The Duke Buys a Bride

  Little Bit still didn’t move fast enough. It was a nuisance. The man ahead of her was forced to slow his pace and she knew it annoyed him from the hard-eyed glances he cast over his shoulder. She resisted pointing out that he was the one who had purchased a mule for her to ride. Except he was her employer now, so she held her tongue.

  She stared at his broad back moving ahead of her—at the filthy fabric of his dark coat. He appeared to have spent some time rolling on the ground. It baffled her. Clearly he was a gentleman. He spoke with cultured accents. He possessed property and funds enough to buy her and a mule. And yet he looked a mess.

  Deciding it would behoove her to better know the man she was stuck with, she cleared her throat. “Where are you from?”

  A beat of silence passed before he answered, “I live in England.”

  She rolled her eyes and stopped herself from retorting, “Obviously.” She did not want to provoke him. As much as she was loath to admit, her life was in his hands now. He could still abandon her. Toss her in these very woods where her body would be picked apart by wolves. She shivered before she could help herself.

  It would well serve her not to be too difficult of a traveling companion. Just as it would serve her not to lower her guard with this man. She knew firsthand that a person could say one thing and then behave in a contrary manner. Just because he promised her future employment did not mean he would keep his word. Wisdom bade she be on her guard no matter what words he spoke.

  His shoulders lifted on a sigh. His voice rumbled back at her, his reluctance to speak evident, and yet he did. “I spend most of my time in London.”

  Another five minutes passed as they plodded along.

  Nothing else from him.

  She moistened her lips and glanced around at the surrounding snow-draped trees. “I’ve never been this far north of Collie-Ben before.” In truth, she’d never been anywhere outside of her village before.

  Hooves clopped on the path, one after the other. A steady, hypnotic cadence. She sank deeper in her saddle, telling herself to embrace the silence as it appeared it would be the background to their journey. That would be fine. A refreshing change from the boisterous Beard household.

  Except the humming silence fed her doubts as they rode along. Her gaze fixed on his back. She was placing a great deal of trust in this man. What if he was lying? He could be lying about any number of things. His intentions. His destination. His promise of employment. She knew nothing of this man.

  She took a deep breath and tried to suppress her unease. She needed a calm and level head. She was alone now. Truly alone. No husband willing to claim her. No friends. No children to look after. It was just Alyse. She had only herself to rely on and she required her composure and wits.

  She exhaled, wondering if she should simply slip away. Escape into the woods on her dawdling mule. The image was almost laughable.

  “I don’t believe you ever told me your name,” she said, compelled to fill the silence and squash her wild thoughts.

  He stopped and wheeled his horse around. “Did I not?”

  “No, you did not.”

  “How remiss of me.”

  “Well, it was quite an eventful day,” she allowed.

  “Indeed. My name is Marcus.” He hesitated and then added, “Weatherton.”

  She nodded a single time, testing the sound of that name in her head. Marcus. Weatherton. Marcus Weatherton. She rolled that over inside her mind, and then she was bold enough to take it a step further. Alyse Weatherton. Mrs. Alyse Weatherton.

  No. She gave her head a hard shake. That was not her name. He had made that much clear. It would never be her name. She stared at his hard-eyed visage and shivered. A relief to be certain. She had no wish to be trapped in marriage to him.

  She swallowed against her dry mouth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weatherton.” It was the polite and proper thing to do. Even if a couple hours late.

  He made a grunting sound, and she was quite sure he was not pleased to meet her. Still, she would make an effort at manners. Her father had always taught her the importance of grace and civility.

  Still, it would better serve her if she grew to know Marcus Weatherton and learn for herself what manner of man he was, so she asked, “If you have never before visited Kilmarkie House, what inspired this visit now?” In the midst of winter, no less.

  He considered her a moment longer before turning his horse back around and continuing forward. She urged her mule to follow. He protested with a braying neigh, but reluctantly obliged. She could relate.

  “This is not the most hospitable time of year in the Highlands,” she added, hoping it would invoke more response from him.

  Her suspicious mind worked busily. What if there was no Kilmarkie House? What if he lied? Her pulse throbbed at her neck and her gaze darted to the trees again.

  Moments slipped past, but he still did not respond.

  The trees felt thicker, pressing in, blotting out the light. Hard to imagine her best chance of refuge might be in those dark depths.

  With a shaky breath, she continued, “Although I hear the Highlands are lovely any time of the year. I imagine covered in snow they are quite majestic.”

  At last, he asked in a wearied voice, “Do you plan to talk the entire journey?”

  “Have you an aversion to conversation, sir? We will be in each other’s company for a long time and I thought it might help.”

  “Help? With what? I don’t require pointless banter.”

  Pointless banter? She huffed out a foggy breath. The man did not win points for charm. She reminded herself that he was not a friend, not a companion . . . not even anyone she could trust. She wanted only to know him so that she might better arm herself. Not because she cared to personally know him.

  She supposed she needed to expect less from him. He was simply her employer.

