The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Confound it, was there anyplace she hadn’t kicked or hit him?

  “How did you find me?” she asked in a prickly tone.

  It had been blind luck, but in his present mood he couldn’t resist needling her. “For a tracker, you’re not very good at covering your own.”

  “I’m no tracker, whatever that might be.”

  “You trail outlaws and bring them in to collect the rewards.” His gaze kept returning to that vulnerable little hollow at the nape of her neck. “Perhaps the Scots have a different word for it, but we call that tracking.”

  “Do you mean to say you think I do this regularly? Not just for this Gothard fellow, but for others?”

  “It’s exactly what you do, and we both know it. See here, Emerald, you’re becoming legend. There are few hereabouts who don’t know what you do, and I won’t have you telling me you’re one of them.”

  She huffed and jerked on the reins, jarring his bruised body and causing Chiron to shy. The end of one of her plaits flew back on the breeze, tickling his face. His stomach growled.

  “Hungry, are you?”

  “It’s long past time for dinner.” He didn’t know which plagued him worse: his poor abused body or his empty belly. “And I hadn’t time for breakfast this morning.”

  “You must be sure to rise earlier next time you resolve to ruin someone’s life.”

  He didn’t rise to that bait, and they rode for a while more in uneasy silence. He wondered if he should give in and return her to the coach. But then he noticed her fiddling with her amulet.

  Emerald.

  Remembering her nick from the scuffle with the Gothards, he stiffened his resolve. She could get herself killed out there alone.

  “You’ll thank me for protecting you later,” he murmured under his breath.

  “You’re not doing this out of responsibility and kindness.” Emerald’s smug words held a challenge. “Did you really think I’d fall for such an impossibly noble excuse? You want to kill this man Gothard, and you’re afraid I’ll get to him before you do and steal your reward out from under you.” Evidently pleased with her powers of deduction, she leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction, jabbing her shoulder into his wound.

  He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let her believe that nonsense, if it pleased her. Though she could hardly have accused him of a motive that was more out of character, it wasn’t surprising a girl like Emerald would find such a rationale acceptable. Telling the truth, that he was concerned for her life, must have insulted her prideful nature.

  Her explanation suited his purposes perfectly.

  For the first time in days, he found himself pleased by a turn of events.

  EIGHTEEN

  THAT EVENING, the clink of cutlery on pewter and the buzz of ale-lubricated conversation filled Caithren’s ears as her gaze wandered the well-lit taproom of the Crown Hotel in Bawtry.

  She inhaled deeply of a steaming chunk of meat pie before popping it into her mouth. “Not bad for English food,” she admitted around the bite. “Hunger is the best kitchen.”

  The Englishman—Mr. Chase—set down his tankard and steepled his fingers. “Translate?”

  “Food tastes better when you’re hungry. English food, at any rate.”

  Ignoring the barb, Mr. Chase lifted his spoon. She watched him, remembering when she’d first set eyes on him and thought he was handsome—well, except for the King Charles mustache and the beautiful overlong hair. Now he just looked stubborn and irritating.

  She deliberately looked away, out one of the Crown Hotel’s large, fine glass windows. Across the street and to the right, candles glinted through the mottled windows of a nice, small plastered inn called the Turnpike. Down on the left sat the Granby Inn, a squat, square building that looked perfectly acceptable.

  Mr. Chase had certainly chosen an enormous, expensive hotel. She wondered if he had money. He didn’t look it. But she felt like she was staying in a private mansion. There were marble pillars in the entrance hall. And the hotel had fifty-seven rooms. Fifty-seven!

  She wiggled on her chair, which was plush and upholstered and felt luxurious. At home they had only plain wooden chairs around their table. After spending half the day on horseback, the padding was welcome.

  “You’ll reach London much faster on horseback than by coach,” Mr. Chase said, interrupting her musings. “This arrangement will work to your benefit.”

  “Aye?” She touched her emerald amulet. If all went as planned, this arrangement would end come midnight or so.

  “We’ll make it there in five or six days instead of nine. Long before the coach. And I hope before Gothard.”

  She took a dainty bite of her pie. “Gothard?” she echoed, unable to resist baiting him.

  “Geoffrey Gothard,” he clarified and stabbed his spoon into his own pie.

  “Oh, him.” She chortled to herself, peeking at his thunderous expression. He was so serious, this Englishman. “You’d best go faster if you want to catch him. He was fixing to ‘ride like the dickens,’ whatever that means.”

  “It means he was planning to ride quickly.” He polished off the last of his bread, studying her with a calculating green gaze. “How is it you know this?”

  Cait sighed. “I told you I heard Geoffrey and Wat talking, when I was looking for my brother at Scarborough’s place.”

  “Well, we made decent time today.” He flexed his shoulder, a pained look coming over his face. “We shall ride like the dickens, then, and with luck I’ll find the blackguard right off.”

  “You’re hoping for luck, are you?” Toying with the handle of her dull pewter tankard, she drew a deep breath. “You can increase your luck by looking for Gothard at the home of someone named Lucas.”

  He stopped mid-chew. “Pardon?”

