An Inconvenient Wife

by Caroline Kimberly

  But apparently Grif was no longer in charge of her future.

  “If Griffin isn’t my guardian,” Kyra asked slowly, not sure she really wanted to hear the answer, “who is?”

  “Ashford.”

  “Edmund?” Kyra repeated.

  Her relief was palpable. She had never particularly cared for Edmund Ashford—something about him put her teeth on edge—but he was, in her estimation, quite manageable. Leading him around by the nose shouldn’t prove too difficult. And he was Grif’s uncle, after all. If Edmund did anything to jeopardize her future or her happiness, Grif would no doubt intervene.

  The marquess grimaced. “Don’t underestimate Ashford, Kyra. He’s a snake. As soon as he heard about my falling-out with Griffin, he swooped in like a vulture. I thought it would be a good lesson for Griffin, seeing as how the two of you never cared for each other.

  “Before I’d really thought it through, I’d given Ashford complete control over your purse and your future. By the time I discovered his intentions, it was too late to undo. When I tried to amend my decision, my own solicitor believed me non compos mentis. He claimed any changes to my will would likely be overruled by the courts. But I tried, Kyra, I truly tried.”

  Kyra patted his hand comfortingly. “I can handle Edmund Ashford, Papa.”

  “No, Kay! You don’t understand.” Her father grew more agitated, his grip on her hand almost painful. “He’s been to visit me, Kyra. Did you know that?”

  “Of course,” she said. She knew of every single person who had entered this room in the last several months. And while she had thought it rather odd that Edmund had been to visit her father’s bedside, especially as his condition worsened, she had assumed it was out of respect as a longtime acquaintance of the family.

  “I’ve heard things,” her father said grimly. “Just because I can’t always respond doesn’t mean I’m unaware of what’s being said.” The marquess looked her straight in the eye. “He’s ambitious, Kay. And he doesn’t care who he tramples in his quest for power.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Kyra assured him. “Grif would never let him—”

  “He’s planning to marry you to Brumley before I’m even cold,” her father stated bluntly. “Ah, I see I have your attention now.”

  Kyra’s heart clutched in her chest. She had met Stephen Brumley, viscount of Radcliff, twice in her twenty-three years and considered that two times too many. The man was a troll. Quite frankly, Brumley made her skin crawl.

  “Yes, Brumley. And it gets worse, I’m afraid.” As the marquess outlined everything he had overheard from Ashford and his solicitor, a man named Crabbs, Kyra began to realize that her future did indeed appear bleak.

  She looked helplessly at her father. “What should I do?” she asked in a whisper.

  “You have to leave this place, Kay. Tonight.”

  Horrified, Kyra stared at him. “I can’t leave you—”

  “You have to, girl. I’m slipping away...I feel it. Once I’m gone, Ashford and Brumley will waste no time in seeing to your nuptials. You cannot marry him, Kyra. The man is vile.”

  Kyra suddenly longed for her dull, predictable existence. “But I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Scotland,” Deverill murmured. “Go to Scotland. Your mother’s kin will care for you. Promise me you’ll go to them, Kyra. Promise me you won’t marry Brumley.”

  The marquess’s eyes drooped heavily, as though he were suddenly exhausted. Kyra read the look on his face and knew they didn’t have much time. She squeezed his hand, hoping to hold on to him a little longer. “I promise, Papa. But what if Edmund sends someone for me?”

  “The clan will keep you safe, Kay. Only one man could find you there.”

  “Grif,” she said quietly. “But he would never betray me.”

  Her father gave her a weak smile. “Pray that he won’t.”

  The marquess exhaled heavily. He suddenly seemed much older than his fifty-six years. He sank back onto his pillow and patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, Kay. Your brother will protect you. He’s a good boy.”

  Kyra couldn’t stop the small sob that escaped her lips. He was slipping away before her very eyes. “Papa, Riley’s been dead for two years.”

  “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten that,” he said in a small voice. A frown furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it seems you’re on your own. Please forgive me.”

  Kyra swallowed the lump in her throat and put her head down on the bed beside her father’s knee. “Don’t leave me, Papa, please. I need you.”

  A gentle hand patted her head. “You’re stronger than you know, Kyra,” he murmured absently. “You might be a mere slip of a thing, but you’ve got your mother’s smarts and the Deverill backbone. You just keep fighting and everything will be fine.”

  His words were little more than a whisper. Kyra sniffed as she watched his once-handsome features grow slack. She stroked her father’s cheek, uncertain whether or not he was still conscious. At her feathery touch he twitched. “Papa?” she asked.

  The marquess suddenly sat up, spine stiff and straight, and for a moment Kyra was gifted with a glimpse of her father before his illness. Once again he was handsome and vibrant, with an air of command that he carried so easily it could only have been bred into him. His presence filled the room. Clear eyes regarded her and powerful fingers gripped her wrists in a death grip.

  “Go, Kyra,” he ordered in a harsh, low voice. “Now!”

  A look crossed his face, an odd mixture of surprise and acceptance, before his body slumped back against the bed. Kyra knew, even without checking his heartbeat, that he was gone. She checked it anyway, quite aware that it had more to do with her own sense of closure than any medical clarification. Planting a soft kiss on his forehead, she whispered, “I love you, Papa.”

