Some Like It Wicked
Catriona and all of her belongings were gone.
Chapter 11
The clever little baggage had double-crossed him.
Simon took the inn stairs two at a time, jerking a knot in his cravat as he went. He had been so busy plotting his own treachery that it had never occurred to him that his bride might betray him. No wonder she had anticipated his plan. It had been but a dull-witted echo of her own nefarious scheme.
He was at least going to have the decency to leave her with her half of the dowry. She had apparently absconded with the whole of it, abandoning him to the dubious mercy of his creditors. Since he had no money to flee to the Continent, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. That is, if the innkeeper didn’t summon the local constable first and have him tossed into jail for failing to settle their account. He wondered if she would weep prettily into her handkerchief when she heard he had been cast into debtor’s prison or marched to the gallows by the same vengeful magistrate whose daughter he had seduced.
The irony of his predicament was not wasted on him. Usually it was the bride who woke in the harsh light of morning to discover her groom had deserted her. Many never even made it as far as Gretna Green, but were abandoned along the way after being robbed of both their pride and their virtue by some rapscallion who had never had any intention of marrying them in the first place.
Simon felt doubly ill-used. Catriona hadn’t even bothered to rob him of his virtue, just his money and his pride. He knew a moment of savage regret that he hadn’t taken her up on her offer to consummate their union. At least then she’d have something to remember him by, even if it was only a thorough—
Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, he ran right into Jem.
Oblivious to his ill temper, the young man staggered backward and gave him a snaggle-toothed grin. “Good morning, sir. I hope you and your lovely bride spent as pleasant a night as me and my Bess.”
Simon snatched the lad up by the collar, bringing them eye to eye. “You’d have to be stone deaf not to know what a pleasant night you and your precious Bess spent. They probably heard the two of you moaning and screaming all the way to Edinburgh.”
Jem’s grin only deepened. “Do you really think so, sir?”
Shaking his head in disgust, Simon let him go. As Simon went striding toward the door, Jem continued up the stairs, a jaunty whistle on his lips and an extra strut in his step.
The encounter hardly improved Simon’s temper. He was betrayed and abandoned, while Jem was returning to his adoring bride’s bed for another earsplitting round of the blanket hornpipe.
How dare Catriona! he thought. Women didn’t leave him. Women never left him. It simply wasn’t done. If there was any leaving to be done, then he was the one who would do it. She was the one who was supposed to spend the rest of her days pining for his touch and mooning over the one grand passion of her life. Yet here he was, stranded at some ramshackle inn in some grubby little Scottish village while she and her ridiculously obese cat made a mad dash for the Highlands with his half of her dowry.
He threw open the front door of the inn, nearly knocking over another hapless bridegroom. She was a fool to believe she could escape him that easily. Why, he would steal a horse and risk hanging to go after her if he had to! He would find her and make her pay back every last halfpenny of what she owed him. He would hunt her to the very gates of hell itself and make her sorry she had ever dared to double-cross…
Simon halted in midstride, his heart turning over in his chest. His bride stood in the middle of the courtyard next to a rickety farm cart. As if divining his presence with some miraculous sense beyond hearing or sight, she turned and spotted him. Reaching up to secure her wide-brimmed hat from the brisk breeze dancing through the courtyard, she gave him a smile every bit as radiant as the one Bess was probably giving Jem right now.
Relief and rage coursed through him in equal measure. He didn’t know whether to sweep her into his arms or strangle her with his cravat.
Oblivious to the tumult of unfamiliar emotions making his heart feel heavy and his head light, she strode toward him, the sprigged muslin of her bottle-green skirts foaming around her trim ankles.
She opened her mouth, but before she could greet him, he blurted out, “Where in the bloody hell have you been?”
She looked taken aback, but only briefly. “Oh, I met young Jem in the stables for an assignation,” she informed him cheerfully. “After last night, I was curious to see what all the screaming was about.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at her, his earlier inclinations rapidly being replaced by an even more unacceptable urge—to snatch her up into his arms and kiss her insensible.
