Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (28 page)

“Ye can’t be serious?” Lord Winthrop looked over the tops of his spectacles in an attempt to see him better.

“Aye, sir. I am.” Having once made up his mind, he was determined. “Very.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not yet,” Alasdair hedged. “But she is injured, and things are…difficult.” And delicate. And insanely complicated. And deceptively simple.

Lord Winthrop took a long look at him—from the bottom of the soles of his shoes to the very tip top of his ginger-haired, un-powdered head—as if he were one of the plants the man was attempting to catalogue. “Ye seem a fine enough specimen to me. Ye’re not going to try and bargain with me to increase her fortune?”

“Nay.” The thought had not entered Alasdair’s mind.

“Well, then, it would be foolish of me not to accept such a bargain, eh?” Lord Winthrop laughed and stuck out his hand. “Take her with my blessing.”

The relief that flooded Alasdair’s chest was incendiary, burning away every other consideration, every thought of any different sort of wife.

“Thank you, sir. Of course, I shall send my man of business to you to confirm the formalities of the settlement, but you have my word. As a gentleman. But I believe the marriage ceremony itself should take place forthwith.”

“Certainly. Best to get on with it as soon as possible. Give her no time to worm her way out, eh? Or do something else entirely foolish.”

His daughter had already done enough that was entirely foolish. But had he? Was this marriage a bad, ill-conceived idea—so mad that she would want to worm her way out?

“I’ll leave ye to it, then.” Lord Winthrop was clapping him on the shoulder and turning to go.

“Don’t you want to speak with her yourself? Tell her of your decision?” Give her his blessing? Quince was grievously injured—surely her father would want to assure himself that she was all right? “The vicar of Saint Cuthbert’s, who is also a physician, is attending to Lady Quince, and I mean to see to the wedding straight away. Surely you’ll want to stay for that?”

But Lord Winthrop waved off Alasdair’s concern. “No, no. Best leave that to ye. I’m sure ye’ll sort things out. And if ye can’t convince her, well… Maybe her mother or sister can be of some help.”

Alasdair began to see why wee Lady Quince might have been left to wander astray, with such disinterested parenting. But he would start as he meant to go on. “Thank you, sir, but I am well able to fend for myself.”

Lord Winthrop smiled over his shoulder. “Aye, well, so is Quince, my Lord Cairn. So is Quince.”

Alasdair returned to his now-betrothed’s bedchamber to find the Reverend Talent still close within the bright circle of lamplight around his patient. “The ball passed by, but it’s left a very long and jagged laceration. It will need to be tightly bound.”
 

Quince endured the rest of the treatment with ashen-faced, white-lipped stoicism that Alasdair could only admire, though he did not want to be impressed—he didn’t like the sense of obligation his admiration placed him under. But he was already obligated. And he had already spoken out loud, to all of her family. It only remained for him to convince Quince.

“You’ll need to rest now, Lady Quince.” The vicar turned to her mother. “See that she’s kept from any strenuous activity for a fortnight, at least. The arm needs to be immobile if it is to heal. And—”

Quince stopped the vicar from speaking by taking his arm with her good one, and pulling him nearer so she could speak without being heard. Or perhaps she had not the strength to do more than whisper, though her grip on the vicar’s sleeve belied such an idea.
 

But as she whispered low into the vicar’s ear, a nasty shard of something juvenile and too much like jealousy for his tastes rove through him with all the finesse of an iron bar. God help him, he
was
jealous.
 

She was his. She should be whispering low into
his
ear. She had done so the night he had kissed her in his garden.
 

But whom else had she encouraged in such a way? She might have any number of beaux named Davie, or Cameron, or Talent, for all he knew.

Nay. She wasn’t like that. She was loyal and sincere. Even if she did lie far too easily for a lass her age.

Perhaps her confidence to the vicar was a plea for absolution. Maybe she truly was sorry. Maybe she was repenting of her crimes. Pain and duress—pain and duress that
he
had caused—did strange things to a person. And she knew this vicar fellow well. Well enough to ask for him by name, and know his church, and his academic background and training. And he had seen her talking to the man twice. Maybe she did have some scruples wandering about aimlessly under that flibbertigibbet exterior.

The Reverend Talent finally stepped away from Quince, who seemed to have spent the last of her depleted strength on their conversation. She lay still and white in her black breeches on the bed.
 

“I’ll see myself out,” the vicar was saying to Lady Winthrop.

“A moment, Reverend Talent, if you would.” Alasdair stayed the vicar—while the man was there, they might as well make good use of all of his qualifications, and engage him to conduct the ceremony directly. “There is another matter.”

“No.” Quince’s voice was surprisingly strong for someone who looked so weak. “Not now.”

“Quince.” Alasdair went to her. “You know we must marry,” he whispered low, trying to keep their conversation as private as it might be with such an interested audience. “You must.”

“I don’t like
must
, Strathcairn.” Her answering whisper was taking on an edge of stubborn desperation. “I agreed to be engaged, not to marry. Surely that’s unnecessary.”

“It is very necessary,” he assured her. “I’ve spoken to your father, and he has given his consent.”

“Just like that?” What little color remained in her face left, leaving her as pale and colorless as the coverlet.
 

He didn’t try to soften the blow. “Aye, just like that.”

She put her hand to her forehead, as if the thought of marrying him was making her dizzy. “You ken I don’t want to.”

