He was grinning down at her unrepentantly. Now why didn’t that surprise her?
“You canna say you didnae like it.”
“I can—but I won’t,” she allowed. “However, that’s quite irrelevant. Or have you forgotten that I’m carrying another man’s child?”
“I havena forgotten that you said so, but perhaps you’re forgetting that I dinna believe it. Admit it, darlin’, you’re as innocent as they come.”
“Naive, yes, but no longer innocent,” she maintained staunchly. “Now, I know there are men who would overlook that to marry me anyway, despite the baby, but somehow I doubt you’d fall into that category. So give it up, MacDuell. My condition isn’t going to go away, it’s just going to get disgustingly—noticeable.”
“Noticeable, but not disgusting, brat.”
Megan gasped at the sound of that familiar voice. Lachlan’s response was to swear quite ungentlemanly. And for a really large man, he moved incredibly fast in getting to his feet. But he had no more luck than Megan did, as she stood up more slowly, in trying to locate where Devlin was. It was just too dark beyond the immediate area of the fire to see anything but dense shadows.
“If you’re waiting for an invitation tae join us, mon, it willna be forthcoming,” Lachlan said. “I canna say I’m pleased at your arrival.”
“What a shame,” Devlin replied. “And here I was sure you were expecting me.”
They swung around to find him coming slowly out of the shadows from the north, rather than from the south. Megan ate up the sight of him, overjoyed that he’d actually come for her. She wanted to run to him, throw her arms around him, shower him with kisses, but the cursory glance he gave her kept her where she was.
Lachlan was more interested in the pistol Devlin had pointed at him. “I dinna suppose you’d be considering this an unfortunate mistake?”
“Would you?”
Lachlan had the audacity to grin. “Nay, I’d no’ be that stupid.”
“Neither am I,” Devlin said as he paused by Ranald to toss aside the gun the Scot had laid near to hand, then did the same with Gilleonan’s weapon.
“Are you sure, mon?” Lachlan dared to taunt. “You seem tae have come alone.”
Devlin shrugged. “A necessity, since no one else could keep up with Caesar.”
“Ah, the stallion. So I made a mistake, after all, in leaving him behind.”
“Generosity coming back to haunt you?”
“That it is.”
Megan had heard quite enough. “Do you two think you might get beyond this idle chitchat? I’m cold, hungry, and I’d like a decent bed before I attempt sleep again.”
“And here I thought I was keeping the wind off your back, darlin’.”
“Is that what you were doing?” she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm. “I’d never have guessed.”
The man still wasn’t abashed. “She says you call her a brat,” he said to Devlin. “I’m beginning tae see why. ’Course, it doesna matter a’tall when a mon looks at her,” Lachlan ended with a dramatic sigh.
Megan snorted her lack of appreciation for his wit. Devlin gave her a warning look. She noticed then that Gilleonan and Ranald had been awakened by the sound of their voices, and both were eyeing Devlin with not a smidgen of the nonchalance Lachlan was displaying. Foolish of her to have forgotten that this was still a situation on the dangerous side, and she and Devlin had yet to make their escape from it.
“I won’t kill a man for making a fool of himself over a pretty face,” Devlin said now.
“’Tis glad I am tae hear it.”
“But daring to take what’s mine deserves a black eye or two.”
Megan hadn’t heard that correctly. She couldn’t have. Lachlan didn’t doubt what he’d heard, though, and threw back his head with great guffaws. Gilleonan and Ranald were now smiling. Was she the only sane one there?
“Devlin, you don’t want to do that,” she pointed out in what she hoped was a perfectly calm tone.
“On the contrary, my dear,” he said with an underlying determination that made her groan inwardly. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more at the moment.”
“But—”
“Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”
She blinked at the change of subject and started to retort, “Certainly,” but that would have been prideful boasting, and this was no time for that. “No.”
