The Marquess's Scottish Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Mary’s giggle tinkled into the summer air as the young man rose to his full height and caught Clarice’s gaze with his.

  Something fluttered inside her when she met his warm hazel eyes. Since he hadn’t answered Mary, Clarice had no idea who he was. He looked to be a wedding guest, though, dressed in a fancy blue suit trimmed with bright gold braid. She’d been told this would be a small family wedding. Judging from his accent, she guessed he belonged to the bride’s side.

  The stranger was tall. Clarice was not a short woman, but this gentleman topped her by nearly a head. Straight wheaten hair skimmed his shoulders and rippled in the light breeze, shimmering in the sunshine. And his eyes…

  She gave herself a mental shake. This magical fairytale day was sparking her imagination—that was all. She’d never thought to be inside the castle walls as an invited guest to the lord’s wedding—she and Mary the only commoners invited—the only non-family invited, come to that. Lord Cainewood had said that since their misfortune had inadvertently led to his marriage, he wanted them with him to celebrate. The sheer wonder of it was going to her sensible head. Making her giddy.

  “You talk funny,” Mary said to the stranger.

  “Mary!” Clarice exclaimed, but she couldn’t seem to look at her daughter. Her gaze was still riveted to those hazel eyes. He didn’t talk funny, either. To the contrary, the Scottish cadence of his words seemed to flow right into her and melt her very bones.

  Lud, she feared her knees might give out.

  “Do you think so?” He tore his gaze from Clarice’s and looked down at Mary. “Ye should gae a’ folk the hearin’, ye ken?” he said in an accent so broad it was obviously exaggerated.

  At the look on her daughter’s face, Clarice laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Surely laughter wasn’t appropriate at a lord’s wedding. She schooled her expression to be properly sober. “He means you should listen to people without passing judgment,” she told Mary.

  The gentleman grinned, showing even white teeth. “I’m Cameron Leslie,” he said. “Cousin of the bride.” Shifting the baby to one arm, he reached for Clarice’s hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.

  Clarice Bradford had never swooned.

  “And you two must be the mother and daughter I’ve heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait.” She released her breath when he dropped her hand. “Though to hear Lord Cainewood’s side of it,” Mr. Leslie added with a wink, “it was Caithren who did the wooing.”

  Clarice couldn’t help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. “I’m Clarice Bradford,” she said.

  “It’s pleased I am to meet you.” He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. “What is it, sweet?”

  “Will you pick me up?”

  “Mary!” Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  But Mr. Leslie handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. “Of course I’ll hold you, princess.” His eyes danced. “She’s charming,” he told Clarice.

  “I…” She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into Mr. Leslie’s neck. And Clarice…

  Clarice was jealous.

  It was absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. He was quite young. Not even twenty, she’d guess. She could see it in his complexion, the straightness of his lanky form, the angle of his head. This was not someone who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.

  And Clarice was nearly twenty-four years old. Old enough to know she had no business fancying an aristocratic gentleman, especially one several years younger than she.

  She hadn’t fancied a man in…well, a long time. She’d forgotten what a heady emotion it was.

  And her daughter was clearly just as smitten.

  Clarice was startled out of her thoughts when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.

  “That’s our signal,” Mr. Leslie said. “I expect I should fetch the bride.”

  When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. “May I come with you?”

  “Of course you may, princess.”

  “Princess,” Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she’d ended up holding a marquess’s niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.

  She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she’d lost her daughter to this man.

  Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.

  CAMERON LESLIE was known to be a wee bit quiet. A young man of simple needs, he didn’t want for much. But when he did find something he wanted, he generally got it.

  At the moment he was wanting Clarice Bradford. Or his body was, at least. His head told him he couldn’t come to that conclusion following a five-minute conversation.

  Heavens, he mused as he led Mary up the steps to his cousin’s chamber, in all his nineteen years he’d never met a lass like Clarice. Nay, not a lass—a woman, with her quiet dignity, her wholesome beauty, the depth in her large gray eyes. She was vastly different from girls his age, though she couldn’t be more than a handful of years older. Vastly different and so much more.

  Was it because she had a daughter? he wondered, squeezing the small hand he held. Mary giggled. She was a delight, and clearly adored by her mother.

  Nay, Cam decided. He’d met plenty of young mothers—some even younger than Mary’s—and none of them were like Clarice. She was special.

  A pity his time here in England was so short. He wanted to get to know Clarice, but he had less than a week before he needed to head home to Scotland.

  Hoping he could persuade her to spend some time with him anyway, he knocked on his cousin’s door and called through the sturdy oak to ask if she was ready.