Her refusal hurt more than it ought. But she was hurt more than she ought to be, even if she had been robbing a coach. He softened his voice, and tried again. “Refusal is not an option, wee Quince.” He spoke quietly but firmly, as one does when giving someone an unfortunate truth, and took her hand to demonstrate his sincerity. “But perhaps I need to assure you that you will make me the happiest of men, and that I will endeavor to see to it that you—”

She pulled her hand away. “I cannot possibly make you the happiest of men. I will make you the saddest. I will. I will—” Her whisper strangled to a halt, before she renewed her assault on his logic. “I will not make you a good wife. I won’t make any mon a good wife, because I’m not good. If you think so, then you truly have lost your mind.”

“Pray, give me leave to know my own mind, Quince.” He kept on with that low, steady voice that worked with obstinate politicians. “I believe that once you have recovered yourself from what must be a considerable shock, you will see that we will suit quite well.”

“We will not suit,” she insisted with a frantic shake of her head. She put her good hand to her eyes, which had become suspiciously glassy. “We will not. We will be—” She looked from him to the others, as if one of them might save her.

Not the vicar. No matter what, he refused to let it be the damned solemn vicar.
 

If she thought she wouldn’t suit Alasdair, she damn well wouldn’t suit a staid, un-larky vicar. And he would do anything—say anything—to convince her of that fact.
 

He used the last weapon in his arsenal. “It has to be me, Quince. I am the only one who will keep you out of the Tollbooth Prison this morning.”

Quince held his gaze, even with her eyes brimming with tears. “Truly? You would saddle yourself with me rather than see that happen?”

“Aye,” Alasdair swore. “If we are wed, then in the eyes of the law we are one person, and I will be able to protect you as my wife.”

“I don’t understand—you are the eyes of the law, Strathcairn. How can you protect me from
yourself
?” Her whisper rose to a plea. “Why can you not protect me as your friend?”

Because they were not
friends
. They could never really be friends now, after what she had done. “You have a very strange idea of what a friend is, wee Quince.”

She did not take his intended meaning. She had truths of her own. “And you have a very strange idea of what true friendship is, Strathcairn.”

Alasdair felt his already worn composure start to give way. “We can argue all night long after we are married. But now, we are running out of time. No more baiting and debating.” He took her good hand again. “Lady Quince, I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife. But let me be clear—I will insist.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He tried to harden his tone, to show her that he had made up his mind.

“You insist?” The fight was going out of her—she was worn down by pain, doubt and desperation.

“I do insist,” he said, firming his resolve. “It’s me or the Tollbooth.”

It had to be said. Quince had to know exactly where she stood. And Alasdair wanted to have his way. He would examine the reasons why at a later date, when it was done.

“Such a charming proposal, Strathcairn. You quite overcome my maidenly sensibilities.”

“You don’t have maidenly sensibilities.” Triumph and relief distilled themselves into a heady brew. “What you have instead is backbone. And far too much nerve. And I’m the only man who can see it.” He met her blazing golden eyes. “It really is me or the Tollbooth, lass. Choose.”

Chapter Eighteen

What Quince chose was more time to consider. Because the ache in her arm had settled to an omnipresent throb that made it hard to think. But think she would—her future depended upon it.

She wet her lips to counter the dryness in her throat from all their furtive whispering. “May I please have a glass of water and a private moment alone to discuss the matter with the marquess?”
 

“There is nothing more to discuss,” Strathcairn countered at the same time that her mother said, “Surely this can wait until Quince has had some time to recover? I see no reason for such unseemly haste.”

There was every reason for haste with the law—embodied by Strathcairn—breathing down her sore neck. Which was bound to get sorer still if Strathcairn held to his threat of tossing her into Tollbooth Prison. She was well and truly caught between a rock and a hanging place, and she could not tell yet which was like to be the more lethal. “Please, Mama.”

Perhaps it was the unaccustomed gravity in her tone. Perhaps it was the pain and weariness leeching into her voice. Whatever it was her mother heard, it was enough to move her to do as Quince asked.
 

“Reverend Talent? If you would be so good as to accompany me to my sitting room, we can see to the business of your fee.”

“Don’t go far,” Strathcairn admonished their retreating backs. “We’ll have need of you presently.” And when the door had closed behind them, he returned to her side, standing by the bed, looming over her in that granite cliff sort of way he seemed to prefer. Trying to look impenetrable. “Well? Speak now, Quince, or forever hold your peace.”

How like him to couch his threat with wedding language. “That’s just the problem, Strathcairn—there is no possibility of peace. Not two hours ago you were furious at me—with good reason”—she held up a hand to prevent him from objecting and interrupting—“I grant you. But you were angry enough to shoot me, and now you want—nay,
insist
upon marrying me. Forgive me if I find you utterly confusing.” Confusing because the ache in her arm decided to be democratic, and spread the pain around. Her temple started to pound.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you.” He raked a hand through that glorious ginger mane, as if his brain were not unaffected either.

“Then why, reputation be damned—for you ken I care nothing for it—do you insist upon marriage? You ken you have but to tell my parents the undiluted truth—that I am the highwayman—and they would pack me off to Papa’s brother in Nova Scotia, quick as you please. They’ve threatened it often enough in the past.” She paused to catch her breath, and try to think clearly—clearly enough to understand Strathcairn. “The truth is, your problem—me—can be solved without resorting to a mis-thought marriage.”