He folded his arms over his chest to help him resist the temptation. “And was he able to satisfy your curiosity?”
She lifted her shoulders in an airy shrug. “I’ve had better.”
“Not yet,” he replied smoothly. “But you will.” He continued to glower at her, secretly admiring the fresh bloom of roses in her cheeks. “You can hardly fault me for being alarmed when I rolled over to bid my bride a good morning, only to discover she’d vanished without a trace.”
Catriona snorted. “A good afternoon, you mean.”
Simon squinted through bleary eyes at the cobalt-blue sky, only to discover that she was right. The sun had passed its peak and was already inching toward the horizon.
“I tried to rouse you earlier, with no success,” she said. “When I realized you were going to languish in bed for half the day, I took it upon myself to prepare for our departure.”
He glanced around the courtyard, but the only vehicle in evidence was the farm cart. It was so loaded down with goods that the splintery bed sagged. “So where is our carriage?”
She slapped a hand on her head as another gust of wind threatened to dislodge her hat and gave him a nervous smile. “On its way back to London, I fear.”
“Pardon?” he asked, hoping the aftereffects of the liquor had dulled his hearing as well as his sight.
“Well, when I told John we would be proceeding to the Highlands today, he insisted that he was only ordered to convey us as far as Gretna Green. He said he knew my uncle wouldn’t approve of such a venture and would probably sack him as soon as he returned to London—that is, if he didn’t get his throat cut by some highwayman or Highland savage first.”
“And you let him go?” Simon asked incredulously, rethinking his decision not to strangle her.
“I hardly had a choice. He outweighs me by at least eight stone.” She beamed at him. “But you needn’t worry about our journey. I’ve taken care of everything.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.
She swept a hand toward the cart as if it were one of the king’s crested coaches hitched to a team of prancing white stallions. “I had hoped to purchase a more hospitable conveyance, but I’m rather pleased to have found this one on such short notice.”
Simon circled the monstrosity, studying it with a jaundiced eye. A pair of swaybacked nags had been hitched to the rig. Judging from its piteous condition, a pair of goats would have done just as well and probably would have been hardier. “Did they throw in the horses for free or pay you to take them? If the cart breaks down, at least we’ll have something to eat.”
Catriona tenderly patted the mangy withers on one of the beasts. “The blacksmith assured me they were sturdier than they looked.”
“I certainly hope so. If not, they won’t make it out of the courtyard.” He circled around to the back of the cart, where several mysterious lumps, bumps and bulges lurked beneath a waterproof oilskin. “And what’s all this? More hats?”
Catriona bit her lower lip, looking decidedly guilty, which set off warning bells in his brain.
“While you were sleeping I took the liberty of purchasing a few gifts for my brother.” When he cocked a brow at her, she rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I spent my money, not yours.”
He lifted
a corner of the oilskin to steal a look beneath it, but she danced in front of him, breaking the contact. “I have everything packed exactly the way I want it. I’d rather you not fiddle with anything.”
He sighed. “And just where exactly are we supposed to be meeting this dear, sainted brother of yours?”
She turned to tuck the corner of the oilskin beneath its confining ropes, avoiding his eyes. “Near Balquhidder. I also purchased a map and enough food to last for nearly a week.”
“Then as I see it, all we require is a driver. Did the blacksmith provide one of those as well?”
“No, I did. I thought you could do the honors.”
“Me?”
“Well, you can drive, can’t you? Isn’t that one of the skills prized by libertines, rakes and hellborn babes?”
“Racing a prize gelding at Newmarket or tooling a phaeton down Rotten Row on a Sunday afternoon so you can flirt with the belles and their mamas is a bit different from coaxing a pair of broken-down nags up a steep mountainside with a cliff on one side and a sheer drop on the other.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.” She batted her silky eyelashes at him. “After all, you’ve had ample experience using your charms to coax nags into doing your bidding.”
