The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (11 page)

Her drawl was a rattlesnake stuck in molasses—slow, but with a killer bite. "Well isn't it handy, then, that we're in Scotland,"

His grip on the tongs turned his knuckles white. Amazed at the strength of the reaction she roused within him, he drew a deep, calming breath, then gently replaced the tool in the stand. He braced his hands on his hips and faced his wife. "Lady Pratt is a problem. You must help me here, Sarah. You owe me."

"What?" She rose to her feet, inadvertently flashing him a show of ankle. "I owe you? Did you just say I owe you? "

As she took a step toward him, he dragged his gaze away from her hem and held up one hand. "Do not attempt to hit me again."

"Oh, I won't hit you. I'll kill you."

Damned if he didn't want to smile, but he managed to muffle it. "You owe me because you used my title, 'Weddings by Lady Innsbruck.' Remember?"

She gave an unfeminine snort. "Did you take to wearing skirts in the years we were apart, Nick? I do believe the word 'Lady' refers to me. It is my title, not yours, and I'm not even using it anymore since I've gone into business with the McBrides."

"Actually, you're Lady Weston now, and in the past you have benefited from the use of my name. You admitted as much in your letters."

At his reference to the letters, their gazes met and held. A sense of warmth stole through Nick as a silent message was exchanged. Her letters had meant the world to him. Every time he spied her handwriting in the packets forwarded to him by the newspaper, he'd been both wary and elated. Wary because each time he expected to find annulment papers and elated because her letters never failed to lift his spirits. Sarah's letters had been a welcome taste of normalcy in the midst of the chaotic life of a British agent.

"Thank you for that, by the way,” he said. “I always enjoyed your letters."

His words visibly took the starch out of her spine. Sarah smoothed a wrinkle on her gown, then resumed her seat. "I enjoyed yours, too. And also your articles in the
Herald.
You were an asset to the newspaper, Nick."

He laughed. "Purely by accident, I assure you. I never expected to enjoy the writing."

"You
were
a spy, weren't you?"

This time he blinked. "What makes you think that? What an absurd idea."

She spoke of her uncle and how they'd reached their startling conclusion, and for the most part got it all right She ended the recitation with a question. "How did it happen? You left Fort Worth with Miss Harris to go to England. How did you end up a secret agent in Afghanistan?"

Nick didn't know how to respond. Should he tell her how much he'd longed to return to Fort Worth—to her—after learning what his father wanted of him? What would she say if he told her how often he'd imagined their lives had he not left her following that debacle of a wedding night? Would it hurt or help to confess that he'd quickly come to realize he'd made the wrong choice?

That's water down the brae, Nick.
Why bring it up? The minute he saw the betrayal in her eyes as she watched him board the train with Susan Harris, he'd known there was no going back.

So what did he say now? A part of him wanted her to know the truth, he realized. Wanted her respect. To that end he should explain Susan's place in his life, both then and today. But since he'd promised Susan his silence, he would ask her permission to speak before addressing that situation with Sarah. On the other hand, since his participation in the Great Game was done, he didn't see what it would hurt to confirm his wife's suspicions about his profession. "My father had ties to the government. He arranged it."

"I knew it."

The smug sparkle in her eyes nearly took his breath away. Nick cleared his throat. "I trust I can count on your discretion. You are one of only a handful of people who know the truth. In fact, you're the only person I know of outside of those directly involved who guessed that the American reporter Nick Ross is now the Marquess of Weston."

"I, and Uncle Michael," she corrected. "But Nick, don't people ask where you've been all these years?"

Nick's mouth lifted in a grin. "I tell them I was a chuck wagon cookie on cattle drives up the Chisholm Trail."

"A chuck wagon cookie? You? And they believe that?"

"Not necessarily. But few people ever ask a second time." In a more serious vein, he asked, "So, Sarah, will you continue to keep my secret?"

She measured him with her stare. "Do you operate against American interests?"

