by Lauren Smith
“You might think me an old fool. But if I never tell you, I’ll never face rejection.”
He was surprised at his own honesty, but in the last few days he had grown to trust Jane with his thoughts. Now he was facing the test of whether he could trust her with his hopes and dreams. Jane reached across the table and covered one of his hands with hers.
“What is it, Jackson?” Worry drew her delicate dark-red brows together.
“I . . .” He realized he could not do what he wished to until he had committed to it properly. He pushed his chair back and then knelt on one knee before Jane, clasping her hands in his. “I know we’ve only known each other less than a week, and this may seem like utter madness, but I choose to believe in fate and second chances. Jane, will you give me that? A second chance at love and life? Be my wife, my lover, my treasured companion and dearest friend?”
He held his breath as he gazed at her. Her lovely lips parted in shock. He feared she would say no for so many reasons, including that it would mean she would no longer be a dowager marchioness, but a simple tradesman’s wife. Would she pull away from him?
Her eyes welled with tears, and she slid out of her chair to join him on her knees. She cupped his face, her fingers soft and warm as she held him.
“Yes. Yes, my darling, yes.” The words were spoken softly, but they reverberated down to his very soul, echoing like a sonorous choir of angels.
Yes. She had said yes.
His hands trembled, and he couldn’t stop smiling as he hauled her into his arms and hugged her tight. He buried one hand in her hair and tried not to laugh at the wellspring of joy deep inside him as it threatened to bubble over.
“I vow to make you happy,” Jackson said.
“I vow the same.” Jane giggled. “Lord, what will we tell the children?”
“I don’t care, as long as you are my wife.” He stole a quick kiss. “Let’s do it tonight.”
Jane’s eyes glowed. “What?”
“Let’s marry tonight. There’s a blacksmith in the village here.”
Jane laughed and hugged him tighter. “You don’t mind waking up an angry Scot who will be wielding a hammer?”
“I would face a thousand angry Scots if it meant I could marry you tonight.” Jackson would risk anything for this woman. Since he’d met her, he had sparked to life like a raging fire, and he would not surrender her for anything.
He helped her to her feet, and they went to see the innkeeper, who told them where to find the blacksmith. They walked down the cobblestone street of the village to a small house next to a forge. Jackson pounded on the door. A lit lamp sat in the window, and he figured many couples had disturbed the blacksmith for hasty marriages at all times of the day and night.
“I’m coming!” the man bellowed a moment before he opened the door. A tall, dark-haired man, built like a brick house, glared at them.
“Would you mind marrying us, good sir?”
The blacksmith blinked and peered down at them from the porch of his cottage.
He scraped a hand over his beard. “You ain’t that young, are ye?”
“Indeed we are not, both widower and widow by many years. Nevertheless, we would very much like to marry at once.”
The man sighed. “Ach, fine. Come in.” He opened his door wide. Jackson, holding Jane’s hand, led her inside as they followed the Scotsman, who lit a few oil lamps and carried one to the forge next door. There was a cozy little enclosed room just off the main workshop. The blacksmith set the lamp on a table next to a symbolic anvil. The door to the room opened, and two people in dressing gowns entered. One was an older man, and the other was a middle-aged woman.
“This is my father and my wife. They will be the witnesses.” The blacksmith produced a dark-blue ribbon, which he wrapped around Jackson’s right hand and Jane’s left.
Jackson only vaguely remembered the vows he spoke; his heart and mind were too excited to focus on much besides staring at Jane. It had been so long since he’d felt like this, like he had hope, that he had a full life once again to look forward to, and not just trying to find such a life for his daughters.
All the years since Marianna’s death seemed to have a purpose now. They had kept him waiting for Jane to walk into his life. How strange that they had both been in London society for so long and yet had never crossed paths before now. If Lydia had never been taken by Brodie Kincade, they might never have met. It was ironic that he now had a reason to shake Kincade’s hand—after he throttled him, of course.
“You are man and wife under the eyes of God and these here witnesses.” The blacksmith lifted the hammer up and smashed it down on the anvil.
