“In return for assisting me in escaping, you may have anything that is in my possession to grant you.” I only hope one of the things you desire is me. He cupped her face between his hands and ran his thumb over her swollen bottom lip.
Her eyes closed, a deep shiver going through her. He could feel her passion-heated skin beneath his fingers and see her nipples peaked against the fabric.
God, she is beautiful. Beautiful and as intoxicating as the whiskey the Scots produce.
“Come,” she said huskily, shaking her head as if just waking from a deep sleep. “The guards will only sleep an hour, no more.”
“Where are we going?”
“In the kitchen storeroom behind the flour barrel, there’s a small trapdoor that leads down some stone steps into a natural cave that leads to the creek. It’s far behind the Davies encampment.”
“Excellent!” Thomas scooped up his boots and crossed to her side. “I’ll carry these; ’twill be quieter.”
“Very well. First we’ll stop by my room for Lord Thomas, and then we’ll—”
“Lord Thomas?” he said, stopping by the open door.
“The wee rabbit you gave me.” She smiled almost shyly. “I named him for you.”
“I don’t give a damn who you named him for; we can’t take your animals. ’That got us captured last time.” Irritation washed over him. “I vowed to help you, not those decrepit animals.”
Her chin lifted. “I am not leaving without them.”
“And I am not leaving with them,” he ground out. “We cannot escape with those animals slowing us down. We tried that once.”
“I have Angus and Mary to help with them now. You won’t even know they’re there.”
“No.”
She jutted her chin. “Either we take the animals or you’ll stay here by yourself, and Mary and Angus and I will go without you.”
“I know the secret escape route now so I don’t need your help. I will just go on my own.” He’d find his own way to the harbor where his ship was waiting.
“You can’t just go!” She stood there like a mast, straight and immovable. “You promised.”
“Fia—” He took a steadying breath. “We’ll send for your pets as soon as we arrive in London.”
“No. They come now.”
A rumble of anger streaked through him like an arrow. “You had your chance. Now I’ll take mine.” He made a quick bow. “Thank you for the information on the escape route. I shall be forever in your debt.” He strode down the hallway, refusing to look back.
Her footsteps sounded in the passageway behind him. “Thomas, wait!”
Finally, she is seeing reason. He smiled to himself and turned to face her, ready to be magnanimous. “Yes, my—”
She snatched his boots from his hands and ran, her skirts flying, her boots slapping on the flagstone.
Thomas lunged for her, but the dog was in the way, making him stumble as Fia flew on. He regained his footing and bolted after her, his loose hosen slipping down one hip. He jerked them back into place as he raced on.
Damn the woman! He reached the corner and tried to turn, his hose-covered feet slipping on the smooth flagstone. He scrambled madly and slid right into Fia, who had stopped dead in the center of the hall.
She grabbed at his arm, trying to remain upright. Thomas’s boots went flying and they both flailed wildly, struggling to keep their balance.
Zeus, who’d loped after them unnoticed, decided to join in the fun. With his tail wagging furiously, he gave a joyous bark and leapt against them. Thomas and Fia crashed to the floor, arms and legs tangled in a tumbled heap.
When Thomas’s breath returned to normal, he realized he was lying on the floor with Fia on top of him, her knees straddling his head, her skirt covering his face. Worse, his hose were now about his ankles and he could feel her cheek pressed against his bare thigh.
Thomas shoved skirts out of his face. “Fia, move your—”
“Damnation!” rumbled a deep masculine voice. “What is the meaning of this?”
Thomas looked up and saw Duncan’s scowling face. Beyond that he saw a bejeweled older woman who smirked like a cat with a bird, and behind her was a thin, pale youth dressed in a manner befitting a prince.
And in that moment, Thomas knew his fate. He closed his eyes and cursed.
Chapter Nine
Thomas urged his horse to a faster pace, ignoring MacLean’s men doing likewise at his sides. In a few moments he would be back on his ship, casting off from this cursed Scottish isle. He tried to forget that he had failed in his mission. Failed like the veriest of fools, and even worse, he’d fallen into the oldest trap in the world. Somehow, some way, he’d landed at the altar, an unwilling groomsman.