"No. I haven't and I won't. My days in the service are done. I've hung up my cloak and dagger."

"So why is discretion required? I would think being known as a former secret service agent would enhance your reputation."

He chose his words carefully. "It is remotely possible that others might come to harm should the truth come out. That in itself is enough, but also, I don't wish to deal with the inevitable questions. People are ghoulish, and their curiosity tends to focus on the ugly, bloody side of times I'd prefer to forget. They wouldn't ask me about a village boy and his dog. They'd ask about the body count of the massacre at Plevna." As Sarah nodded her understanding, he added, "My focus is on the future, now. Not the past."

"If that is the case, then why blackmail me into coming here? I'm part of the past."

Nick winced at the sharpness of her tone. "I don't know that blackmail is the proper word."

"You prefer extortion? Either one fits. However, why the need for secrecy?"

"It's complicated."

"Weddings usually are," she responded, her lips twisting wryly. Then she sighed. "What's going on, Nick? You wouldn't go to this much trouble simply to secure my professional services in helping Charlotte plan her wedding. I am very good at my work, but as I explained in my letters, I feel certain England has some excellent wedding consultants available for hire."

"True. But I want only the best for my sisters."

She nodded, acknowledging the compliment before posing the question, "And since when has a Brit ever considered an American better at anything?"

Her eyes were the same warm amber as the Rowanclere malt, Nick decided, and ten times more intoxicating. "Times are changing."

"They haven't changed that much," she drawled. "Now, one of your letters mentioned that other matters require my attention. May I ask what they are?"

Nick set his whisky glass atop the gray marble mantel. He adjusted the fire screen, then stepped away from the fireplace. He wasn't at all anxious to get into this. "Would you like a tour of the castle?"

"No, thank you."

Nick began to pace. Damnation, the words weren't coming. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't lie to her, she'd see right through him. The Sarah he'd met and married in Fort Worth always was quick-witted. Young and naive and very nervous, but definitely intelligent.

She didn't appear overly nervous now. A slight bit, perhaps, but not nearly as nervous as he. No, the woman seated in his study bristled with confidence. And annoyance.

Sarah, Lady Weston, was indulging in a pout. She was also the most alluring, intriguing creature he'd encountered in many a year.

In that moment, Nick admitted he had a problem. He had doubts about his planned course of action, and he'd had them since the moment her knuckles connected with his jaw. Because Nicholas, Lord Weston, had needed no more than one look at his mussed and muddied and mettlesome wife to understand one thing.

He wanted her.

Badly.

That hasn't changed in the past ten years.

He'd never forget their first meeting. While purchasing a new knife in the Fort Worth mercantile, he had spied the advertisement for the Literary Society meeting. Part of the program was to be a reading from the poetry of Robert Burns. Homesickness had taken hold of him, and he'd been the first person to arrive. Sarah had been the second.

She'd walked into the room eating a peach—ripe and red and luscious—and his tongue had ached to lick the juice from her lips. When the program began, he wrangled a seat beside her, and three months later they were engaged to be married.

He'd never looked at a peach the same way since.

He refused to let himself think about cherries.

Nick cleared his throat, but words refused to come. He simply didn't know what to say—an unusual circumstance for him. During his years in the secret service, Nick had mastered the fine art of dissembling, honing his instincts on the hot sands of the Taklamakan Desert and the bitter slopes of the Himalayas. Right now those instincts were telling him to step carefully. He didn't want to say or do anything here tonight that couldn't be changed or undone.

Perhaps he didn't want this annulment after all.

Nick ran his tongue over his teeth. Judas, where had that come from? Of course he wanted the annulment.

Didn't he?

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this indecisive. Or this needy. Were these doubts of his real? Or, was this a case of his good sense being overpowered by the baser instincts that had loaded his pistol the moment she walked through the drawing room door?

Perhaps he should take some time to figure it out.