Jackson kissed his wife, and Jane smiled as she kissed him back.
“We’ll have your papers ready tomorrow,” the blacksmith said. He nodded to the woman, who took note of their full names on a piece of paper. “Now let me get some bloody sleep. Er . . . and congratulations.”
“Thank you. We shall come by tomorrow.” Jackson shook the blacksmith’s hand, and then he escorted Jane back to their inn. When they reached their shared room, he grinned at her.
“Care to start our honeymoon tonight before we resume the chase for Kincade and Lydia?”
Jane began to undo his cravat, a coquettish smile on her lips that heated his blood.
“Absolutely, husband.” She used his loosened cravat to pull his head down to hers for a long, deep kiss that was the beginning of one of the best nights of his life.
21
The following days passed in a blur of laughter, delight, and kisses. Lydia explored the lands around Castle Kincade, with Brodie as her guide. Half the time they had Rafe and Isla accompanying them, and the rest . . . well . . . They took advantage of their time alone.
This was one such moment. Lydia laid a large plaid blanket down on the ground by the lake, and then Brodie removed the food from a wicker basket. She lay back on the blanket while he prepared their plates. She took a moment to admire him without his being aware of it.
His dark hair, slightly too long to be considered fashionable, was tousled by the wind, and a shadow of a beard ghosted his jaw. He was the most handsome man she had ever known. She had met prettier men, certainly, but there was something about the hard-edged features of Brodie’s face and form that made him seem invincible, untouchable, and that he was hers to surrender to. Hers to touch. Hers to love.
Brodie noticed her eyeing him and offered her a wolfish smile. “What are you thinking about, lass?”
“You.” She smiled and rubbed her foot against his thigh. It was so easy now to be playful with him. Here she didn’t have to worry about scandal, rumors, or ruination. She was free.
Brodie’s eyes warmed as he caught her foot and tickled her ankle. She giggled and pulled free of him. He offered her a plate when she sat up, and they ate in pleasant silence.
The waters of the lake glinted in the bright late-summer sunlight. Ducks and swans floated on the surface, bobbing beneath the water to quest for food. It was all so blissfully peaceful.
“Lydia . . .”
She turned to look at him. “Yes?”
“I never apologized for taking you from Bath the way that I did. Although, I canna say I regret it. This last week has been . . .” He didn’t finish, but his smile pulled at her heart.
“It has been wonderful,” she said.
“I hate that I scared you.” Brodie brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, his gaze impossibly tender. “I would never hurt you, lass.”
She leaned into his palm as he cupped her cheek. “I know.”
“’Tis funny, is it not? All this time, I thought I kidnapped the wrong sister. But as it turns out, I took the right one.” He leaned in and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss, like one between two people who had been lovers and friends for years, not days.
Lydia moved her hand to the back of his neck to keep him close as she deepened the kiss. Their mouths broke apart briefly as she teased him.
“
Never hold back with me, Scot.”
Brodie chuckled and tumbled her backward on the blanket. He captured her wrists above her head with one of his hands, pinning them into the soft plaid blanket beneath them. He took his time kissing her, first sweetly, then more passionately until she was flushed with excitement.
“This is how I will remember us,” he whispered in her ear between kisses. “Like this, in the sunshine, the breeze in your hair, and clear skies reflected in your eyes.” Brodie nuzzled her neck, and Lydia’s heart swelled within her chest.
She would remember everything about him when this was over, not just how he was with her, but how he was with those he cared about. How he sang Isla to sleep each night, how he teased Aiden into smiling, or how he would let his guard down over a game of cards and laugh with Rafe. There were a thousand things about Brodie Kincade that could make a woman fall in love. He believed he was cold and aloof, but he betrayed himself with every bit of love he gave others, even if he didn’t realize it.
She captured his lips with hers, and he pulled her skirt up to her waist as he slid into the cradle of her thighs.
“Make love to me,” she demanded. “Fast and hard.”
