The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Jason was already running for the exit.

  JASON STRODE through Lord Darnley’s front door, past the gaping footman and into a swarm of glittering guests. Scarborough. Where was Scarborough? What the deuce did the man look like? He’d seen him once or twice at court, but, hang it, he’d never paid much attention, and—

  With a jolt of relief he spotted him. Sandy-haired, like Gothard, but taller and sporting a broad mustache. Dressed in deep blue velvet and apparently unconcerned, Scarborough stood in a circle of young men, discussing the shocking news that Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor, had resigned earlier in the day.

  “Barbara was leaning from her window, cheering at his departure,” Scarborough said as Jason walked up. Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine and the king’s longtime mistress, had always hated Clarendon. “So do you know what he said to her?”

  The men leaned closer into the circle. “What?”

  “’Pray remember, my lady, that if you live, you will grow old.’”

  Amid their laughter, Jason touched Scarborough on the arm. “I apologize for interrupting, but there’s a matter of some urgency.”

  Scarborough turned, a look of confusion on his face. “Yes?”

  Just as Jason was about to respond, a flash of silver caught his eye.

  He spun around, shoving Scarborough from harm’s way as he drew his rapier from its scabbard. “I arrest you in the name of the king,” he cried, startled to hear how his voice carried. “You will put down your weapons and wait here for the magistrate.”

  The music stopped, and as one, the wedding guests turned to watch. Jason’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Now, Gothard.”

  The disguised man’s gaze held hard and unwavering. “We meet again,” he drawled through the bushy brown beard. “My nearest and dearest enemy.”

  Words familiar to Jason. Familiar and enraging. “Once and for all, why should you call me your enemy?”

  Gothard’s sunburned features went tight with resentment. His blue eyes narrowed. “You have what should rightfully be mine.”

  “Rightfully yours?” Again Jason had the feeling he’d seen those eyes. Befuddled, his head swam. “I have nothing that is yours. And because of this misconception, you’ve been following me, trying to kill me?”

  “I never wanted to kill you,” Gothard said with a smile—a cold one. “Only to enjoy some of your riches. They should have been mine. Including your girl.” The familiar eyes turned as cold as the smile. “I’d have taken her long before now if you’d ever left her alone.”

  Jason ignored the threat to Cait. She was safe. But he swiped at his missing mustache, infuriated.

  All the disguises and hiding, and Gothard had never been out to kill them. Just playing hide-and-seek.

  “And Scarborough?” He nodded in the man’s direction.

  “Him I want dead.” The wild sheen in Gothard’s eyes said he wasn’t sane. “With him dead, Wat inherits and I get what I deserve.”

  What he deserved was questionable at the moment. He was well and truly mad. “What about what I deserve, Gothard? What do I owe you and why?”

  “May you roast for all eternity.” Gothard moved forward, then pulled back when Jason brandished his sword. “Both you and the father we share.”

  Confusion and anger coursing through him, Jason advanced. “We share nothing!” He circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the wedding guests.

  The blade’s thin shadow flickered across the candlelit parquet floor. His mind whirled with thoughts of little Mary, her mother Clarice, Cait and her brother Adam…all the blood, the irrational violence.

  With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the ballroom.

  “I was born first,” Gothard yelled. “It should be mine, all mine!”

  He slashed wildly, catching Jason’s sword across the middle. The vibrations shimmied up Jason’s arm. Muscles tense, he swung and thrust, and again steel bashed against steel. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.

  What Gothard was saying couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be this demon’s half brother.

  They scrambled onto the dance floor, and the crowd scurried back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He would never believe it, never. He edged Gothard back against the wall. Gothard took sudden advantage, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, broke free with a metallic twang.

  His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But the other man’s breath came hard and ragged.

  Measuring his foe, Jason put his all into one determined swipe of his sword, and Gothard’s went clanging to the floor and skittered into the crowd of gaping spectators.

  “I came not to kill today, Gothard, but merely to see justice done.” Jason sucked in air, smelled the other man’s desperation. “There are those here who will see to it you won’t escape.”

  An affirming murmur came from the crowd, and men jostled forward, hands going to their hilts.

  Jason waved them back. “Tell me what you said isn’t true.”

  “It is true. And you won’t live to enjoy what should have been mine!” Gothard went into an all-too-familiar crouch, coming up with a pistol in his hand.

  In a flash of blue velvet, Scarborough leapt forward and knocked the gun from his older brother’s grasp. It went flying, barely missing a minister’s head as it sailed though a window with a startling crash. “You won’t live to kill again, brother.”

  Scarborough nodded at Jason, who moved in.

  An inhuman howl of rage escaped Gothard as he rammed past Scarborough and flung himself into a knot of matrons. Screams erupted and rainbow shades of satin and silk swirled in a colorful kaleidoscope as wedding guests darted out of his path. He burst through the doors that led to the garden, broken glass crunching beneath his feet as he disappeared into the trees.

  Within a heartbeat Jason was after him, chasing him along a graveled path. Footsteps pounded behind him; he assumed they were Scarborough’s and kept running. This time he wouldn’t fail. Even should he have to do the unthinkable, he wouldn’t let Gothard get away.

