Imposter Bride (37 page)

“Really? As if I care.”

“And you don’t?”

Sophie sighed. She had loved a man who had betrayed
her, and there had been nothing more painful than discovering she
had placed her faith in someone who did not deserve it.

“I have learned from the experience of the past few
months that I can depend on no one but myself.”

“Surely that isn’t true!”

“I trust no one, Mr. Puckett. Well, perhaps, Mary
Auliffe, just a little. But I lied to that good woman, and she
probably will never forgive me for it.”

“She has.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s here in Scotland.” Puckett took an eager step
closer. “And she was just as keen as any one of us to discover your
whereabouts, once we heard the rumor.”

“What rumor?”

“About the woman found wearing the MacMarrie tartan.
The tale’s halfway across Scotland by now, I’ll wager.”

Sophie gazed down at the multi-colored quilt
covering her and felt dark remorse creeping upward for the way she
had used her generous grandmother. “Knowing Lady Auliffe, she
probably wants my head.”

“No, child. Nothing of the sort!” Puckett wrung his
hands together, much less gay than he had been moments before. “And
there’s the captain—”

“I don’t want to hear of the
captain
,” she
spat, accentuating his title.

“But he’s—”

“He used me.” The lump that had been forming in her
throat swelled to unbearable proportions, and she looked down at
her hands, knowing the frill of the mobcap would hide her
expression, so that her visitor could not witness her moment of
weakness. “He used me,” she repeated, her voice cracking. She
coughed, her lungs still aggravated by water.

“That I will not deny.” Puckett paused and sank to
the chair at the small table across from her. He heaved a sigh.
“But there were reasons—”

“It doesn’t matter!” She dashed her tears away with
her fingertips and averted her gaze, pretending to study the wall
of the caravan beside her. No matter what she said out loud about
the captain, whenever she thought of Ian, her heart still broke
into hundreds of sharp aching pieces, and she couldn’t bear to let
her heartache show.

“He spent twenty years of his life trying to—”

“I don’t care to hear of it!” She coughed behind her
fist, and her eyes watered, hiding the tears of anguish that
threatened to fall.

“All right.” Puckett sighed again. “But you don’t
know everything.”

“And maybe I don’t care to know!” She turned and
glared at him, her eyes burning.

“I don’t blame you.”

Sophie fell silent and let her gaze drop to the
quilt, and suddenly felt very old and very tired. “Thank you for
coming, but I need to rest now, Mr. Puckett.”

“Very well.” He rose, brushed the folds from his
clothing, and then looked down at her. “May I at least tell Captain
Ramsay and Lady Auliffe that you are alive?”

“I would prefer that you tell them you never found
me.”

“As you wish.” Puckett’s shoulders drooped as he
walked halfway to the door and then turned. “I wish you the best of
luck, Miss Vernet.”

“Thank you, Mr. Puckett.”

“And should you hear of the death of Edward Metcalf,
you will know that you are a free woman, no longer pursued by the
law.”

“Edward Metcalf?” She straightened again, coughing.
“What are you talking about?”

“The captain challenged the earl to a duel.”

“Whatever for?”

“If you must know,” Puckett reached for the latch of
the door. “To clear your name.”

“My name? Even when he believes I am dead?”

“Yes. He says he has proof that Edward Metcalf is
the murderer.”

Sophie stared at him, struck dumb with surprise.

“Should Captain Ramsay be victorious tomorrow, he
will likely go to prison for killing a peer of the realm, or he may
be hanged. Should he not be victorious, it is doubtless he will
trouble you ever again.”

“He’s fighting a duel?”

“And likely losing everything—perhaps even his
life.”

“Where? When?”

“Dawn tomorrow at Highclyffe. Good evening, Miss
Vernet.”

Puckett ducked to leave, and Sophie heard the door
shut behind him. The sound echoed as if coming from a long distance
as the last wave of strength and resolve ebbed from her limbs.