His wicked grin made her moan as he pinned her hands above her head again so he could continue his tender assault at an agonizingly slow pace.
“You devil!” She gasped and fought against his imprisoning hold because she wanted to touch him, to grip him while he tortured her with his sinful mouth.
“Be still, my wee captive. I’ll take you as I please.” He laughed so mockingly she almost laughed as well, but she was too desperate for him now. The sudden sound of a footstep and a cold voice froze her and Brodie in place.
“Release my sister, or I swear I will kill you.”
Brodie started to move.
“Slowly, or I’ll shoot.”
Lydia peered over Brodie’s shoulder to see a bedraggled boy covered in dust, aiming a flintlock pistol at Brodie’s back. Lydia recognized the face. It wasn’t a boy at all. “Portia, no!”
Brodie spun, taking Portia to the ground just as the gun went off with a loud crack.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, woman?” Brodie snarled at Portia. “You could have killed her!”
“You monster!” Portia screamed. “I was saving her from you!”
Lydia scrambled to her knees and pulled on Brodie’s shoulder.
“Let her go, Brodie. She thought you were hurting me.”
Brodie slowly released Portia. He got to his feet and helped Lydia up.
Portia was breathing hard as she stood. “Lydia, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Portia. Why on earth are you wearing men’s clothing? And where is Papa? Is he with you?”
“I’m alone,” Portia replied sullenly. “After you were taken, Papa sent me to Brighton with Aunt Cornelia. I escaped, dressed like a boy, and traveled on the Royal Mail coaches to Edinburgh. Then I hired a coach to the village nearby and had to walk the rest of the way.” She smacked her breeches, which were covered with dirt.
Lydia couldn’t help but stare at her little sister. Gone was the perfect beauty. Her sister was bedraggled, filthy, and looked ready to collapse.
Brodie picked the pistol up from the ground and tucked it behind his back in the waistband of his trousers.
“Portia, dear, you look exhausted.”
“I am,” Portia admitted. “But I had to save you.” Her eyes shot to Brodie. “He truly wasn’t trying to hurt you?”
“What? No.” Lydia rushed to reassure her.
“But he kidnapped you with a knife to your throat. I couldn’t stop thinking about how frightened you must have been. All because I was so foolish.” Portia’s voice shook, full of desperation and panic in a way Lydia had never heard before.
Lydia clasped her sister’s hands in hers. “Yes, there was a bit of a misunderstanding at the beginning, but not anymore. We’ve both grown to care about each other.”
Brodie crossed his arms over his chest, scowling at Portia. Lydia put herself between her lover and her sister, just in case things got out of hand.
“You have quite the nerve to come here acting like the injured party, lass,” he said to Portia. “Let’s not forget who kidnapped whom first. Who lied about being with child. You owe me one hell of an apology.”
Portia’s eyes narrowed. “I am sorry I thought you would be a good husband. I’m certainly sorry for convincing my father to catch you and bring you home to me. I’m sorry you were such a foolish man to mistake my sister for me.”
Lydia covered her face with her hands. That wasn’t an apology, and she was certain Brodie would be furious.
“Fine. I accept. Now, you can return to the castle with us, rest for a day, and we will see you to a coach and send you home to Bath.”
“What?” Portia snapped. “Did you not hear the part of my story where I fled my aunt in Brighton? Papa isn’t in Bath. He went after you! I have no one to return to.”
“That isna my problem,” Brodie snapped back. “You found your way here on your own—I’m certain you can survive alone in a fancy house in Bath.”
Lydia grasped Brodie’s arm. “Please don’t send her away just yet. We need to discover where my father is on his way to the Isle of Skye and perhaps we can find a way to send her to him.”
“Lydia!” Portia gasped. “You must come with me. You cannot stay here.”
“Why not, Portia? I am happy here.”
Portia pulled her away from Brodie to have a moment of privacy to converse.
“Lydia, you cannot stay, not unless you marry him,” Portia said in a hushed tone.
“I don’t see why you care. You haven’t cared about me in any of this.”