“Good,” he surprised her by saying and handed his weapon over to her, but not before he had placed her finger on the trigger and aimed the gun in the direction of Lachlan’s two cohorts. “You’ll be more likely to shoot them if they even blink, won’t you? And watch them, Megan, not the fight. Can you do that?”
She was too upset at that point to do more than nod. She’d never held a gun before, never shot a man before, never had a fiancé about to get pounded into the ground by a veritable giant. Watch the audience instead of the fight? She’d probably faint if she had to watch Devlin getting hurt. How was this going to get them out of there?
The first blow was heard, making Megan cringe. Despite Devlin’s admonishment not to, and her own determination not to, she glanced swiftly toward the two combatants, then right back to the two she was supposed to keep from interfering. They didn’t look the least bit inclined to interfere, hadn’t even done more than sit up. And in that brief glance toward the fight, Megan hadn’t been able to determine who’d been hit, though she assumed it was Devlin.
Another solid blow, another cringe, and another swift glance. But again she couldn’t tell who was taking the punches, who was receiving them. All she saw was the two men circling each other, searching for openings. Not surprising was that Lachlan was grinning. Devlin wasn’t. But Devlin’s form, fists raised, one arm slightly extended, straight-as-a-board stance, was surprising.
Megan had witnessed two other out-to-really-hurt-you fights in her life, one at a fair between a local blacksmith and a traveling fighter who was there to take on all comers for the entertainment of the crowds, and another between two of her suitors who were minor lords with some small knowledge of the gentleman’s art of college boxing. Devlin wasn’t fighting like the blacksmith, as she would have expected. Lachlan was, but Devlin was fighting like a gentleman. Now where the devil had he learned how to do that?
She had to be mistaken. Her glances had been too brief for her to be certain. Three more fists-to-skin-and-bone sounds were heard. She resisted looking. But the two men she was watching were telling. Gilleonan winced at one point. Ranald just looked amazed.
Megan couldn’t stand it anymore. She turned to watch the fight in earnest, and she hadn’t been mistaken. Devlin was indeed fighting like a gentleman, with straightforward punches, lightning jabs, and not a single wild swing or wasted movement. He was also, incredibly, the one landing all the punches. His ducks and retreats were simply too fast for Lachlan. Of course, one punch from Lachlan would probably bring Devlin to his knees. The Scotsman just wasn’t getting a chance to demonstrate that fact.
On the other hand, Devlin’s unusual advantage didn’t seem to be doing him much good. Lachlan was still grinning, for God’s sake, and didn’t seem to be feeling any of the damage Devlin was inflicting. And there was some visible damage now. One of Lachlan’s eyes was most definitely going to turn black by tomorrow, was already red and starting to swell. His lower lip was a bit puffy. And was the left side of his jaw starting to swell, too?
Megan made her swift glances toward Gilleonan and Ranald now, continuing to watch the fight with distressed fascination. She ought to put a stop to it. Devlin had gotten what he had claimed to want, so why were they still going at it? And then it happened, what she’d feared would happen. Lachlan faked a left swing and connected with a right, squarely on Devlin’s jaw. Amazingly, Devlin staggered back only two steps before he caught his balance. His form remained the same, both fists raised, which clearly said he was prepared to take more damage. Megan wasn’t prepared to watch him do so.
�
�Enough!”
Lachlan glanced at her with an aggrieved look. “Have a heart, darlin’. I’ve only hit him once.”
Megan stared at the Scot incredulously. By the look of him, you’d think she’d snatched a favored toy away from a little boy. Devlin didn’t look too pleased either. Well, that was just too bad for both of them.
“You two might be having a great deal of fun, but I’m not having any. I’m about to have hysterics, actually, and I’ll probably shoot someone by accident while I’m at it, but what do I care?”
Devlin’s response to that was, “Can’t you ever do as you’re told?”
Since this was the second time in one day that she hadn’t done as she’d been told by him, and the first time had put her in this predicament, she naturally turned defensive. “When you’re my husband, Devlin Jefferys, you can give me orders to your heart’s content, but until you make that a fact instead of an intention, don’t expect me to obey you without a damn good reason.”