  “I confess there is one matter that has been weighing on my mind,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  “How did you come to be on that auction block?” He didn’t look back as he asked the question, but she could still almost imagine those dark blue eyes on her, measuring her, judging her . . .

  It was so easy for him, a man of means, to ask something like that in a voice rife with judgment. For him it was unthinkable. He could never fathom himself in such a situation. Because he would never be in such a situation. The truth of that angered her unaccountably. Why should it be her lot in life? Or any woman’s?

  “I married Mr. Beard when my father died. That was the arrangement they made when Papa took ill and it became clear he would not live long.”

  “Your father did this to you? Auctioning you for any stranger to buy?”

  She stiffened in her saddle, her hands suddenly damp where they clenched her reins. He didn’t understand. Again, he was full of scorn, passing judgment without all the facts.

  “He did it to protect me,” she said tightly.

  He made a sound. Part laugh. Part grunt. “Well, that worked out, didn’t it?”

  She shook her head slowly. Her father loved her. He’d tried his best. “We should all have a crystal ball to see into the future. He thought he was doing the best thing for me. I would help Mr. Beard raise his children and work around the farm and when I was old enough, I would choose a new husband for myself and he would buy me from Mr. Beard at market.” It had seemed the perfect solution. She nor her father imagined it would end like this—with her bound to a stranger.

  “Incredible,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

  “It should have worked!”

  “But it didn’t.”

  She sank back in her saddle, stung at that truth and feeling deflated. “He was supposed to be there . . .” she whispered, the betrayal of Yardley’s abandonment cutting deep, the wound still much too fresh.

  He stopped abruptly and turned his horse about in one well-guided circle. “What did you say?”

  Her mule pranced and hedged away, not comfo
rtable in such close proximity with the much larger gelding. She could understand that. She didn’t particularly care for close proximity with his master either.

  Marcus Weatherton stared down at her with hard eyes from atop the much higher perch of his mount. He repeated himself, canting his head. “What did you just say?”

  She cleared her throat and flexed her damp hands around the reins. “I didn’t say anything . . . to you.” But she had spoken aloud and she heartily and intensely regretted that right now as he pinned her beneath his unblinking stare.

  “You said: he was supposed to be there.”

  “Well, if you heard what I said why are you asking me?” She knew she sounded cross, but she could not help it. He did this to her. He put her on edge.

  She shivered, knowing it had nothing to do with the cold. No, it had everything to do with him and his arctic stare. She cast another look around them, at the thick press of snow-dappled trees. She knew nothing about this man and yet here she was in the middle of nowhere exchanging tense words with him.

  He ignored her inquiry, stubbornly pushing, “Who was supposed to be there?”

  She fidgeted, ashamed to confess her abandonment, to reveal how very unworthy she was. Her own friend, the man who had promised to marry her, changed his mind and left her with no explanation. That was the worst thing of all in this. Theirs had not been a passionate love, but she thought their friendship deep and true. She thought he would make a fine husband. She would have been a good wife to him.

  “A lover?” he pressed, his cunning eyes sweeping over her and making her tremble anew. He laughed once, the sound harsh, his teeth a straight flash of white amid the dark pelt of his beard. “Of course.” He tilted back his dark head as though examining the sky, lips snapping shut over his teeth.

  She watched him, feeling an odd stirring in her gut at the sight of him.

  His broad hands loosely gripped his leather reins, but there was a restrained air about him. As though he might jump to action at any moment with those powerful hands of his. The wind had temporarily stilled and she was spared the scent of him. He was quite the virile specimen with that lush dark head of hair and his large frame. Those blue eyes far too calculating, too . . . observant. She shifted upon her saddle. They saw too much.

  “What did he do? Make all sorts of promises and then fail to appear?”

  She sniffed and moistened her wind-chilled lips. “How did you know that?” How could he guess so accurately?

  He snorted. “I know something about the manner of men.” He looked angry then, his eyes fierce. “Your lover promised you the world between kisses and then would have let you be sold to someone like that tanner. That should teach you. Trust no man.”

  She shuddered, remembering the repulsive tanner and how very close she had come to becoming his wife. He would have wasted no time claiming his husbandly rights. And perhaps more. He would have claimed her soul, too. Then she would have been as dead inside as all the animals whose hides he tanned.

  She didn’t bother to correct that Yardley had been more friend than lover. He’d been her longest friend. Her truest, she’d thought. His letters to her during the years of her marriage had been her one light in the darkness. She’d read them again and again, until the parchment cracked. She’d absorbed his every word, memorizing his descriptions of the far-off places he visited and drinking in his promises of their future away from Collie-Ben.

  Yes, there had been a few kisses between them. Her first kiss when she was fourteen, before he left. Then one just a few days ago, sealing, she thought, their commitment to each other. Both chaste. Obviously neither tempting enough for him to commit to being her husband at the final hour.

  Trust no man. She mulled that for a moment. “So I should not trust you then?”

  She studied him for his reaction, waiting and expecting his assurances that he was a good man. That he was a gentleman. That he would never harm or deceive her in anyway. That seemed the natural response.