  She took time for a sip of ale, half-hoping he would choke from curiosity. “The Gothards are going to London to get something from this man Lucas.” She sipped again. “If he fails to give them what they want, they plan to murder him.”

  “Lucas Gothard? They plan to kill the Earl of Scarborough?”

  Caithren shrugged. “Is that Scarborough’s given name? Adam didn’t say.”

  “What else did they say?”

  “You cannot expect me to remember an entire conversation.”

  He said nothing, but she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Uncomfortable under his gaze, she reached into her skirt pocket to touch the miniature portrait of Adam. Her one memento of home—and the only thing she had to her name right now, save the clothes on her back.

  Mr. Chase was studying her, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you let the Gothards get away?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, and it’s a nice story. Very well done of you. But for you to know this much, well, it’s perfectly clear you’re none other than Emerald MacCallum, and there isn’t a chance you’ll convince me otherwise. Are you going to eat that?” He indicated her bread.

  “Help yourself.”

  As she watched him reach across and break off a piece, Cait struggled for calm. She’d punished him with silence earlier, but it had been at least as hard on her as it had on him. No sense continuing the unpleasantness when she’d never see him again after tonight. Although if he called her Emerald one more time, a swift kick where it hurt might be in order.

  He washed down a second piece of her bread with his ale. “Tell me why you’re looking for your brother.”

  His tone implied he was trying to pacify her. That would annoy her if she let it, but she wouldn’t.

  Maybe if she told him more of her story, he would come to believe her.

  “According to my father’s will, Adam will inherit all of Leslie unless I marry within the year.”

  Plates rattled and diners chattered in the background. “And…?”

  “Marriage is out of the question.” She flashed him a bright, facetious grin. “I find men far too demanding and controlling.”

  He appeared to be coughi
ng up his ale.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “No.” He thumped himself on the chest, then winced. “Continue.”

  “Well, Adam isn’t fit to run Leslie. A restless sort, Adam is. And since I don’t plan to marry, I need his signature on some papers relinquishing his rights to the property in exchange for a generous allowance.” She fixed him with her best accusing glare. “The papers are in my satchel on the coach.”

  “I’ll have another set drawn up in London.” He blotted his mouth with his napkin. “At my expense.”

  “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, the Englishman gazed at her supper. “Are you going to finish that?”

  She shoved her half-eaten pie in his direction. “By all the saints, you’re a bottomless pit. It’s a wonder you’re not fat as old King Henry.”

  “Runs in the family.” With a scrape, he pulled it closer.

  “As the sow fills, the draff sours.”

  “Pardon?”

  She watched the pie methodically disappear. “The more you eat, the less you enjoy your food.”

  “Another of your mother’s pearls of wisdom?”

  “Aye, her words were wise.”

  “In this case, her words were wrong.” He washed down the last of her supper with the last of her ale, then stood. “It was quite enjoyable. Now I must dash off a note and post it to Scarborough, to warn him of his brothers’ intentions. And another note to my family. They’ll be wondering where I am.” He rooted in his pocket and pulled out a key. “Would you like to go up? The innkeeper had naught but a single room, but I’m certain we’ll fare well together.”

  “You are, are you?”

  “Yes,” he said, so tolerantly she gritted her teeth. “Room twenty-six, upstairs and to the left. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Handing her the key, he started out of the taproom, then turned back. Walking right up to her, he clasped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his solemn gaze. “I can trust you to wait?”

  She was too startled to protest at his touching her again. “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him, the key’s hard metal edges biting into her clenched fist.

  Not yet, anyway.

  NINETEEN

  CAITHREN HEADED up the fancy wrought-iron staircase, fuming as she looked for number twenty-six.

  It was clear Mr. Chase didn’t like her, yet he expected her to share his chamber tonight. Fifty-seven rooms and only one available? She didn’t believe him for a moment. He planned on keeping his eye on her.

  She was glad she’d be rid of him soon. She’d never figure him out. Most especially, she’d never figure out what it was about him that made her want to goad him. Or what is was about him that made her want to touch him.

  Surprise made her stop dead on the landing. Did she want to touch him? She’d never particularly wanted to touch a man before. Then again, she’d never met a man with eyes like the Englishman’s.

  Fiercely, she brought up a mental image of his mustache.

  There. That was better.

  When she reached the end of the corridor, she turned in disgust. She must have gone right, not left.

  Mr. Chase was standing at the other end, watching her. “Are you lost?” he called.

  “Nay.” She hurried toward him. “I only wanted to have a wee look around.”

  Raising a brow, he took the key from her hand and fitted it into number twenty-six’s lock.

  When the door swung open, she gasped and shot him an accusatory glare. “There’s only one bed.”

  “I told you there was only one room. It’s no fault of mine it has only one bed.” He walked in and set his portmanteau on the bed in question. “We’ll manage.”

  She stood on the threshold, eyeing the room with trepidation.

  “Come in, will you?” He rolled his eyes, an expression that seemed odd on him. “I’m no threat to your virtue.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” And it was true. As confusing and infuriating as he was, she felt safe in his presence. It made no sense. She knew it made no sense, which was why she was nervous.

