Megan Frampton (4 page)

“I found some letters last night.” He smiled. It was no surprise that his smile made her stomach churn.

“Letters?” she repeated. “Whose?”

He tugged on her arm, forcing her to twist her shoulder so he wouldn’t pop it out of the socket. “Very interesting letters.” He leaned in even closer to her face. “From your whore of a mother. Amazing what you can find when you’re searching for another bottle of port.”

Mary deliberately kept her expression blank. She didn’t dare ask him what they said. “And you brought them to me? How kind of you, brother.”

She felt the hot exhale of his breath on her forehead. He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “No, stupid, I’m keeping the letters. And I’m keeping you. You could be worth a whole lot more than a few pounds.”

She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but could barely budge. “You can’t.”

He continued on as though she hadn’t spoken. What was it about the men she knew that made them ignore her entirely? “We’re going to London to find her. She’s probably married to some lord, wearing diamonds to breakfast. She’ll pay to have you out of her life. She did it before, she’ll do it again.”

Matthias’s words echoed the conclusions she herself had formed upon learning about her mother. Her mother would do
something
for her, wouldn’t she?

Mary couldn’t bear to answer the question herself.

She met his eyes, trying to squelch the fear his gaze spread all over her body. Especially the parts he’d struck. “No. I won’t go with you.”

He shook her until her teeth rattled. “Yes, you will.”

She clung to the doorjamb as he tried to drag her toward the stairs. He looked back impatiently, and then kicked her legs apart so she lost her balance. She stumbled, and he swore, then yanked her to her feet.

“Are you going somewhere, my love?” Alasdair drawled in an indifferent tone. She heaved a sigh of relief. He stood on the stairs, one long, elegant, supremely
lordly
hand resting on the rough-surfaced wall, the other tucked negligently in his waistcoat pocket.

Matthias straightened, pulling Mary close against his side. “Thank goodness you found my sister,” he said in a concerned voice. He fumbled in his coat with the hand that wasn’t holding Mary, and withdrew a card. “Send your man to this address, and I will recompense you for your trouble.” As if he hadn’t been standing up there with Mackenzie while she was being sold. How stupid did he think the marquess was?

He slid Mary’s hand behind her back and began to twist her wrist. She knew he would break it if she didn’t go along with him. “And now we must be going, isn’t that right, Mary?”

“Ah, well, see …,” she stammered, as he started to bend her wrist at an impossible angle.

“That is not right, sir,” Alasdair replied, emphasizing the “sir” in a dry, mocking tone. “She is my property now.” Alasdair climbed the rest of the stairs and raised one black eyebrow. “I purchased her. As you well know.” He stepped forward and reached
between Matthias and Mary, plucking Mary’s wrist from her brother’s hand.

Mary immediately began to rub her injured skin. Alasdair’s eyes tracked the movement. “I am a better person to take care of your sister.” He accompanied his words by closing his fingers into a fist, a clear threat.

Mary held her breath. He didn’t know Matthias, but she did. Her half brother was capable of anything.

“I must disagree.” Matthias withdrew a long, wicked-looking knife from his coat, a knife that had been pressed against Mary’s throat only the previous afternoon. “You can take your money back, or you can take nothing. It’s up to you, but I’m taking my sister.”

Before Mary could even warn him, Alasdair shoved her behind him and grabbed Matthias’s hand, the one holding the knife. He was incredibly fast. The knife fell to the floor with a thud as he twisted the other man’s wrist. “No. You’re not.” He kicked the knife backward so it fell down the stairs, bumping a few times until it stopped about halfway down.

Mary heard the snap of bone and watched the blood drain from her brother’s face as he screamed.

“Now get out of here.” Alasdair let go of Matthias’s wrist and headed for the door to his room. He didn’t even spare a glance toward Matthias, who had fallen to the floor holding his wrist and cursing. Mary scurried into the room behind Alasdair, heaving a sigh of relief as he slammed the door.