“It’s a pity they never work on you.” Simon gazed woefully at the sagging driver’s bench, imagining how his bum was going to feel after only a few hours of being bounced around on it. A good third of the seat was already occupied by a cage constructed of narrow wooden slats.
He frowned. “And just what is that contraption?”
“A chicken crate.”
He leaned closer to peer inside. The cage’s occupant let out a low-pitched growl. “I hate to be the one to point this out, but that’s not a chicken.”
“Of course it’s not a chicken! I couldn’t very well let Robert the Bruce roam free as he did in the carriage. If he decided to go dashing off into the woods after a pine marten or a grouse, we might never find him.”
Simon muttered something beneath his breath that earned him a reproachful look from Catriona. He straightened. “I suppose there’s only one more thing I need to know.”
“Yes?”
“When do we leave?”
After three endless, grueling days on the road, Simon was beginning to wish he was the sort of villain who could strangle a woman with his cravat, leave her body moldering in the forest, and waltz merrily away with all of her money. The looks he shot Catriona were growing increasingly murderous with each jolting, grinding turn of the cart’s wheels over the stony roads.
To add to his torture, it seemed that every dip and jerk of the wagon brought some part of his body into tantalizing contact with hers. Their knees and thighs collided with every bump, and with each flick of the reins his elbow would brush the beguiling softness of her breast.
As if to mock his surly temper, Catriona’s demeanor only grew sunnier with every passing league. Most women of his acquaintance would have long ago succumbed to a fit of tears or the vapors at being forced to endure such primitive traveling conditions. But not Catriona. She chattered on cheerfully and at great length about every crested tit, red squirrel and patch of early-blooming wood sorrel they encountered. One would have thought God had designed them purely for her pleasure. As the rolling pastures of the Lowlands gave way to the craggy peaks and brooding moors of the Highlands, that enchanting lilt he remembered from the barn began to creep back into her speech.
“I feel as if I can truly breathe for the first time in ten years,” she said as the cart lumbered its way up a narrow, twisting path more suited for sheep than humans. “I don’t think I ever realized how much soot I’d sucked into my lungs.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, her blissful expression making Simon wish he was the cause of it. “Doesn’t it make you feel almost drunk with delight?”
“No, but this will,” he replied shortly, drawing a fresh bottle of Scots whisky out from under the bench and uncorking it with his teeth.
The dilapidated inn they had stayed at the night before had provided very few comforts, but the copper still bubbling out back had almost made up for that. If the Scots could do one thing right, it was make whisky. Simon had cajoled a reluctant Catriona into purchasing three bottles of the stuff, hoping it would make both the journey and her company more tolerable.
He groaned as the cart jolted through a particularly nasty hole. “I can’t decide which aches more. My head or my arse.”
Catriona gave the bottle a disapproving look. “Your head might ache less if you wouldn’t drink so much.”
“My head might ache less if you wouldn’t talk so much.” Eyeing her defiantly, he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, deep draw of the whisky.
She pulled her plaid around her shoulders and turned her profile to him, a hint of a tantalizing pout playing around her full lips. But Simon wasn’t destined to enjoy the peace and quiet of her sulk. As the wagon rounded a bend, emerging on a broad shelf of rock that overlooked the valley below, a sharp cry spilled from her lips.
Simon tugged the horses to a halt, afraid they were about to be set upon by a horde of marauding Highlanders. Before the cart could come to a complete stop, Catriona had scrambled to the ground and run to the very edge of the cliff.
Her slight figure was framed by a distant range of snowcapped peaks. The wind whipped across their majestic crags, sending billows of fresh snow gusting across the valley. Golden beams of sunlight slanted down from the west, polishing the shards of ice into glittering flecks of gold. They waltzed on the wind, twirling like lovers to the strains of a symphony inaudible to human ears.