  Since she couldn’t just stand there, she entered but left the door open. He removed his surcoat and tossed it over the back of a lovely carved chair, then went around the room lighting candles.

  She wandered over and fingered the fabric of the brown coat. Fine stuff, although plain. Stitching neat enough to rival her mother’s. “Mam always despaired of my sewing,” she blurted.

  What an inane thing to say. As though he cared. But she’d never been good at controlling her mouth when she was jumpy like this.

  He shut the door, blocking out the noises of other people in the corridor and downstairs. “Did she, now?”

  “Aye, she claimed I’d never make a proper wife. Never mind that I’m capable of seeing to the health and provisioning of every soul at Leslie.”

  He moved an extra candle to the dressing table. “At Leslie, huh?” From his leather bags came two shirts and a pair of breeches, which he left in an untidy heap on the bed, then an ivory comb, a razor, a brush, and a ball of soap. “If you can do all that, I cannot see whereas sewing would make a difference one way or the other.”

  “Don’t you need a wife who can sew?” She hadn’t finished saying it before heat rushed to her cheeks. Crivvens, she couldn’t stop blethering.

  “I don’t need a wife at all.” He set the implements on the dressing table and examined himself in its fine mirror. “My sister, Kendra, takes care of running my household.”

  “How about after she marries?”

  His eyes met Cait’s in the silvery surface. “That isn’t likely. Anytime soon, at least. Although she’s seventeen, she’s yet to show interest in any man.”

  “Same as me,” she said softly.

  His gaze held hers for a moment; there was something peculiar in that clear green gaze. Her stomach fluttered. Perhaps she wasn’t as safe with him as she’d thought.

  He stroked his mustache, then sighed and set to work with the brush and soap, making a fine lather. When he started brushing it onto his face, Caithren felt she shouldn’t watch. It seemed too intimate. Instead she walked to the window and drew aside the drapes.

  It was pitch black behind the hotel, and she couldn’t see a thing. With a sigh, she let the curtain drop and ran a hand down the wall beside the window. It had wallpaper—thick sheets nailed to the wall, with flock printing. The paper’s pattern felt velvety under her fingers. She’d heard of wallpaper, but she’d never actually seen any before.

  The blade made a small scraping noise that sounded loud in the silence. Despite herself, she sneaked a glance in the mirror. She hadn’t seen him clean-shaven, and she was annoyed to find her fingers itched to touch the newly exposed smooth skin. Looking away, she went to the bed and started folding the clothes he’d left there. This also felt strangely intimate, but it irked her to see his fine garments mistreated.

  Still, her gaze kept wandering to the emerging planes of his face.

  He dipped the brush again, rubbed white foam in a wide arc beneath his nose, caught his upper lip with his teeth—

  “What are you doing?” she burst out.

  “Removing my mustache.” Calmly—as he did everything else—he drew the razor over a section, rinsed it in the washbowl, shaved the next patch. And on, until many black hairs floated on top of the water, and the space above his lip was bare and a touch paler than the rest of his face.

  He rubbed it. “Feels odd.”

  He flashed a rueful smile full of straight, white teeth she hadn’t noticed before. Her own mouth gaped open as she laid the second shirt on the bed and sat herself at the edge, her hands clenched in her lap.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She finally found her tongue. “You look young.”

  He laughed. “And just how old did you think I was?”

  “I don’t know,” she hedged, mentally kicking herself for making such a brainless
comment in the first place. “Older.”

  “I’m twenty-three.” He looked back in the mirror, turning his head this way and that.

  “Twenty-three?” They were much closer in age than she’d thought. “But you’re so—” She clamped her mouth shut. What was wrong with her this night?

  “Yes?” He turned around and watched Cait as she felt her cheeks slowly turn red. His beautiful mouth split into a grin. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know what you were going to say.”

  “I—” She could see her flaming face in the mirror behind him. “I was only going to say that you seem a…a rather serious young man.”

  Except now he was laughing again. “I know. I was handed a lot of responsibility at an early age. That’s why I grew the mustache. I thought if I looked older…” His fingers moved to stroke the absent whiskers, then jerked away. “I miss it already.”

  “I thought you wore it in imitation of the king.” She gestured at the glorious long hair that reached to the middle of his chest. “You look like a Cavalier.”

  “My family did support Charles in the war,” he said distractedly. One hand went up to stroke the wavy mass. “Well, there’s nothing for it,” he announced in resigned tones.

  “Nothing for what?”

  “The hair.” He reached for his knife. “It must come off as well.”

  She cocked her head. “Why?”

  “Same reason I shaved the mustache. Gothard knows I’m alive now. I don’t want him to notice me following him. I’ll look different, yes?”

  “Well, aye. But you look different already,” she argued. Why did she care?

  He glanced in the looking glass again. “Not different enough.” Holding a hank of the beautiful black silk, he measured it against his shoulder and hacked off a hunk. Crookedly.

  She winced. “You’re going to look like a wallydraigle.”

  His expression went from pained concentration to obvious amusement. “A what?”

  “A most slovenly creature.” She moved closer. “I’ll cut it for you,” she said, “if you’ll go down to the kitchen and ask to borrow a pair of scissors.”