Damme, how did I allow myself to be put in such a position? He’d fallen for Fia’s painfully obvious plan like the veriest schoolboy.
At first he had wanted to blame MacLean, but who could do so when Lady Davies and her gawking mealworm of a son had been there, snickering at his predicament? MacLean had done the only thing a sane man could have done—he’d demanded Thomas and Fia wed at once.
And they had.
Thomas ground his teeth and urged the horse on.
Bloody hell, this sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was Thomas Wentworth, the famed Earl of Rotherwood, known for his great fortune and brilliant future. Now, in a mere week, he’d been bitten, bruised, dismissed, captured, and worst of all, forced to marry the most unconventional, the unluckiest, the most ink-stained Scottish playwright to ever grasp a quill.
Married to a ragamuffin of a chit who thinks more of her mangy animals than she does of the proprieties. She will be a disaster in court, and the one thing I’ve sworn to prevent with my dying breath—seeing the Wentworth name humiliated yet again—will happen without fail.
Thomas couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it. If only they’d left his bedchamber a few moments earlier. If only he hadn’t paused to kiss her.
Truthfully, that kiss—like all of the ones before—had done nothing to satisfy the hot, frustrated lust that burned inside him. It was a sickness of some sort. A yearning like no other he’d ever experienced. Was this what his mother had felt for the man she’d left his father for?
Guilt tightened about his heart. If it was something his wild, undisciplined, selfish, and shallow mother had felt, then he needed to fight it with every ounce of his being. He would never embarrass the family name for something as transient and insignificant as mere lust. He owed his father and his family name far more than that.
But now he was stuck with the woman who caused him such a surfeit of feelings. He had to fight the way Fia made him lose control. Fight it for all he was worth even though it seemed that the harder he fought, the more deeply he was ensnared in her net.
For the first time in his life, Thomas wondered if the chit had put a spell on him. He could make no sense of his reaction otherwise.
The sound of the sea lifted from the haze-shrouded trees around them and he took a deep breath of the fresh, tangy air, pulling his thoughts from such treachery as spells and magic.
Things will be different once I return to the sanity of London. Here in the wild Scottish countryside, Fia shines like a rare gem against a streambed of pebbles. That will all change once we reach the English court and are among the sensual and accomplished women who surround the queen. Fia will fade into the paneling like a knot on a pine plank.
MacLean’s voice boomed out, ordering his men to keep a closer eye on “the damned groom.” Thomas favored the laird with a sour gaze. The laird rode in front of Fia’s coach, looking as dark and forbidding as Thomas felt. Damn the man. If I ever get the chance, I’ll—
Fia leaned out the window of the coach and her dark gaze locked with his. Thomas’s thoughts flew away as if blown by the wind that caught her hair and swirled it behind her, a banner of rich russet brown. He could almost feel the silken curls and smell the heather that twined through them
.
She smiled with all of the beauty of the sun breaking through the a clouds, and suddenly the gloomy day seemed brighter, warmer.
God’s blood, it is a spell. His heart sank into his boots.
Just then the path opened onto the shore, the mist blown away by the joyous sea breezes. As the Glorianna burst into view, Thomas’s heart swelled with pride. She was so beautiful; he’d never seen a prouder ship.
MacLean pulled up his horse. “Wait here, Sassenach. I wish to speak to Angus before you leave.”
“Angus?”
“Mary’s husband. He’s escorting Fia to London.” MacLean’s gaze narrowed. “He will be sending me missives every two weeks, so have a care how you treat my cousin.”
Thomas shrugged. “He may write every day, should he wish it.”
“He may. I shall send some men to serve as runners, too.” With a dark smile, MacLean turned and rode to where a small group of men stood by the quay.
Fury rippled through Thomas. He dismounted, tossed the reins to a nearby Scot, then stalked across the beach toward the ship. Damn all Scots, every last one.