  But it never came.

  Chapter 8

  The wolf wasn’t like the other wolves. He craved solitude.

  He had nothing in common with a dove.

  He feared he might crush her.

  The village was similar to the one they’d just left. Similar thatched-roof buildings. A smithy shop where loud clanging could be heard. A stone church with a neighboring graveyard. Hopefully this time he would make it through the night and not end up in a gaol.

  At least it wasn’t as crowded. They maneuvered through a few streets easily enough until they located a large inn. As they arrived before the building, the delicious aroma of roasting meat reached his nose. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since the hunk of bread and cheese he’d bought off one of the vendors in Collie-Ben.

  He glanced over where she sat atop her mule, swaying slightly. She looked exhausted. Likely she was hungry, too. She could definitely use a little more meat on her bones. He felt a stab of guilt for not seeing better to her comfort. He should have acquired food for the both of them before he left Collie-Ben. He would order them a hearty meal. Hopefully that would help fortify her. He didn’t need her to sicken.

  The instant the thought passed through his head, he cringed. There he went again. Overly concerning himself with her welfare. It was hardly typical protocol between employee and employer. He needed to keep perspective on who she was, who he was and most important who they were not to each other.

  So I should not trust you then?

  He hadn’t answered her question. He’d told her to trust no man. He wasn’t about to contradict himself and tell her he was the exception. It was better if she knew to stay on her guard. Better for her. Better for him.

  They turned their mounts over to a stable lad, who made no effort to hide what he thought of Marcus’s aroma, taking several steps back. Damn it all. Finally, he’d have that bath and everyone could stop treating him like a leper.

  “We’re verra full. ’Aven’t got two rooms. We’ve only one room available,” the innkeeper said to his request for two rooms.

  One room. That silenced him for a moment. He glanced at her face as he digested that. She turned to stare at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, questioning and fear-tinged. He hated that fear. Hated that he was the one who put it there.

  Clearly she hadn’t thought this far ahead. Neither had he. He hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements. He had assumed separate rooms would be available.

  “Take it or leave it.” The man glanced between the two of them with a curious light in his eyes, clearly marking the tension.

  Glancing back at the innkeeper, Marcus slapped down his coin on the counter. “We’ll take it.”

  It couldn’t be helped. There was only one room. She might be nervous about the situation, but he wouldn’t so much as brush a finger against her. He did not intend to endure another night in a barn, however. Or even outdoors. It was far too cold for that. “Can you send up a bath, too?”

  As the innkeeper led them upstairs, he casually remarked how the market day in Collie-Ben brought forth more business than typical. “Nae complaint ’ere, though. Always ’appy fer business.” He unlocked the room and led them inside. It was comfortable enough. Airy. Fading sunlight streamed through the curtained window. The bed wasn’t nearly as large as the mammoth contraption he slept in back in Town, but he wasn’t one to thrash and kick about. At least none of his bed partners had complained of that before. He’d keep a wide berth.

  The innkeeper took his leave, promising to have a bath sent up forthwith. The door shut behind the man and they were alone. Again. Only this felt different. This was different. They were alone in a bedchamber. He deliberately avoided glancing to the bed again. He could taste the tension in the air. She was nervous, her fear as tangible as copper on his tongue.

  She moved to the center of the room, and rotated in a small circle, her worn valise at her feet. Her gaze flitted about, assessing . . . marking, it seemed, for potential
escape routes. She always had that way about her. The way of a cornered animal looking to take flight.

  Exhaling, he turned to the fireplace that burned at a low dwindle. How in bloody hell had he ended up in this situation? It was a sad sorry state. He’d left London and all his family and friends behind in a fit of temper.

  Most of his temper had worn off, but now he just felt tired. Jaded. In no mood to see any of his family. He knew he couldn’t hide forever. They were his family. He couldn’t turn his back on his sisters.

  For weeks now, he had claimed his solitude. Time for himself to get away from Society. Except he had cast that aside today when he bought this girl. He could be alone right now, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes in a room to himself, reveling in his isolation. Instead he had to worry about being a well-behaved gentleman and conducting himself as a proper employer would.

  He stoked the nearly banked flames to life. It gave him something to do and gave her time to compose herself. He suspected she needed that. He stabbed at the logs until they crackled, flames licking over their gnarled skin. Rising, he turned to face her. She hugged herself, her arms tight around her torso.

  “You needn’t look so frightened.”

  She nodded jerkily. “I know. I’m not.” Her words said one thing but those gold-brown eyes another.

  “You’re not convinced of that,” he countered. “But then that’s a good thing.”

  Her chin went up. “Never trust? Correct?”

  He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  He sank down onto a wingback chair that was surprisingly more comfortable than it looked. The cushions were worn but plump, and he released a gratified sigh.

  He waved at the other chair across from him, flanking the other side of the fire. “Have a seat.”

  She shook her head. “You said we were not to be . . .” Her voice faded, but he knew what she was thinking, what she could not bring herself to say. She worried he was going to demand intimacies.