It was foolish, really. He'd had ten years to decide what he wanted from Sarah. And it wasn't as if she had popped in unexpectedly now. Why wasn't he prepared? This wasn't like him. Not at all. He didn't like it one bit.

Deciding to proceed with caution, Nick softened his pace into a saunter and crossed the study to his desk. He propped his hip on one corner, folded his arms, and lazily swung his leg. His foot brushed the rich hues of the fine Persian carpet once, twice, three times. Then he took a deep breath and bought himself some time. "It's my sister Aurora. I'm at wit's end with her. She attempted an elopement with a snatch-purse."

As always when he thought about Willie Hart, anger and frustration filled his tone, and thus Nick sounded quite convincing. "I caught up with them before the deed was done, but she is furious with me—and with her sisters for telling on her. She's a poor motherless girl, and she needs a woman's guidance. In your letters you wrote you served as confidant to the daughters of your business partners—the McBride Marauders."

"Menaces. The McBride Menaces."

"Aye. Well, Aurora needs similar counsel. I'm asking for your assistance, Sarah. Your help. I hope that while you work with Charlotte planning her wedding, you can befriend her sisters."

As Nick talked, he warmed up to the idea, considered it inspired. "The boy she ran off with is a true scoundrel. He's a worthless thief who thinks to steal a young girl's heart and make himself a rich man. She's sixteen. She's in love. Willie Hart makes me look like the pope."

"Oh, Nick."

"Aye, it is hard to believe, but it is the truth."

She sputtered a laugh, and he sensed he'd achieved his goal. "So, can I count on you? Will you help me? Help us?"

"Oh, all right," she said with a sigh. "I'll try. I can assist with Charlotte's wedding plans, and I'll see what I can do for Aurora. I'll do my best, but if Aurora is anything like Emma or Maribeth McBride, it may take more time than I'll have with her to gain her trust."

"Let's take each day as it comes, shall we? Not concern ourselves with time?"

When she nodded, he took her hands in his. The scent of peaches wafted up, stole into his senses, and reminded him of something. "I guess we'll have to tell the girls we're married. I hate to think about that."

"Weil, thank you very much," she drawled.

When he responded with a laugh, Sarah gazed up into the sapphire gleam of her husband's eyes, her thoughts swirling like a springtime tornado. More was going on here than she knew at the moment. He was leading her in a direction she wasn't certain she wanted to go. "Why would we hide the truth?"

The devil laughed. "We have a complicated relationship. Counting both families, I have six sisters. Do you have any idea the speculation and interference we'll be inviting by giving them the facts? It'll be like living in a war zone, and in truth, I've had my fill of that."

Sarah could see his point. They would ask questions for which she didn't have answers. On the trip from Texas, Sarah had done quite a bit of soul-searching on the status of her marriage to the Marquess of Weston. She suspected he wanted to change the status quo, and darned if she knew what she wanted, providing that were the case. "Your sisters are inquisitive?"

"Nosy. And bossy. They'll not leave us alone."

"Very well." She nodded, surrendering to his argument. "Why don't we simply say I'm the wedding expert you hired, the old friend from Texas who sent the lovely wedding gown Charlotte wore last year."

"That might work. I'll think it through, then tell them in the morning."

"What happened to it, by the way? The wedding gown."

"I'm not certain, but I think they gave it away. They said the dress was unlucky."

Sarah glanced up at him and smiled. "A Bad Luck Wedding Dress? Another one?"

"I don't understand."

Sarah relayed a condensed version of the tale about the Bad Luck Wedding Dress. Eight years ago Jenny McBride had made a wedding gown for a wealthy ranching family whose three daughters married within months of one another. Each girl wore the gown at her wedding, and each girl suffered unpleasant and unusual accidents a short time later. The superstitious people of Fort Worth had declared the dress bad luck. In order to save her dressmaking business, Jenny wore the dress when she married Trace McBride, and despite a rocky beginning, by the time the story was done, everyone in town referred to the gown as the Good Luck Wedding Dress.