“I had a good reason, brat, which you are amply demonstrating. But did you just promise to obey my every command once we’re married?”
Megan opened her mouth for a quick denial, but snapped it shut, appalled that she might have done just that. “You can’t hold someone accountable for what they say during hysterics,” she pointed out reasonably.
Devlin snorted. “I didn’t think so.”
Lachlan was laughing by then. “I dinna think I’ll be envying you after all, Jefferys. I could manage a week or two of her blathering, but no’ much more’n that. Would you be swapping the horse for her?”
“How quickly your sincerity changes colors, MacDuell,” Megan sneered. “And he doesn’t own Caesar, he only borrowed him from my father.”
“I dinna care who owns him, dar—”
“Call me darling once more and I’ll shoot you!”
Since she’d turned the pistol toward him as she yelled her threat, Lachlan made no reply, and for once he wasn’t grinning. But Devlin walked slowly toward her and took the weapon out of her hand.
Quietly, dryly, he said, “If you’re going to shoot him, my dear, you’ll have to take the safety off.” This he did, then handed the pistol back to her with a smile. “Now you can shoot him.”
She stared at the man she was supposed to marry and thought about shooting him instead. She didn’t. She gave him a hurt look and dropped the gun at his feet, then turned and walked away from him.
“Bloody hell,” he said behind her. “You didn’t want to shoot anyone, Megan.”
“That’s not the point,” she tossed back. “And see if I’ll ever protect you again.”
The Scotsmen were laughing again, all three of them this time. Megan didn’t care. She’d entered the shadows beyond the camp to look for Caesar, and if she found him, she had every intention of leaving by herself.
Chapter 31
Megan’s stiffness had lasted all of two minutes after Devlin had placed her on Caesar and mounted behind her. Then she’d relaxed against him and a few minutes later fallen fast asleep. She hadn’t spoken to him, however. Her annoyance with him had been as plain as her red hair, but nothing new for him to worry over.
He supposed his rescue of her was not the romantic affair she might have been hoping for. She ought to be grateful he’d found her at all, for he’d had a devil of a time following their trail after the sun went down. Stumbling upon them had been pure luck, aside from the fact that the landscape provided very little in the way of obstruction to block his view of their campfire, which he’d seen from miles away.
Devlin flexed his jaw and winced. He supposed he ought to be grateful Megan had stopped that fight, which had been nothing but sheer folly on his part. He should have gotten her straight out of there instead of seeking revenge because his damned pride was a bit lacerated over losing her in the first place. But no, he’d thought he could take the man, despite his size. MacDuell had disabused him of that notion quickly enough. Damned Scot had a cast-iron jaw.
And the audacity of the fellow, to stand there grinning when he had had a gun pointed at him. If Devlin weren’t still smarting over the whole affair, he would probably admire the chap.
MacDuell had even had the gall to ask Devlin before he left, “Do you and the lass ever get along, mon, or are you after arguing with her all the time?”
Devlin had shrugged. “I’m coming to the conclusion that she enjoys arguing. You didn’t notice?”
“That I did, but do you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why do you want tae marry her?” Lachlan had asked baldly.
An excellent question. Devlin had merely smiled, answer enough for the Scotsman, as far as he was concerned. But the question had stayed with him as he’d gathered their horses to take with him—he was determined not to meet up with MacDuell again if he could help it—and gone to collect Megan. It had stayed with him after he’d found her and been given a dose of her silence, so complete that she hadn’t even asked why she had to ride Caesar when he had the other horses. And she was asleep when he let the other mounts go several miles away, which would have answered the question she had stubbornly refused to ask.
But the Scot’s question wouldn’t go away. Why did he want to marry her, aside from it being the honorable thing to do? And he did want to. There was no denying that, after the fear and rage he’d felt when she was taken from him. He wanted her to be his wife. He wanted to have the authority over her that marriage would grant him. He wanted her in his house. He wanted her near at hand. He wanted to know where she was every minute of the day. He wanted her in his bed, though that was one thing he wouldn’t insist on until she wanted it, too.
