next to her and drew up one knee, so he could balance his arm on it.

  She flinched again when he asked without preamble, “What are you doing in Scotland dressed in that thin coat and useless slippers?”

  “I was eloping with Bradley Montcrief, my betrothed.”

  “Eloping?” He laughed sharply. “Did you consider waiting a fortnight or two until spring makes such absurdly romantic antics feasible?”

  “We wanted to get married.”

  “And your family disagreed? Or was it his that objected to you?”

  Romayne glowered at him. What a rag-mannered rogue! No wonder his commanders had banished him far from the garrison to this desolate place. “That is no bread-and-butter of yours.”

  His fingers curled around her left wrist. When she would have pulled away, they tightened. Slowly they gentled to brush her fingers in sympathy. She gasped, for even the scant touch scorched her skin with heat. Staring up into his eyes, she wondered what emotions roiled in their depths. He would allow her to see only what he wished.

  “They were cabbage-heads if they considered you beneath their contempt, Romayne. Your Montcrief should count himself a lucky man.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling tears dampening her lashes. “Only bad luck, for I think the highwaymen killed him.”

  “Killed?” James’s teasing tone vanished as his lips became straight again. “Duffie is no murderer. His means usually are pops in the air and off he goes with his prize. I never have heard of him killing anyone.”

  “I heard two gunshots.” Romayne turned to face him. “Could that have been you firing?”

  “No, and I heard the shots as well.” He ran his finger along her cheek to halt the single tear inching along it.

  His unexpected kindness completely undid her. She pressed her face into his shoulder and wept. When he pulled his cloak over her, she let the heavy scent of the damp wool envelop her. His fingers stroked her arm, but he said nothing. She mourned Bradley and the loss of her dreams. She tried not to think of her grandfather’s anger, for she feared he would not welcome her home again. With her reputation in tatters about her, the Polite World would turn its back on her as well.

  As the slow pulse of James’s heart beneath her cheek soothed her like a lullaby, she faded from her living nightmare into one that haunted her as she slept. She knew there would be no escaping it when she woke.

  Chapter Four

  A screech woke Romayne. Fear erupted within her, and she fought to escape the nightmare. Bradley! The highwaymen! She shuddered as she was whipped into the past. A pistol pointed at her. The sound of a shot. Bradley!

  A strong arm pinned her against a warm body and unyielding stones. “No,” she moaned. “Bradley! Don’t hurt Bradley!”

  The arm tightened around her. When she gasped and would have pulled away, she could not move.

  A barely familiar voice ordered, “Steek your gob!”

  “What?” she choked, fearing that she was still lost in the nightmare. Why else would the words sound so alien? She opened her eyes to see a pain-etched face close to hers in the gray twilight. Shadows did not accent every angle, but with ease and horrified dismay, she recognized the man holding her so intimately.

  James aimed a glower at her, then, looking beyond her, snapped, “Keep her quiet, will you? Such screeching is sure to rouse every ghost in the hills.”

  Only then did Romayne realize that he had not been speaking to her. Following his gaze, she was blinded by a piercing brilliance from a lantern that swallowed the feeble light of their lamp. She held up her hand to shield her eyes and blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness. When forms emerged from the glow, she leapt to her feet.

  “Romayne, stop!”

  She ignored James’s shout as she raced to be enfolded in thin arms. She whispered her abigail’s name over and over. Never had she guessed when she left her grandfather’s home in such anticipation that she would be so happy to see Grange again.

  “Child, are you well?” Grange asked in her scratchy voice. She held Romayne at arm’s length, but the faded eyes in her round face were filled with relief. Shorter than Romayne by nearly a head, the older woman’s gaze swept along her to determine for herself the answer to her question.

  Although her muscles ached from the long ride and being pitched from the horse, Romayne offered Thatcher, her grandfather’s groom, a weary smile. The young man’s boots and crimson livery were splattered with mud, but no signs of fatigue were visible on his taut face. Wanting to thank him, too, she refrained. Grange would be outraged if she was so familiar with one of the servants, although Romayne considered Thatcher a friend.

  Looking back at Grange, she said, “I am as well as could be expected under the circumstances.”

  “I thought we had lost you when the storm settled in.”

  Romayne patted her abigail’s arm, for Grange would appreciate no shows of emotion between them. Not that Grange was distant. Indeed, she was quite the opposite. The older woman wished to involve herself in every aspect of her charge’s life, but the thin woman always kept an invisible barrier between her and Romayne. As she had reminded Romayne often, the granddaughter of a duke should have friends only of her exalted class. That had not halted her from considering Grange one of her dearest bosom bows.

  “Grange, thank goodness you did not give up searching for us!” She wrapped her arms around herself. In the midst of the excitement of seeing someone from home, she had forgotten the fierce cold that had clamped onto her.

  The gray-haired woman’s lips became a straight line as she drew Romayne away from where James was slowly rising. A genteel shudder rippled along her gaunt form beneath her thick cloak. “We have spent the last two hours riding through that horrible storm and looking in every cot and byre in the countryside around Coldstream. I fear we became quite lost. It is clear you have as well. When we saw the bit of light from this horrid place, we stopped in here.”