  She stared at her father for a long time, lost in her grief. He was the last of her family; losing him was like losing herself. A burning sensation pricked the corner of her eye and Kyra knew she was going to blubber a lake. Warm tears coursed shamelessly down her cheeks. Kyra didn’t even bother wiping them away. Riley and his teasing could go to the devil. She stayed by her father’s side for what seemed an eternity, weeping quietly. Deverill backbone or not, right now she felt completely helpless.

  * * *

  It was completely dark when Kyra finally raised her head, exhausted and emptied of tears. She took a deep breath and tried to think. Amazing how one’s humdrum life could so quickly spin out of control. A moment was all it had taken to uproot any sense of place or security she had ever believed in. She had no family, no home and no future. Worse, she was apparently betrothed to a troll.

  But what could she do about it?

  A dozen possibilities flitted through her mind. She couldn’t stay here, obviously. Nor could she take refuge with any of her friends. Edmund knew her family’s connections well enough—he’d find her within a fortnight. She could elope with a less troll-like suitor, but Edmund would undoubtedly cut off whatever funds he controlled. Not that she cared much about her inheritance, but it did seem wrong to forfeit everything her ancestors had worked for because some snake-in-the-grass had frightened her off. Besides, Edmund could probably have an elopement annulled, leaving her once again with a troll for a husband.

  Grif might help, of course, but she doubted there was much he could do. At least not legally. Kyra sighed and chewed her lip. He might not be willing to even receive her, especially in light of her father’s confession. And the last time she’d seen him—more than four years ago—things had been less than pleasant.

  Riley had announced in the middle of the fish course that he had enlisted to fight Napoleon alongside Grif and his twin brothers. Her father had quietly thrown down his napkin and stalked out of the room. Never one to shy from sticky situations, Kyra managed to find a few choice wo
rds for all four of them on her father’s behalf. After a few minutes of her bluster, Grif had simply risen from his chair and quite politely shouted her down, telling her exactly what he thought of small chits with small chests and smaller minds who offered unsolicited advice from big mouths.

  Riley, of course, had roared with laughter at hearing his high-spirited sister on the receiving end of such a thorough dressing-down. Phillip and Simon, Grif’s younger brothers, had been courteous enough to be less obvious in their mirth. Simon had even done her the enormous favor of holding her back when she tried to launch herself at Grif for the pummeling he undoubtedly deserved. Of course, Grif just pulled a face at her and walked out.

  That was the last time she’d seen him; they’d all left a week later. She was still fuming about Grif’s comments and had candidly refused to say goodbye to him. Two years later, he and his brothers had returned from the Continent.

  Without Riley.

  Phillip and Simon had both come by to see her in the months between their return and before they left for foreign lands in pursuit of their fortunes. Not Grif, though—he never came. Or rather, he came, but he never bothered to visit her.

  It was probably for the best, Kyra reminded herself. Seeing him would have been too painful.

  But somehow, even without his physical presence, he’d made her feel safe. As long as he was in charge of her future, she felt secure. He had a reputation for being ruthless when protecting his interests—especially when it came to family and friends. Grif took his responsibilities very seriously; everyone knew that.

  Unfortunately she was no longer his responsibility.

  Kyra sniffed, absently wiping away the tears that continued to flow. There would be time to mourn later, alone. Right now she needed to do something, anything, because without Riley or Grif watching over her, she truly was on her own.

  Her father’s final words rang in her head, Go, Kyra. Now.

  Kyra chewed her lip. Scotland. She’d little doubt the MacKenzie clan would accept her. Before she had become Lady Sheffield, Kyra’s mother had been the MacKenzie laird’s one and only daughter. Kyra’s uncle Cam was now the current MacKenzie—surely he’d extend his protection to his beloved niece. And once she was safely tucked away within MacKenzie borders, it would take nothing short of an armed invasion to extract her.

  Yes, an extended vacation in Scotland seemed the best solution. All she needed to do was get there. There was, in her estimation, really only one minor problem.

  How did one escape to Scotland?

  Chapter Two

  Kyra paced lightly around the perimeter of her father’s bed. Think, Kyra, think, she scolded herself on her second lap. Fleeing to Scotland was not so daunting. After all, she had her mother’s smarts and her father’s backbone.

  What she didn’t have, however, was a plan.

  Kyra frowned. She needed to think like Riley. Better yet, like Grif—he was much more devious. Yes, a sensible, foolproof plan sounded very much like something Riley and Grif would do. Something simple and expedient.

  Getting there wouldn’t be too hard, really; her Apollo was young and healthy. And she’d visited her mother’s kin enough to at least know the general direction. Three or four days of hard riding on main roads would bring her to the border, as long as the roads weren’t icy. Once across the border, MacKenzie lands were little more than two days’ ride north.

  By her fourth lap around the bed she’d gathered enough courage to brave the trek. However, sneaking out from under Edmund’s nose might be difficult. He no doubt would guess her destination once he discovered she’d fled.