He wanted her to love him.
Good God, he’d fallen in love with Megan Penworthy!
How the devil had that happened? And no wonder his mood was so bloody rotten. Loving a girl like Megan was asking for nothing but heartache and an end to his sanity. She was beautiful, certainly. He’d give her that. But the only good thing he could say about her quirky temperament was that she didn’t hold a grudge. The girl might explode frequently in anger, but her tantrums didn’t last long. Although why should they, when she always had something new to get mad at the next time around.
He must be mad. On second thought, he must be trying to put a nice face on his lust. That was all. He still lusted after the girl. One visit to his mistress ought to take care of that; then he could start dealing with Megan a little more impartially. At the very least, he’d stop losing his temper, stop letting her emotions wring his guts, stop thinking about her constantly—stop wanting her so much.
’Course, he’d have to go to London to visit his mistress, but why not? He’d rusticated for nearly two months. Freddy’s sister had to have married by now, or been found out for the little liar she was. And what would that matter anymore when he’d be coming back with a wife himself? Except Freddy still might want to blow his head off, but that could be dealt with when the time came.
It was nearing dawn when Devlin found the town he’d noticed on his race north. It wasn’t Gretna Green, but it had a Scottish kirk, so it would serve.
The proper thing to do would be to register at the inn and get some much-needed sleep, then get married at a decent hour. But Devlin wasn’t thinking of proper just then; he was thinking more in line with getting the thing done before anything else happened to prevent it.
The Scots clergyman didn’t appreciate that. Neither did Megan. But a hefty donation to one, and a little bullying and prodding to the other, and Ambrose Devlin St. James, fourth Duke of Wrothston, had himself a new wife and duchess.
Megan woke to the sound of children shrieking in play and someone whistling a cheery tune. It took some time for her to realize the racket was coming from below an open window in the room where she’d finally gotten some undisturbed sleep—undisturbed until now.
She still didn’t feel like getting up. She even thought about marching to the window and shouting down for s
ome quiet. Some people had no consideration a’tall. But then she noticed the brightness in the room and decided it might be too late in the day for that kind of consideration.
How long had she slept? She had no idea, but she didn’t exactly feel rested. There’d been too many interruptions—every time Caesar would slow to a trot, then when Devlin had dragged her into that church…
Good God, she was married! And her husband hadn’t spent the night with her.
Megan looked over at the space beside her in the bed to make sure, but it was most definitely empty, the sheets still smooth. And then the memories starting returning with a vengeance: the fight, the dirty trick Devlin had played on her with the gun, the dirtier trick he’d played in marrying her while she was half asleep.
He’d asked for two rooms at this inn this morning, and had escorted her to hers, leaving her with a curt good-night and an admonishment to lock the door. She’d still been too exhausted to think anything was strange in that. Strange? No, he’d simply meant it, a marriage in name only.
Did you think he was joking?
Yes.
Well, I for one don’t blame him. You never give the man any peace.
The man doesn’t deserve any peace.
Then why are you crushed by his rejection?
I’m not.
You are.
Bitch.
Are you cursing yourself?
Megan turned over and hit her pillow.
Chapter 32
Megan had slept in half of her clothes. But after all the riding done yesterday, the rest were in as deplorable a condition as what she’d slept in. When she would be able to change she couldn’t guess. She didn’t even know if her trunk was still in that ditch with the coach, or if the coachman had managed to get the vehicle back on the road. Hopefully they would meet up with him today.
It was a splendid room that she’d been given, now that she was awake enough to notice. Scotland certainly outclassed England in the way of inns, and she’d stayed in enough this last week to know. She wondered if Devlin was throwing away good money again on account of it having been their wedding night, even though they hadn’t shared it, or because this was the only hostelry available in this town. Probably the latter. But not for the first time, she wondered how he came by so much money to waste.
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