  “Yes, we were lost.” Romayne blinked back the tears pricking her eyes. “Bradley believed we were misdirected when we asked for directions south of here. We had no idea that we had passed the village.”

  “Then you haven’t married?”

  “No.”

  Grange exchanged a relieved look with Thatcher. “Then we arrived in time.” Her forehead furrowed again. “Where is Mr. Montcrief?”

  Biting her lip, Romayne whispered, “I think he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Grange looked from Romayne to James. “What madness is this? I was sure when I found your note pinned under your pillow—a most unoriginal plan, I must say, Lady Romayne—that you were eloping to Coldstream with Mr. Montcrief.”

  “We did elope—I mean, we intended to get married.” She rubbed her hands together, then looked at them. She had forgotten James had given her his glove. “We had reached the Tweed when—I mean …” She hesitated, recalling what James had told her. How much easier this might be if he were not listening to the recounting of her skimble-skamble adventures! She was astonished. Why should she care what a Scotsman—army officer, though he might be—thought?

  James intruded to say, “If I may … Lady Romayne and her companions had lost their way when they were set upon by a band of toby-men. They were robbed, and the highwaymen intended to abduct Lady Romayne.”

  “My dear child,” moaned Grange.

  “But where is Mr. Montcrief?” asked Thatcher.

  Romayne’s voice broke, bu
t she struggled to say, “I fear that they murdered Bradley.”

  Grange’s wrinkled face became a mask of horror. “Murdered? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Gazing up at the ceiling, which was swallowed by the darkness, she fought to keep her tears in her eyes as she whispered, “I don’t know anything about anything any longer.”

  “Child, you should never have run off like this. It was madness. What will His Grace say when you relate this tale to him?” Grange pulled the cloak more tightly over her spencer. “We need not worry about that now, for I fear this storm is ready to leave us all stuck in this hellish place.”

  “What do you wish me to do with him, Grange?” asked Thatcher. “He’s a bold one, he is, to stand there as if nothing’s amiss.”

  “I must say that the world would be better off with one less highwayman,” Grange said without emotion.

  For a moment, Romayne did not understand the import of her abigail’s words. Then, seeing James’s eyes narrow and his fingers slip beneath his cloak, Romayne whirled to discover Thatcher holding a gun which was pointed directly at James. Hearing the click of the hammer, she leapt forward to put her hand on the barrel and push it toward the floor.

  “No,” she cried, “don’t shoot him! Mr. MacKinnon is not a highwayman. He saved me from them! Thatcher, put down that gun before you hurt Mr. MacKinnon worse.”

  Grange cried, “No, Thatcher, don’t let that dashed Scotsman weasel his way out of here! Keep that gun on him. Even if he is no highwayman—”

  “He saved me from the highwaymen!” insisted Romayne.

  “He’s destroyed Lady Romayne’s reputation, and he must make restitution.” The older woman gestured toward Thatcher, who raised the gun again.

  “He did nothing wrong!” Romayne persisted. “Thatcher, put that weapon away before someone gets hurt. Grange, calm yourself before you have a fit. Mr. MacKinnon has been very much the gentleman with me.” She silenced the small voice which reminded her that she was lying. To speak the truth would damn them more. Then she had to own that her rescuer had been as kind to her as circumstances allowed. “If you will recall, Grange, what I told you just moments past, Mr. MacKinnon saved my life. He deserves my thanks. We should help him find his way home, where his arm can be tended to, so that we might return to England and Westhampton Hall. I wish to be done with Scotland and everything in it.”

  Again the abigail shook her head. “I cannot take you back to the duke with your reputation in such a questionable state. You are the only thing your grandfather has, and His Grace would be well within his rights to cock up his toes if he heard of this escapade which has ended with us discovering you with that man.” Pointing her finger to where James stood, she asked with a groan, “What will His Grace say when he learns that you were discovered asleep with your head on his shoulder and his arm about you?”

  “That I was wise to be sure I stayed alive. You have heard his tales of the war in America. He has spoken of nights as cold.”

  “But you are no soldier. You are the granddaughter of a duke.” Grange covered her face with her gloved hands. “Oh, His Grace shall be heart-shattered to hear of this.”

  Romayne glanced toward where James was listening in silence. As opinionated as he had been when they reached the byre, he seemed oddly quiet. She wished he would say something. Gamely she forged on alone. “Grange, you cannot suggest anything untoward might have happened when we were thinking only of fleeing from the highwaymen and finding shelter from the storm.”

  “I suggest nothing except that you must marry him.”

  “Marry him?” she gasped, but anything else she might have added was drowned out by a strange sound.

  Romayne looked at James and realized he was laughing. Surely everyone was queer in the attic tonight! Or in the dawnlight, she corrected herself when she saw the silvery glow inching past the rickety door.

  James took a step toward them, although the groom kept the gun aimed at his chest. “My dear lady—Miss Grange, is it?—you are sadly mistaken if you think I am going to rectify Lady Romayne’s misjudgment in eloping to Scotland by leg-shackling myself to her.”

  “How can she return to her grandfather when it becomes known that we found her sleeping in your arms?”