Even to Simon’s jaded eyes, it was a spectacular sight. But no more spectacular than the sight of Catriona standing there on the edge of that cliff, her face tilted skyward to welcome the arrival of the snow, her expression rapturous. The lusty fingers of the wind made short work of her chignon, tearing away the pins and sending gleaming tendrils of hair fluttering about her face and shoulders. But the wind couldn’t sway her noble bearing or the proud set of her slender shoulders. It was if his bedraggled little Celtic princess from the barn had finally found a kingdom worthy of her.
Hugging her moth-eaten plaid around her shoulders as if it were an ermine stole, she turned to him, her smile heartbreakingly earnest. “Oh, Simon, isn’t it just the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen?”
“No,” he whispered, too low for her to hear.
His lack of enthusiasm did not discourage her. Laughing aloud, she turned back to the cliff and spread her arms wide as if to embrace the whole world and everyone in it.
Except for him.
Despite the crisp mountain air pouring into his lungs, Simon suddenly felt short of breath. He feared it wasn’t the dizzying height of their perch making him feel light-headed, but some profound shift in the balance between the earth, the sky and his heart.
“If you’re done admiring the view, I’m just about done freezing my arse off,” he called to her, sounding even gruffer than he intended.
Giving the snow-and-sunswept sky one last lingering look, she reluctantly turned back toward the wagon. She clambered awkwardly back up on the bench, looking at him askance when he didn’t even offer her a hand. As she settled herself beside him, her slender body radiating warmth, Simon stared straight ahead and clutched the neck of the whisky bottle, terrified that he had finally fallen victim to a thirst so powerful even the finest of whiskys could not quench it.
By nightfall the spring snow had thickened, settling like downy white feathers in Catriona’s hair. More chilled by Simon’s inexplicably icy mood than by the frosty wind, she drew her faded plaid up over her head and huddled on the far corner of the driver’s bench. Without the heat of Simon’s body or his effortless charm to warm her, she was soon wracked by uncontrollable shivers.
The darkness deepened, but there was no sign of an inn, a cottage, or even a barn where they might seek shelter. Simon stole a glance at
her, then swore beneath his breath and snapped the reins on the horses’ backs, driving the wagon off the road and into a forest clearing.
Without breaking the awkward silence, he gathered several armfuls of kindling and built a crackling fire. While he tethered the nags to a nearby tree so they could graze through the thin crust of snow, Catriona roasted potatoes in their crusty jackets and fed bits of dried beef to Robert the Bruce.
They were eating the steaming bits of potato with their fingers when Simon finally spoke. “So tell me about this sainted brother of yours.”
Torn between relief that he was speaking to her again and dismay at his choice of topics, Catriona laughed nervously. “Oh, I can assure you that Connor is no saint. At least he wasn’t when he was a lad. He was five years older than I and never missed an opportunity to tug on my braids, use my dolls for archery practice or put a mouse in my bed.”
“So you adored him, then?”
“With all my heart,” she admitted with a wistful smile. “He might tease me mercilessly, but if anyone else so much as looked at me crooked, they could expect a bloody nose or a black eye for their trouble.”
Simon stretched out his legs and leaned back on one elbow, his shadowed eyes unreadable. “It must have been hard for him to let you go.”
“I don’t think he believed he had a choice. After our parents were…murdered by the redcoats, I cried and begged him not to send me away. But he wiped away my tears and told me I had to be brave. That the Kincaids never cried when they could fight. He promised to come for me as soon as it was safe and bring me home.”
Simon frowned. “But he sent for you instead? Rather than coming to fetch you as he’d promised?”
She suddenly took a keen interest in digging the last crumb of potato from its charred skin. “So what was your brother like?”
He shrugged. “Fairly insufferable. Our father could barely stand the sight of me, but I suppose Richard still saw me as some sort of rival for the old man’s affections. He never missed an opportunity to remind me that he was the true heir and I was nothing but a bastard. Richard was twelve when my father took me in. When I first arrived at the ducal estate, his favorite game was to take me to some remote corner of the house and leave me there, knowing I couldn’t find my way back.”