Sophie lay in the narrow bed, stunned into a strange
paralysis. Ian was to fight a duel on her behalf? Why? Was it
because he cared that much about her? Or could he be hatching
another plot? If so, she couldn’t fathom what it might be. Her mind
whirled and her stomach churned with indecision. One moment she
burned to jump out of bed and flee to Highclyffe to make sure he
was safe, and the next she burned with resentment, having succumbed
to his heartless manipulations too many times. She was still
suffering the emotional consequences, and wasn’t about to let her
heart be broken again by the man.

Yet this was not like all those other times. Ian had
never put his life on the line before or imperiled his future.
Neither outcome of the duel would bode well for him. How could she
go on with her life, knowing a man she had loved was dead or in
prison because of her? She knew she could not stand by and let Ian
surrender his life on her account. She would never be able to live
with herself.

Damn him. Once again he had meddled in her affairs.
Because of him, she would have to show her face at Highclyffe once
again and put herself in grave danger. Her disappearing act hadn’t
lasted a day.

Soon Sophie could no longer keep still. She could
not spend another moment in bed either. With shaking legs, she
stumbled to the table and hastily dressed in her dry, stiff
clothing, which smelled faintly musky, like the lake into which she
had plunged. The effort brought on a violent coughing spell, which
she tried to suppress, but not well enough to keep Jane Glenn from
hearing her distress.

The caravan swayed with the weight of the woman as
she blustered in.

“Lass!” Jane exclaimed. “What are ye doin’?”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“Ye’re in no proper state!”

“I have to go somewhere.”

“And where might that be?”

“To Highclyffe.”

“Highclyffe? You are in no shape to be traipsing off
to Highclyffe. ’Tis miles away!”

“I have to.” Coughing, Sophie pulled on her skirt
and tied it. “Someone’s life is in danger.”

“Aye, yours—if ye dinna stop this foolishness!” Jane
planted her fists on her hips. “Listen to ye! Hacking and
sputtering—”

“I have to get there by dawn.”

“Why so early?”

“Isn’t dawn when duels are fought?”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Who is fightin’ a duel?”

“The Earl of Blethin and someone you probably don’t
know.”

“Who?”

“An American. Ian Ramsay.”

“Captain Ramsay?”

“Yes.”

Jane’s posture relaxed somewhat. “Oh, I know of him,
all right. Captain Ramsay’s done right by many of us the past few
years.”

“What do you mean?”

Jane’s voice lowered as if she was worried about
being overheard. “If a Scot ends up in trouble in London, or
anywhere thereabouts, they know they can ask for the captain, and
he’ll get them help. His name’s like a password to safety.”

Sophie thought back to Molly MacRell, and the way
the poor woman had come to Ian’s back door, begging for help. How
much of himself he gave to Scotland and how little he gave to
anything or anyone else. Nothing, it seemed, could come between Ian
and his goal of acquiring Highclyffe—until now. But why now? Why
put his future at risk for the sake of a dead woman? His sudden act
of valor on her behalf didn’t make sense.

“So he’s here?” Jane inquired, breaking into her
thoughts. “The captain?”

“Yes. At Highclyffe.” Sophie swallowed. “He’s
fighting the duel because of me.”

“How braugh!” Jane tilted her head and studied
Sophie, as if looking for a reason for Sophie’s distress. “But you
dinna agree?”

“My affairs are none of his business,” Sophie
replied. “And I have to stop him before it goes too far.”

“Then sit down.”

“I can’t! I have to get a horse somewhere and leave
as soon as possible.”

“I’ll take ye, lass.”

“But I can’t ask that of you, to turn around and
go—”

“Ye didna ask. I’m volunteering. I’m taking ye t’
Highclyffe.” She turned and then looked over her shoulder. “Canna
sleep for the ache in my joints anyhow. Besides, I’ve never seen
this Captain Ramsay.” She put her hand on the latch of the door.
“Now get back to bed, lass. We just might make it if we hurry.”

All through the night the tinker’s wagon rumbled
toward Loch Lemond, the pots and pans clanking, the tools and
utensils jangling, keeping Sophie awake. She couldn’t have slept
anyway, even had she been lying in the softest feather bed, for her
thoughts raged through her mind like fire through a cane field. All
she could think about was the coming morning.