  But first he needed answers.

  His lungs burned with the effort to catch up. Confound it, Gothard was fast. But not fast enough. Gothard might be running for his life, but Jason was fueled by implacable fury and a resolve born of weeks of frustration. His muscles pumped with determination; his jaw gritted with iron will.

  His quarry was nearly within reach.

  He pulled up short when Gothard staggered to the ground.

  He hadn’t registered the sharp report of the bullet. But he turned to see the pistol that had shot it. And the woman on the other end of it.

  Emerald MacCallum.

  It hadn’t even occurred to him that she was after the reward when he saw her at the inn. He’d thought only of Cait. Now he looked to the ground and Gothard’s still, lifeless form. He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse.

  Dead. Gothard was dead. He frantically searched the limp body, for a letter, a miniature, anything. Anything that would prove or disprove what the man had claimed.

  “He was telling the truth,” Scarborough said quietly from behind him.

  Jason sat back on his heels, feeling the unmanly sting of tears in his eyes.

  A crowd was gathering again, people pouring through the doors and out into the garden. Scarborough turned and conducted a hasty, whispered conversation with Lord Darnley. Together they hustled the guests back inside. It took some minutes, and by the time Scarborough returned, Jason had composed himself.

  The gray day had finally delivered on its promise, and a light drizzle fell from the sky. Silently Scarborough walked Jason down the garden path, away from the sight of the body.

  Their brother.

  Jason dropped onto a stone bench, his hands dangling limply between his spread knees, hi
s eyes blindly perusing the wet gravel beneath his feet.

  Scarborough sat beside him. “Your father had a dalliance with my mother before either of them married.” His voice was low, his words matter-of-fact. “When he fell in love with your mother, he left mine with child. Eventually she was offered to my father as a widow with a young son. She was beautiful, and her family had land that bordered his. Her dowry. He didn’t know the truth at the time, but when he learned it later, he forgave her. Their marriage wasn’t bad, all things considered.”

  Jason’s father—the valiant war hero—had had an illicit affair. Had left a pregnant woman. Had left behind a child.

  “Geoffrey was the oldest,” Scarborough continued, “but he would never inherit. He resented it. He made my life miserable.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jason muttered, feeling somehow as though he were to blame.

  “He never knew who his own father was until our parents died. While going through their things, we found—a letter. From your father to my mother. From that moment, Geoffrey…” Scarborough seemed at a loss for words. His fingers curled into fists. “He lost his mind. It’s the only way I can put it. It was as though he finally had somewhere to channel all that hatred. I’m sorry I threw him out, though. If I’d known he would come after you, I’d have coped with him somehow. I feel a substantial burden of responsibility here, and for that I apologize.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Jason shoved the damp hair from his eyes. It was his father’s fault. His not-so-perfect father. A human man after all, selfish enough to act in his own interests, a man who had made mistakes.

  Mistakes that Jason had paid for. And little Mary and her mother. And Adam and Caithren, and who knew how many others?

  “I thank you for your candor.” Jason rose and held out a hand.

  Scarborough stood and grasped it tightly. “I’m sorry.”

  “And for jumping in to save me from Gothard’s pistol.”

  “I was only evening the score. You saved me from his sword. I would never have recognized him in that disguise.”

  Their eyes met, acknowledging each other. Two men who both did what needed to be done.

  “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” With a nod, Scarborough backed away, then turned and walked toward the house.

  “Pardon me, but are you the Marquess of Cainewood?”

  The voice was light and musical, and Jason swiveled to see Emerald MacCallum. Good heavens, she topped him in height. How had he ever insisted that Cait was Emerald?

  Taken aback, he blinked. “Where is your emerald amulet?”

  Her eyes looked puzzled. “My what?”

  “Your…” He shook his head to clear it. “How did you get your name?”

  She grinned. “My birth name is Flora. The first time I went tracking, I recovered a large cache of stolen emeralds. The news sheets called me ‘Emerald’ MacCallum, and the name stuck.”

  Of course. It made perfect sense. Another misconception that had stubbornly lodged in his head.

  “Lord Cainewood…” When she swept off her man’s hat, the drizzle beaded on her bright red curls. “I believe you had offered a reward…?”

  He measured her, unblinking. He sensed she was a good woman, drawn to desperate measures. Something he understood now more than ever before.

  And he remembered a man saying she was a mother.

  “You have children?”

  “Aye.” Her eyes saddened, and he knew what to do.

  The pouch in his surcoat was heavy. He drew it out and handed it to her.

  Frowning, she spilled the contents into her hand and slowly counted a hundred pounds, then put the rest back.

  “Keep it,” Jason said. “All of it.”

  “But…there’s more than two hundred pounds here! Maybe three. The reward was a hundred.” Her expression said she thought he’d lost his mind.

  Perhaps he had. “Keep it,” he repeated. “I didn’t exactly want to see justice done this way, but perhaps it is for the best.” He shrugged. “As for the money…I would just as soon not picture you chasing dangerous men all over England. Go home to your children.”

  She smiled, her face transforming. Her eyes brimmed with tears. And once he’d thought that a woman like her would never cry. Another thing he’d been wrong about.