  He started to shrug, then winced. “As Lady Romayne has just told you, sleeping thusly was nothing but a matter of extremity, for she might have frozen to death if she tried to flee from here to more suitable lodging, as she had wished. She had had a full day with all her dangerous adventures, and I fear we both found sleep too seductive to refuse.”

  The gray-haired woman jabbed her finger in his direction. “Is that all you found too seductive?”

  “Miss Grange, you will note that my right arm is useless,” he returned, his voice growing tight with frustration. Romayne wondered when anyone had last dared to argue with Major MacKinnon. “As lovely as your charge may be, I can assure you that this pain withers any thoughts from my head but finding relief from it.”

  Grange folded her arms over her narrow shelf of bosom that was almost hidden beneath her thick cloak. “The facts are irrefutable, sir. She was discovered asleep in your arms. A most compromising pose.”

  “Please, Grange, James, let us be done with this discussion,” urged Romayne. Wanting to apologize to both of them, she knew anything she said was bound to damage the situation more. “What good does it do? If we—”

  “Silence!” James hissed. He drew his pistol from under his cloak. “There’s someone outside. You, with the gun—”

  Thatcher’s face became as gray as Grange’s hair as he told James his name.

  “Thatcher, guard the ladies back there.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “Listen to him,” urged Romayne. “He knows these hills better than any of us.” Putting her hand on Grange’s arm, she wished she could reveal the truth that James was a soldier, but a promise was a promise. She would not break it … not even to soothe the fright in Grange’s eyes.

  James smiled grimly as he moved into the shadows beside the door. How much more could go amiss tonight? He held his pistol at ready, his thumb on the hammer. Marry Romayne? Any man—and he suffered a pulse of sympathy for the late Bradley Montcrief—who willingly endured her willful nature was beef-headed.

  Pain rippled up his arm, and he clenched his teeth. That man of Romayne’s had best be a good shot, because James doubted if he could reload with just one hand.

  The door opened. He raised his pistol and saw, from the corner of his eyes, Thatcher do the same. Something dark and thick was thrust at him.

  “James, are you still within?”

  “Cameron!” He heard Romayne call for Thatcher to lower his gun, and he put his own back beneath his cloak. “Are you determined to end this night with a ball in your head?”

  Grinning, Sergeant Cameron dropped a mound of blankets. “Now would you be shooting the very man who brings you something to wrap around yourself to fight the cold?” His smile faded as he turned to see Romayne and her servants on the other side of the door. “I hope I brought enough.”

  “How goes the storm?” James walked slowly to the door.

  He saw Thatcher watching him uneasily, then lowering the gun barrel toward the floor. The lad wore a sheepish grin.

  “The wind seems to be increasing again,” said Cameron. “Could not see farther than the tip of my nose.” He grinned. “Good thing it’s of a grand length.”

  “It’s worse?” Grange asked. “It was moderating when we set out from Coldstream.”

  James shook his head in disbelief. “You would have been wiser to stay there. What good would you have done Lady Romayne if you had frozen to death along one of these deserted roads?”

  “We did find you,” Grange returned.

  “Good fortune smiles on blind buzzards.” Not giving anyone a chance to retort to his insult, James went on, “The snow has stopped for the moment, although the wind is fierce. Yet I think you would agree that Lady Roma
yne is not dressed for an extended stay in this bourach—hut,” he amended when he saw confused expressions on the English faces.

  Romayne recoiled from his emerald eyes, then raised her chin in defiance. She had proven to him, whether he wished to believe it or not, that she could survive the night in this horrid place. Turning to Thatcher, she asked, “How many horses do you have with you?”

  “Three. We brought an extra for you, Lady Romayne.”

  “I have two,” piped up Cameron. “But I have no boots for the lady. There was no time to find them.”

  “It is of no importance,” Romayne said, although the cold gnawed at her feet. “We have enough horses. Let us be gone from this byre.”

  “I agree,” James said. “We should be able to reach Struthcoille by midday if we start now.”

  “Midday?” she asked weakly. It could not be much later than dawn. The idea of traveling that long through the cold, which seeped under the door, was appalling.

  “It’s no more than a league.”

  Romayne smiled her thanks as Grange draped two of the blankets over her shoulders. Pulling them to her chin, she said, “I care little how far it is. Let us get there with all haste. I fear my bones will break with the cold if we don’t find a warm hearth and hot water for a bath soon.”

  He laughed, but she noted its brittle undercurrent. James must be suffering more pain than he wanted any of them to guess. “You are accustomed to the life of the granddaughter of a duke, but I suspect my aunt and her daughter will make you as comfortable as they can in their small house.”

  “Aunt? Cousin?” Grange brightened. “I trust they are of good character?”

  “It is not a school of Venus.” When the older woman flushed, he added, “The house is plain, but it offers a hearth where we all can warm ourselves after our cold night.” He motioned toward the door as if he was their host.

  Romayne had forgotten in the few hours they had spent in the hut how viciously the cold burned her face with its icy caress. Hunching her shoulders, she hesitated as spurts of wind strove to knock her off her feet. She ignored Grange’s injunction to hurry as she waited for James and his sergeant to come out of the stone building.