“Of course I have,” Portia insisted.
Lydia stared hard at her little sister. “You didn’t think of me that night you made a fool of yourself at the ball. You didn’t think of me or Papa when you lied about Brodie seducing you. You didn’t think of Brodie when he was attacked and drugged, or when you drugged him yourself. I knew you were spoiled, Portia, but I never imagined you could also be cruel. If Mama were alive, you would have broken her heart.”
Portia’s lips parted, and her bottom lip quivered. She dropped her head.
“You’re right. Mama would have been devastated. I never should have come here!” Portia suddenly dashed toward the distant woods, leaving Lydia staring after her in shock. It was just like her to run away without a thought as to where she was going.
With a heavy sigh, Brodie took off in the direction her sister had gone. He returned a few minutes later with a squirming Portia thrown over his shoulder. He dumped her onto the plaid picnic blanket.
“I wasna about to let the foolish child get killed by boars. We have many in the woods.”
“A boar?” Portia gasped.
“Boars, plural. As I said, we have many, and they would have gored you with their tusks. ’Tis not a pretty way to die.”
Portia scrambled to her feet again, and this time she grabbed Lydia’s hand, trying to drag her toward the castle.
“We’re safe out here by the lake, Portia, really,” Lydia said, trying to reassure her panicked sister.
Brodie collected the plaid blanket and gathered the dishes into the basket. They headed toward the castle, but it seemed as though luck wasn’t with them today. As they reached the front doors of Castle Kincade, three riders were spotted on the road, headed straight for them.
Lydia had a terrible feeling one was her father.
22
Brodie ushered Lydia and Portia through the front door and turned to face the riders. As soon as they were close enough to recognize, he silently cursed. It was more or less as he’d expected. Brock, Ashton, and Jackson Hunt skidded to a stop and dismounted. Hunt moved the fastest, and Brodie didn’t try to stop what happened next. He raised his arms open-handed and took the angry father’s hard right hook to his jaw. Brodie stumbled back, catching himself a
gainst the doorframe.
“Where the bloody hell is my daughter?” Hunt threw another punch, and Brodie knew this one would blacken his eye. After a few more hits, Ashton and Brock dragged Hunt away from him.
Blood dripped down Brodie’s chin, and his bottom lip stung. His whole face was a mass of pain as he got back to his feet. The old man was surprisingly strong. He would be lucky to see out of even one eye tomorrow.
“Brodie, where’s the lass?” his older brother demanded.
“Inside. She is safe and well. As is her sister.”
“What?” Hunt shouted. “Portia’s here too? How the devil—?”
“Easy, man,” Brodie said. “Your younger daughter only just arrived. She said she left her aunt in Brighton and traveled here alone. She thought she could rescue Lydia from me. She nearly killed me with a pistol.”
“Where are they? I demand to see them at once.” Hunt shoved past Brodie, who allowed him to storm the castle, as it were.
“Lydia! Portia!” Hunt called out as the door closed behind him.
Brodie sighed and winced. Ashton and Brock watched him solemnly.
“Christ, Brodie, do you have any idea of the trouble you’ve caused?” said his brother. “You’ll be fortunate if Hunt doesn’t challenge you to a duel.”
“That doesna bother me.” In truth, it did bother him, but after such a beating part of him would not mind shooting the old man in the leg just to even the score.
“It bloody well bothers me,” Ashton growled. “Hunt has just married Lucien Russell’s mother, which makes him practically family to me. If you kill him, it would not only break Lady Rochester’s heart, it would enrage Lucien. And believe me, you do not want that man coming for your blood. And since Brock is married to Joanna, you are my family, which means some small part of my own honor demands I defend you against one of my dearest friends. Do you see the dilemma we all face?”
Brodie nodded, but deep down he no longer cared. The day he had dreaded had finally come. He was losing Lydia. As he entered the castle’s grand hall, he found Hunt talking to his two daughters. He fiercely embraced them both, and then he berated Portia for leaving Brighton.