It had been a miracle that she had survived her leap
from Highclyffe, but because of Ian’s duel her miracle would come
to naught. To save Ian’s life and fortune, she would have to give
herself up to the authorities, as Edward knew of her duplicity as
well as the household servants.

Sophie smiled bitterly. At least she’d come up in
the world. Where once she’d been a worthless servant, now she was
able to barter her life for a rich man’s future.

The smile soon faded, however. Sophie shoved her
hands beneath her cheek to keep them warm, closed her eyes, and
forced back scalding tears. She would not cry. Crying never helped
anything. She must face her fate with strength and honor, even
though she had been unjustly accused. No one could help her now
that her false identity had been discovered. She could not even
help herself, even so much as running, weak as she was. Assuredly
this was her last night of freedom, and she would spend it in the
cacophony of a tinker’s wagon, all alone.

But that had been her life up until now
anyway—living day to day with no ties to anyone save servitude. The
only moments of happiness she had known in her entire life were
those spent in Ian’s townhouse. There, sitting with him by the fire
or eating at the same table, she had tasted true companionship for
the first time.

Sophie sighed at the memory. How sweet it had been.
How wonderful an experience to be held in Ian’s embrace, to feel
his heat and strength surrounding her, to be lifted off her feet
and gently crushed against his chest. In those moments she had felt
safe and cherished, no longer alone in the world. How those moments
had seduced her into thinking he cared for her.

Sophie’s sigh turned into a frown, and she caught
herself shaking her head. She should have run away the first day
she set foot on English soil, had she only known what lay in store
for her.

She could not win tomorrow morning. Even if Ian did
not lose his life in the duel, and Edward were killed, she would
have to surrender herself. Surely there would be others at the
scene: a physician and seconds at the very least, who would be
aware of her true identity. She would be apprehended the moment she
stepped from Jane Glenn’s wagon.

The same scenario would occur should Ian be wounded
or killed. Edward would see to it that she was put under guard and
sent south for a trial.

Sophie cursed the wicked coward who had killed Jean
Coutain in Kensington, changing forever the course of three
lives—his victim’s, hers, and Ian’s. How many other lives had the
murderer irrevocably altered? And why did fate grant a monster the
freedom to continue on a path of destruction and deny the smallest
portion of justice to an innocent girl? It wasn’t fair. It just
wasn’t fair.

As the wagon rolled through the night, Sophie’s
thoughts turned around and around in her head. She tried to fashion
a speech she would make when she arrived, but the words wouldn’t
form on her lips. She tried to visualize what it would be like to
see Ian again after so much had happened between them, but she
couldn’t imagine what might transpire. His very presence had always
disarmed her.

Sooner than she would have believed, she felt the
night air sharpen with the coming dawn. She pulled the curtain back
from the tiny window and looked out, but was unable to glimpse even
the palest of light in the sky above the craggy ramparts of
Highclyffe.

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. They were almost at
the edge of the earl’s property. In another half hour, her freedom
would come to an end. Still, her heart did not race on behalf of
her own welfare, but on Ian’s. She closed her eyes and murmured a
prayer that she would not be too late to stop him.

The morning sky was still black when Ramsay heard a
discreet rap on his bed chamber door.

“It’s six o’clock, sir,” William the footman called
from the other side.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. MacEwan is here.”

“Tell him I’ll be down soon.” Ramsay rubbed the back
of his neck and glanced at the window to his right where he’d
pulled back the drapery the night before in order to afford a view
of the sky. No hint of dawn colored the heavens yet.

Even before William’s knock, Ramsay had risen and
pulled on his shirt and breeches, having found sleep impossible.
After another long night spent tossing and turning, he felt more
wretched than he had for many years. Even the old wound in his
thigh throbbed with a dull beat of pain.

The only light in the entirety of his personal
darkness was the hope that Sophie might be alive, and that he might
see her again. But first, he had to kill an earl.

Ramsay scowled and lathered up his shaving soap with
a bit of water from the ewer sitting on the chest of drawers near
the door. He painted his cheeks and jaws with the cool white froth
while he thought of the morning to come. He’d never gambled
everything like this. He’d always placed a sure bet, if he gambled
at all. But this morning he would lay his life and fortune on the
line, all for a single shot at a murderous Englishman.