  When the door opened, his jaw dropped. “Cait?” Dressed for her wedding, she looked different from the girl he’d known since her birth. Unbound from its customary plaits, her dark blond hair, so much like his, hung straight and loose past her shoulders. She wore cosmetics and a sky-blue gown trimmed in silver lace. An English gown.

  “Good heavens,” he said. “Cait, you look lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling as she surveyed his own attire, a deep blue velvet suit that he’d borrowed from one of the groom’s brothers. He suspected Caithren thought he looked as English as she. She aimed a curious glance at the wee lassie who still held his fingers gripped tight. “And who is this?”

  “Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are special guests. She, uh, attached herself to me.” Cam lifted his hand, and Mary’s hand came up with it. Though he gave a sheepish shrug, he felt warm and pleased. “She may be walking down the aisle with us.”

  Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. “Good day,” she said.

  “Good day,” Mary returned in a small, polite voice. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.”

  “I’m not—” Cait started.

  “You’ll be a lady within the hour,” Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. “You may as well get used to it.” He knew firsthand how difficult it was to adjust to a new station in life, having unexpectedly found himself to be a baronet after Caithren’s brother died last month. He blew out a breath. “I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir.”

  “Aye, you will.” Cait stood and linked her arm though his. “Shall we go?”

  Bagpipe music swelled when they reached the double front doors and stepped out into the sunshine. It was a glorious day to be wed, the quadrangle redolent with the scent of newly-cut grass, the sky blue as Cait’s gown and dotted with wee, puffy white clouds. Cameron’s gaze swept the enormous castle’s crenelated wal
ls and the ancient keep. Beyond the timeworn tower, the grass grew high and untamed.

  “Gudeman’s croft,” Caithren murmured.

  “What is that?” Mary asked.

  Cameron knelt down to her. “A place allowed to grow free as a shelter for brownies and fairies.”

  “Oh.” Mary’s eyes opened wide. “Do you know stories of brownies and fairies?”

  “Many. But they’ll have to wait for later.” Cam ruffled her unruly curls before he stood and faced Cait. “It’s really the old tilting yard. Colin told me they don’t groom it since it’s long been in disuse.”

  “I knew that.” Her lips curved in a soft smile as she scanned her new home. “Can you believe this place, Cam?”

  He met her hazel eyes. “You always were meant to live in a castle, sweet Cait.”

  “Aye,” she said, no doubt thinking of her family’s tiny castle back in Scotland—Cameron’s castle now. “But who’d have ever guessed it would be such an enormous, historic one…and in England?”

  “You’ll do fine.” Though they’d always been inseparable and he would miss her terribly, Cam knew she belonged here at Cainewood with the marquess she’d come to love. He leaned to kiss her forehead, then looked up. “There’s your man now.”

  When her gaze flew to her intended, her face lit at the sight of him. Suddenly Cameron ached for the security this tall, dark-haired fellow so clearly enjoyed—someone to love and a place that truly felt like his own.

  A family.

  Cam frowned. He’d never thought much about having a family before, though he’d always loved children and knew he wanted his own someday. What had brought on this unexpected longing?

  Perhaps it was losing Cait. With his only close kin far away in England, Cam’s new castle would be empty. A family would fill it back up. With a companion to talk to and lively bairns underfoot—bairns who would grow up and help him make the Leslie estate into everything he and Cait had always dreamed it could be.

  Clarice walked over to take Mary by the hand. “It’s time,” she said gently, and reluctantly the wee lass released her grip on Cam. The girl looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes lingering on him as the woman led her away.

  “Her mother?” Cait guessed.

  “Aye. Her name is Clarice Bradford. You’ll like her.” Cameron’s gaze followed the two as they walked toward the gatehouse on their way to Cainewood’s private chapel. Clarice’s golden hair gleamed beneath a pink-ribboned straw hat. Her pink dress was simple compared to those of Caithren and the other women, but it suited her perfectly.

  Cameron was simple as well.

  He turned to take Cait by both hands. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “More ready than I ever thought possible.” Smiling at him, she squeezed his fingers. “You know, Mam always said it’s better to marry over the midden than over the muir.”

  “I’ve heard that said, that it’s wise to stick within your own circle.” Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to Clarice. “But I’m not sure I believe it.”

  “I don’t believe it, either.” Caithren’s own gaze trailed to her groom, waiting for her by the barbican. “I reckon even mothers are wrong sometimes.”

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  ABOUT LAUREN & DEVON ROYAL

  LAUREN ROYAL decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest. Now she’s a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of humorous historical romance novels. Lauren lives in Southern California with her family and their constantly shedding cat. She still thinks her mother is the greatest.