  “Take it and make a life for yourself,” he said. “And your family.”

  “I will,” she breathed. “God bless you, Lord Cainewood.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  CAITHREN COULD barely lift her feet to mount the steps to the town house.

  Her father was gone, and now her brother. And, dear heavens, she’d killed a man. And Jason…

  It was all too much to absorb.

  Ford shoved open the house’s front door. “Why is it that anything the authorities are involved in seems to take forever?”

  A sound of derision came from her throat. “I expect they’ve nothing better to do than be bothersome.”

  “Hush, sweet Cait.” Cameron patted her arm. “The question was rhetorical. It’s been a long day and night, but you can rest now.” Stopping short on the threshold, he turned to Kendra and Ford. “Crivvens. You people actually live here?” Clearly aghast, he stared into the plush interior.

  Kendra beckoned him inside. “Father bought it in the pre-war days, before our family’s fortune was depleted in defense of the king. Jason is cash poor, but he has…things.”

  “Jason seems to have plenty of money,” Cait disagreed.

  “It’s all relative.” With a shrug, Kendra started down the corridor. “Come, we’ll sit and talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk,” Cait said to her back.

  Cam lifted a brow. “She wants to wallow.”

  Reaching the drawing room, Kendra turned with a sympathetic look. “Go on in. I’ll stop by the kitchen and ask for some refreshments.”

  Cait set her jaw, but followed the young men into the room and plopped onto the burgundy brocade couch. Cameron sat beside her, and Ford settled into one of two matching carved-walnut chairs.

  Kendra took the other chair a minute later. “Cait. Are you all right?”

  There was that question again, the one that demanded she lie. “I’m fine.” Her hands tried to find her amulet, then her laces, and finally fell into her lap. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “I’m not speaking of Wat Gothard.” Kendra’s eyes mirrored everyone’s concern. “I’m asking how you feel about your brother. And my brother.”

  “I’ll miss Adam,” Caithren said with a sigh. “We weren’t close, and, truth be told, I never understood him. We hadn’t seen much of each other in years. But he was my brother, my blood, and I loved him.” She struggled to swallow the lump of anger that had been lodged in her throat since Jason told her the truth. “As for your brother, he knew Adam was dead, and he decided to keep it from me. As if he had the right to make that decision. As if he—” She broke off when the butler entered with a large silver tray.

  Ford rose and paced the Oriental carpet. “I talked to Jason before he left the Bull Inn. He’d known for but two days, Cait, and he failed to tell you because…” He turned, and his blue eyes sought hers. “…not because he didn’t think you deserved to know, but because he was afraid. He feared the truth would make you hate him.”

  “Hate him?” She accepted a cup of warm chocolate from the butler, but shook her head at the proffered plate of cakes. “Whyever would I hate him?”

  Ford’s brow knitted. “Because he killed your brother.”

  “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.” Stunned, she sipped from the cup, grateful for something to do with her hands and mouth. Other than yelling or throttling Jason. “The killing wasn’t intentional, and he knew I believed that. We discussed it days ago. Before either of us knew it was…Adam.” At her brother’s name, her vision blurred. She took a deep breath.

  “He thought that wouldn’t matter to you.” Ford took a cake, then just held it, as thoug
h he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “Whether it was intentional or not.”

  The butler set down the plate and left.

  “He was your brother, Cait,” Ford said softly.

  “It was an accident.” She sat a while, open-mouthed, then said, “Now I do hate him.”

  But the thought that Ford could be right brought a thread of hope.

  She held on to it like a lifeline.

  “If not for killing your brother, why hate him, then?” Kendra frowned into her cup. “Because he left you at the Bull Inn after telling you?”

  “No. Never that.” The chocolate wasn’t sitting well in Cait’s stomach. “I had all of you, and Gothard and Scarborough were both at that wedding. He had to go. He had no choice.” Setting her cup on a low table, she rubbed her trembling arms.

  “Then why?” Rising, Kendra drew an embroidered throw off the back of the couch and draped it over Cait’s shoulders. “I want to understand. If not because he left you, why do you hate him?”

  “I don’t hate him.” Tears flooded her eyes. Tears she wouldn’t shed for Adam—not in front of near-strangers—flowed freely at the thought of Jason’s betrayal. “I love him, and he doesn’t trust me to forgive him. That hurts.”

  Beside her, Cam took her hand. “Do you really love him, Cait? A fellow you’ve known for but days? An…Englishman?”

  She nodded, afraid what he must think, yet unable to deny it.

  But he surprised her. “Then you must forgive him for thinking such of you.” His hand squeezed hers. “It goes two ways, aye? Remember what your mam used to say: Gae it oot and get it back.”

  “Pardon?” Ford said.

  Kendra shot him a lowering glance.

  “What we give, we have,” Cait translated quietly. She took a deep breath. “Forgiveness. And trust. Jason and I…we haven’t seen a lot of either between us, but maybe it must come from me first.”

  Kendra reached for a cake and turned it in her hands. “Make him suffer, Cait. Heaven knows he deserves it.” She looked up, and they shared a wan smile. “But then you’ll marry him, yes? Because—”