“I gather I don’t have to ask you again who hit you,” he said, throwing clothes into a leather valise. “Let’s go before he figures out how to use that knife with his left hand.” He snapped the valise shut. Mary jumped at the noise.

He glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “Oh, and we’re not inviting him to the wedding.”

Mary nodded, too shocked to do anything but shake. She was glad, after all, that he hadn’t had second thoughts about his proposal.

***

After much wrangling, Alasdair hired a pair of horses, a coach, and a coachman. He
wasn’t sure about either the horses or the coachman, but the coach seemed sound. He also bought a pair of shoes and a cloak for his bride to be. It was early spring, and it got cold, even in the daytime, this far north. Finally, he sent a letter to his London house issuing directions; she’d need clothing, and the house would have to be made ready for a woman, not just a bachelor of questionable habits. She would also need a maid to take care of her. Lord knew he wasn’t capable of it.

He felt useful taking care of so many details—he had a man of business for most things, a secretary for social obligations, but neither had accompanied him here. As far as they knew, he was at his country house, shooting.

He hadn’t picked up a gun since Salamanca, but they didn’t know that.

The encounter with Mary’s brother had quieted her. He was grateful he didn’t have to listen to her arguments against his plan, but something inside of him ached at seeing her so beaten. Thank God he’d returned in time to prevent her being literally beaten, as it was clear she had been before.

A fiery red mist suffused his gaze. How could her own brother treat her so poorly? He’d wanted to squeeze the man’s life away with his bare hands.

It was lucky, then, that the cad had gotten away with only a broken wrist.

It was now his job to ensure no one was able to harm her again.

Speaking of which—she’d been giving him sneaky glances from underneath her lashes from the moment they entered the carriage. She’d fussed with the strings of her cloak, and patted her hair at least a thousand times. It was obvious he made her uncomfortable—and she’d only be sane to react that way.

No matter that she looked delicious and alluring sitting opposite him.

“There will be no obligation attached to being my wife.” He paused. “That is, we will entertain and there are certain responsibilities, but you are not required to—that is, we will not …”
Damn, he was handling this badly
. He made a gesture in the air, unable to speak the words. At least not without using language ladies likely didn’t know, even if the lady in question had been sold to the highest bidder.

“Have marital relations?” she supplied coolly. She folded her hands in her lap. “I see.” She inhaled, closed her eyes briefly, and spoke. “My lord, I still think you have not properly considered”—she chuckled without mirth, shaking her head—“have not
considered
at all
just what you are doing in suggesting marriage. You know nothing about me, and I—the only thing I know about you is that you purchase women’s virginities and then do not …”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and he felt a moment of admiration for her boldness.

“That’s settled, then,” he replied. He folded his arms across his chest.

Her expression indicated it was anything but. She opened her mouth but then snapped it closed when she met his eyes.

Alasdair raised his legs and propped them on the seat next to her, nudging her sideways with his feet. He was conscious of the soft warmth of her body next to his; he could still remember what her legs had looked like as she stood on that table.

It was going to be hard—he laughed inwardly at his own wit—not to take her, to possess her as he had a right to, but if he faltered, he wouldn’t know if he was saving her for her, or for himself.

The drugs he’d been taking had eaten away at his morals while they eased his bitter memories. But he wasn’t so far gone as to leave her to the mercy of her loathsome brother. Or at his own mercy.

She shifted over on the seat and glared at him. He missed her warmth already. “Settled, then? How is it settled when I’ve just said you haven’t thought about it at all. I, I have no choice, clearly, or I wouldn’t be here with you now, but you, you have a responsibility to your title, your legacy, your heirs—” She held her hand to her mouth, her eyes opening wide. “You don’t have children, do you?”

His heart twisted. “No.” He folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, trying to push away the memories.

Her voice cut in on his thoughts. “Perhaps, my lord, since you refuse to see reason, and I have no other choice, you could tell me about yourself.”