  DEVON ROYAL is the daughter of romance novelist Lauren Royal. After attending film school, she wrote an award-winning TV comedy pilot and spent several years working in digital video production before turning her focus to fiction writing. Devon lives in Southern California with her husband. She also thinks her mother is the greatest.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Our heartfelt thanks:

  To Joan Royal and Karen Nesbitt, for driving Lauren all over England and stopping at every village and hamlet and pile of rocks without too many audible groans.

  To Irm Jawor, for the book of Scottish granny sayings that inspired Cait's annoying—um, endearing—habit.

  To Della Floyd, RN, for expert medical information.

  To the UK contingent of the Opposite View e-mail list, for answering many off-topic questions.

  To our Chase Family Readers’ Group, for their enthusiastic support.

  And, last but certainly not least, to every reader who has ever written to us.

  Thanks to one and all!

  IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK…

  You might also enjoy Page, a sweet and clean Scottish historical romance by our friends Tanya Anne Crosby and her daughter Alaina!

  Read an excerpt…

  IAIN HAD ONLY begun to doze.

  He came full awake with a start, his eyes crossing at the resounding shrillness of her voice. He should have known her compliance was too good to be true. He frowned as Malcom’s little body jerked awake.

  One by one, his men came awake, as well—some with snorts of surprise, others with mumbled “Huhs?” and still others with muttered curses.

  And still she sang on, some English ballad about a man whose truest love had spurned him.

  “Softly the west wind blows; gaily the warm sun goes; The earth her bosom showeth, and with all sweetness floweth. I see it with mine eyes, I hear it with mine ears. But in my heart of sighs, yet am I full of tears. Alone with thought I sit, and blench, remembering it; Sometimes I lift my head, I neither see nor hear...”

  And so she continued, her song blaring, her melody true, but grating in its untimeliness and its volume. Iain waited impatiently, teeth clenched until he thought they might shatter. He stared into the darkness, while his men continued to grumble complaints, refusing to allow himself to be baited. He knew what she was trying to do, and of course, it was working. But he’d not let her know it.

  She’d grow tired soon enough and she’d quit, he reassured himself, and was rewarded when at the end of the verse, she suddenly quieted.

  Sighing with vexed relief, Iain closed his eyes, only to snap them open when she began the verse all over again.

  This time louder.

  Muttering silent curses, he said nothing, keeping reign upon his temper. Neither did his men speak but to themselves, until she began the verse yet a third time.

  “Ach, now, Iain,” Angus complained loudly. “Canna ye make her leave the lays for the morrow?”

  His complaint was reinforced by a number of groans and muttered curses as the lass sang louder still. Iain closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying to God to give him strength.

  “Willful English,” muttered Lagan.

  He’d taken the words right out of Iain’s mouth.

  When Malcom lifted his little head and peered at her through the shadows, he decided enough was enough. Before his son could voice his own complaint, Iain inhaled a bellow—and strangled on his words as an enormous bug flew down his throat, silencing him.

  Choking and coughing, Iain dragged his son from atop him and turned to slap a hand over the lass’s mouth, trying to save her from herself. He could have sworn she smiled at his attempt to hush her. Preoccupied with strangling
as he was, his muzzle stopped her all of two seconds and then she began the verse yet another time, although this time the words were muffled through his fingers.

  “Ach, nay. Doesna she know another song, at least?” Dougal asked.

  Iain might have asked the very same thing, were he not struggling for his next breath. Vexsome woman! Still choking, he sat, dragging her with him as he leaned to hawk the bug from his mouth. Nothing came, and he was mightily afraid he’d swallowed the creature.

  She sang louder now, and Iain peered at her out of the corner of his eyes, considering thrusting the whole of his arm down her throat. “Stubborn,” he rasped, and choked again, giving in to another coughing fit. “Stubborn, fashious woman,” he finished whenever he could.

  “Da... will ye leave her to sing,” Malcom whispered at his side.

  Shocked by the request, Iain stared down at his son through the shadows, thinking that surely the bug had addled his brains, that or he must have imagined the soft plea. Malcom had never favored coddling before. Not ever. He’d been a wee man from the instant he could walk and talk.

  “I dinna want her to stop,” his son said somewhat desperately.

  Though nothing else had managed to accomplish the feat, Malcom’s uncertain request hushed the lass abruptly.

  The glade turned silent, his men mute.

  “’Tis a verra pretty song,” Malcom said. “Will ye sing me another, Page?”

  Shocked by his son’s entreaty, Iain felt her swallow and he dropped his hand to allow her to reply, his heart twisting at the innocent request. The glade seemed to become quieter still as everyone awaited her reply.

  For a long instant, she didn’t answer, and Iain held his breath as his son added, a little aggrievedly, “My mammy never sung to me. She went to be wi’ God when I was born. Will ye sing to me, please?”