  Kyra chewed her lip. If she could she figure out a way to steal away, undetected, she might get enough of a start to beat Edmund to the border. Problem was, each passing moment was priceless. Once the household discovered her father had expired, the news would likely reach her guardian’s ear before she could say “Brumley is a troll.” Of course, pacing around her father’s bed wasn’t getting her there any faster, but she truly hated to bungle blindly through her escape.

  Kyra glanced at her father’s form; he looked so peaceful, as though he were merely sleeping. She stopped pacing and blinked. The plan, her plan, crystallized instantly—like the goddess Athena springing forth fully grown from her daddy’s brain.

  She would steal time.

  Kyra gently removed most of the pillows used to prop her father upright and lovingly eased his head down. She smoothed the covers over him and quickly closed the heavy curtains surrounding the marquess’s bed. Then she rang for the chambermaid who attended to her father.

  The wait—though in truth only a matter of minutes—seemed an eternity. She used the time to compose herself and flesh out the minutiae of her strategy. Glancing in the mirror, Kyra rearranged her hair and tried to will away the swelling around her eyes. No doing—she’d have to improvise. At least her nose wasn’t too red from all the blubbering she’d done.

  The maid, Polly, finally arrived, and Kyra raised a finger to her own lips then inclined her head to her father’s bed. She prayed her hand wasn’t trembling. His prone silhouette was barely visible behind the heavy drapery; he looked asleep. Polly didn’t seem to notice anything amiss; she nodded in understanding and quietly began stoking the fire. She drew the curtains on his windows and did a speedy but practiced tidying of the room. When the maid indicated the candles with a raised brow, Kyra shook her head. Polly nodded and followed her mistress out of the chamber.

  Step one of her plan seemed to be going well. Still, she had to actually speak to the maid to ensure its continued success. Kyra swallowed and turned to the woman, who stood a full head taller and was twice as wide. She managed to lift her chin with as much poise as she could muster. Most of the household staff, Polly included, had known her since she’d been in the nursery. Unfortunately veteran servants, while being completely loyal, had an uncanny knack for noticing anything out of the ordinary, such as a trembling voice or a lake of tears from a lady known for her hardheadedness.

  “It was a difficult afternoon. Please let Sheridan and Mrs. Myrtle know that my father need not be disturbed tonight, Polly.”

  It was a gross understatement, but not an outright lie.

  The maid nodded. The news would not be particularly surprising to the Deverill butler and housekeeper. Everyone on the staff knew of the marquess’s unpredictable condition. They also knew what the young miss meant by a “difficult afternoon,” particularly after that ugly incident with the chamber pot.

  “Shall I have Cook send dinner to your room, my lady?” the woman asked, noting her mistress’s swollen eyes. It wasn’t the first time the lady had left her father’s chambers looking thus.

  Kyra shook her head. “Not tonight, Polly. I’ve little appetite. Please send my apologies to Cook and have her pass on whatever masterpiece she undoubtedly concocted to the belowstairs staff.”

  She started to stride away, but stopped abruptly, pretending a new thought had just popped into her head.

  “Polly, don’t bother rousing my father in the morning. I think we all need a little reprieve. Just go ahead and stoke the fire and open the curtains. I’ll check on him before breakfast. If he’s awake, I’ll ring for a tray.”

  Polly nodded, looking relieved she didn’t have to wake the marquess. She bobbed her head. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Trying not to shake, Kyra strode calmly down the long hall to her room until she heard the maid’s footsteps descending the backstairs. Step one was complete—she’d bought herself extra time. With any luck it would be late afternoon tomorrow before anyone even realized her father had passed.

  Her pace slowed and she counted to ten, listening for any sound of the evening servants. Hearing nothing, she turned and dashed down the length of the hall to Riley’s room. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she cracked the door and slippe
d inside. A glance around the bedchamber confirmed that very little had changed since she’d last visited. The room was clean and well-aired, with everything exactly as Riley had left it.

  Kyra squashed another urge to cry. It had been two years, but sometimes it felt like she had just lost him. Kyra sniffed. Certain things managed to set her off—a memory, a scent, a story or song—and she relived her pain all over again. Being in his room always brought her fresh pain. This whole troll situation would never have happened if Riley were here. If only the big oaf hadn’t gone off and gotten himself killed...

  Oh, no, she scolded herself, wiping at the corner of her eyes. Blaming Riley wouldn’t change anything. This was no time for melancholy. Well, it was, actually, but since she didn’t have time to dwell on her sorrows, she would just have to wait until she was in Scotland. Once there, she would spend days, weeks, grieving for each member of her family and blubbering any number of lakes. For now, however, she needed to get the second part of her plan underway.

  Rifling through Riley’s belongings was the work of a few minutes. She snagged a woolen blanket, thick socks and a couple of shirts from his wardrobe. She then plundered his trunk. In a trice she produced a large haversack, as well as a small linen pack that contained Riley’s most important hunting accoutrements—knife, fishing lures and line, rope, canteen, matches, pistol and shot pouch. Not that she intended to shoot anyone, or even anything for that matter. Heavens, no! But it was an article Riley never traveled without, therefore she felt compelled to take it. And if the nasty hunk of metal made her feel a little safer, why not drag it along?