He strode to the natural rock quay where the Glorianna was moored. Soon he’d be on his way. Although he’d be saddled with a wife he did not want and an escort of unofficial guards/runners, at least he would be gone from this cursed place.
Each step toward his ship restored his calm. As he reached the gangplank, he scanned his ship with expert eyes. She was in fine trim. His first mate, Simmons, had kept the men busy cleaning and polishing every surface during their wait, for she gleamed. A swell of pride lifted in his chest.
Behind him someone shouted at him in a gruff voice, “There ye are, ye lazy Sassenach! Turn and face yer accuser!”
There it was—a vent for his anger, a challenge so direct that Thomas could retaliate. He turned on his heel, hands fisted to deliver a message to the rude dolt who dared speak to him so.
There, his blue eyes sparkling in a handsome face framed by a trim black beard, feet planted firmly apart, his hand resting casually on one hip near a jeweled sword, stood Robert MacQuarrie.
“Robert!” Thomas hurried forward, aware that the Scots were muttering and looking black. Let them, the paltry fools.
Engulfing him in a hug, Robert slapped Thomas upon the back and then held him at arm’s length. “How fare thee, mon ami?” Robert’s blue eyes took in every scratch and bruise, his merriment fading, though the smile remained steadfastly in place for those who watched from the shore.
“I prosper, now you have come.” Thomas returned the back-slap with a bit more vigor than necessary.
“Careful! You’ll damage my ruff.”
Thomas chuckled. Few others knew the quality of the man behind the foppish exterior of the lean and elegant Viscount Montley. “Your neckwear has always been in keeping with your person, Robert. ’Tis overdone and too damn frippery to stomach.” Even now, positioned to take to the sea, Robert wore a fine Italian doublet of plum velvet shot through with silver, complemented by exquisite woolen hose and ornate leather boots, his cuffs and ruff of the finest Belgian lace.
Robert ran a critical eye over him in return. “Look to yourself, man. Where did you get those hosen?” He shuddered. “As good to be out of the world as to be out of fashion.”
“’Tis but clothing.”
“I would hesitate to call that clothing. God’s blood, what’s afoot? I came prepared to fight my way through a welter of angry Scotsmen at yon castle to free you by sword or ransom, only to find you escorted to your ship like an honored guest, although dressed like a court jester.”
“Trust me; I am no honored guest.”
“Aye, I can see it in the lumps you have acquired.”
“’Tis naught. What’s this of ransom?”
“Hearing of your predicament, I brought a chest of Spanish gold to win your release, should the edge of my sword have no effect.” Robert smirked. “I know their weaknesses as my own; there’s nothing a Scotsman prizes more than the gleam of gold.”
“Your own money? I am touched.”
Robert shrugged. “I’m certain Walsingham would have repaid any loss I suffered. After all, ’tis his arse I pull from the fire as much as yours.” Robert brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve. “So, how did you come to be captured?”
“’Tis a story for another time.” Thomas could not, would not, explain how a tiny mite of a wench had summarily disposed of him, the greatest instrument of Walsingham’s secret network. “How did you find out I was here? When I left Simmons, you were not on board this ship.”
“When you failed to appear, Simmons came after me posthaste. Luckily I was nearby.”
“And why was that? You rarely come this far north.”
Robert’s smile was that of a cat with the cream. “I happened to be rusticating in a small Scottish village in a nearby harbor.”
“But how did Simmons know where you—”
“Your ship is a beauty.” Robert gestured toward the Glorianna. “I was glad for the chance to sail her; she’s as steady as they come, light and responsive to the touch. If you ever wish to sell her, let me know.”
“That will never happen.”
Robert stroked his trim beard as he turned back to Thomas, a glint in the bright blue eyes. “I hate to plague you with questions, but MacLean sent a most curious missive. He said that not only would the Earl of Rotherwood be gracing us with his presence, but the countess, as well.”
Wonderful. “I’ll explain after we sail. I want to get under way as soon as possible.”
“So are you wed or not?”
“Aye,” Thomas said grimly. “Forced to marry the laird’s cousin at the tip of a sword.” Even now the memory singed.