And reveal what was eating his soul?

That was the last thing he wanted.

Now she knew he really was insane. He’d marry her, but wouldn’t pursue marital relations? From what she had gathered from the women in the village, and from her best friend, Amelia, who’d gotten married only the previous spring, conjugal relations were often the
only
reason men wanted to get married in the first place. The rest—companionship, love, and security—were women’s reasons. Or so she’d heard.

He was a marquess. She didn’t doubt it, even though he was traveling alone, and
she knew peers always had a full retinue of servants trailing in their wake. His hands, his long, elegant hands, were smooth—no calluses. And he had perfectly trimmed nails, which Mary had never seen on a man. He
acted
lordly, from his high-handed dismissal of her concerns, to his cultured accent, to his lean, muscled body, which clearly owed its fitness to aristocratic pursuits, not manual labor.

“Miss Smith, I find it … 
tiresome
,” he said with a grin, “to discuss myself.”

There was a moment of silence. Swatted like a bug. “Perhaps then, my lord, you wouldn’t mind if I read.” Mary pulled her lips together and pulled her book out of her cloak without waiting for his reply.

“If you read aloud.” It was not a request.

It discomfited her, the thought of reading to him. She wasn’t comfortable even leading the choir when Mrs. Carruthers took to bed to give birth to another small Carruthers. And being under the marquess’s scrutiny … her heart started beating more rapidly, knowing those cool green eyes were watching her.

It did things to her she couldn’t put words to.

But it was not a request. She smoothed her hair and opened the book to the title page.

Her father had insisted she keep the slim volume of John Donne’s poetry always close by, and she’d tucked it into her pocket when she’d realized her half brother was selling everything he could.

Her shoes had been impossible to rescue; Matthias had taken them, and most of her clothing, barely a week after their father’s death. Barefoot, penniless, and sold, but at least she had something to read. She laughed to herself at the ridiculous situation.

At least she had shoes again. She could thank him for that.

He was still waiting, one of those black, forbidding eyebrows raised in a haughty stare. Did he practice the look in the mirror? No, it seemed bone bred, his arrogance.

She flipped through the pages, desperate to find something that wouldn’t completely embarrass her. “Woman’s Constancy,” no; “The Ecstasy,” definitely not; “Lovers’ Infiniteness” … goodness, did John Donne write about nothing else?

Finally she stopped at a poem whose title seemed innocent enough, cleared her throat, and began to read. “ ‘The Flea’…

Mary slammed the book shut. The sound echoed through the coach, then it was silent again. She wondered if she’d ever be able to speak without blushing again.

Damn that Donne.

“Are you too warm? You look flushed.” His voice startled her, and she jumped, dropping the book to the floor.

She leaned forward to pick it up and banged her head against his. It stung, and she rubbed the sore spot.

His hand reached the book, and he handed it back to her, an amused gleam in his eyes. “I presume this will not be the last time we butt heads,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

She stared at him for a moment, until she realized he’d made a joke. “Yes, unfortunately for you, my lord, my charges say I am very hardheaded.” At his puzzled expression, she continued, “I used to teach the children in my village.”

“My men said the same about me,” he began, then stopped as soon as he realized what he’d said.

She knew what secrets she was holding—it was clear he had his own, as well.

Would she be with him long enough to discover what they were? And why did she even want to?

No, London was her only hope, and it was a meager one, at best. And only if she
got there soon, before Matthias.

“When will we be in Scotland?” Mary asked, before her mind could ponder just what that might mean.

He lifted one of those fearsome eyebrows. “By evening, if we’re lucky. We’ll be married as soon as we can find someone to do it. And then, if you’d like, we can turn right around and head for London. It’s not as if we’ve got a wedding night to anticipate.”

He gave her what he probably thought was a comforting smile, but all Mary could think of was how he’d looked at her the night before. A tingle of something—not fear—slid down her spine and she felt her breath catch.