“Thomas, I am sorry to hear that.” Robert looked around. “Where is she?”
“In the carriage.”
“I’m truly sorry, my friend. Is she short and fat, too plain to mention?”
Fia, plain? Infuriating, bothersome, maddening—yes. But plain?
He caught Robert’s quizzical gaze and forced himself to shrug. “She’s an ill-dressed, ill-mannered, ink-stained chit who wants nothing more than to take her mangy animals to London and become a playwright.”
Robert blinked, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Mon ami, she sounds delightful! Where is this paragon? I must make her acquaintance immediately!”
The queen had always held that it would be easier to turn the Thames than to stop Robert MacQuarrie from being a useless fribble.
Thomas turned toward the shore, where Fia’s coach had just come to a halt. “There she is now.”
Thomas refused to watch as MacLean’s men opened the carriage door.
Robert murmured a heartfelt “Sweet Jesu!”
Scowling, Thomas kept his gaze fixed on his ship. He knew what Robert was seeing—Fia, cheeks pink from the ride to the harbor, her reddish-brown hair flowing about her shoulders, her full lips parted in a smile—
He ground his teeth as his body tightened. “Well?” he demanded as Robert’s silence stretched.
“She’s, ah . . . very . . . rounded.”
“Rounded?” Thomas turned toward the coach. There beside MacLean stood Mary, her broad face damp with perspiration, her reddish-gray hair curled riotously, her rotund form shaking with laughter.
“That’s not her,” snapped Thomas. “That’s her maid, Mary. There—MacLean is assisting Fia now.”
Her hair tumbled as Thomas had predicted, Fia stepped from the carriage, the wind ruffling her skirts and hair even more. On another woman such a ruffling might have been disastrous, but on Fia it merely made her appear more like a windswept fairy.
“God’s breath! She’s—” Robert opened and closed his mouth and, for the first time in the fifteen years Thomas had known him, fell silent.
A slight sense of relief washed over Thomas; he was not the only one she affected. “She’s handsome,” he said grudgingly.
“Are you blind? She’s—” Ro
bert clasped his hands over his heart. “I would brave a thousand dangers for a glance from those dark eyes. I would fight the fires of hell with my bare hands to receive a kiss from those dewy lips. I would—”
“She is my wife.” Thomas’s voice was so harsh that it surprised both him.
Robert raised a brow. “I’faith, you’re possessive. Though ’tis no wonder—you won her, after all.”
Thomas managed a shrug. Good God, where did that flood of possessiveness come from? I do not wish her to be in my life at all.
Do I?
Robert sighed heavily. “You have proven the Wentworth luck once again, mon ami. You come to Scotland to procure a mere piece of paper and walk away with a bride worth a fleet of Gloriannas. You make it difficult for the rest of us to stomach our mundane lives.”
MacLean approached them, his arm about Fia’s shoulders, his black gaze narrowing at Robert. “Well, well. If ’tisn’t the Coward of Balmanach.”
Robert made a graceful bow. “So ’tis. And you are the Black Laird of the MacLeans, known for your spitting temper and hamlike fists.”
MacLean’s gaze narrowed, but he turned to Thomas and said in a rough voice, “You’ll miss the tide if you tarry.”
Thomas nodded, itching to be at sea. Once he was back on English soil, the odd feelings that had overtaken him on this isle would leave, and he would once again be in complete command of himself.
He turned to Fia. “Come. We leave.”
Fia swallowed a sudden burst of intense loneliness. The cool brown eyes that met hers were impersonal; they held no emotion, no welcome. They were the eyes of a stranger, not a husband.
Duncan took her hand. “Write often, poppet. At least once a week.” He glared over her head at Thomas. “If she’s not happy, I’ll come for her.”
“I’ll write,” Fia said, collecting herself. “Though I’ll be hard-pressed to think of something to say. I rarely see you more than once a month now, what with all your meetings and the like.” She stood on tiptoe to deliver her kiss, and he swooped down to hold her tight.
Thomas stepped to one side, pulling MacQuarrie with him.