Megan Frampton (13 page)

Hard, but not impossible. She knew what she had to do for herself, but now she knew she had to do something for him: make him, if not whole again, at least not as broken.

Her right hand still held his left, and she looked down at their fingers, interlaced on Primrose’s reins. His hands were long, well shaped, elegant; hers were small and covered with telltale signs of her long hours of housework. As she looked, his fingers began to move, to caress her papery-dry skin, moving up and down in an unconscious movement.

“Your father. He died recently?” His voice came out in a low rumble behind her, and she started at the sound. She removed her hand and pushed a curl behind her ear.

“Yes. Just last month.” Her voice caught on a sob. “It was very sudden. He’d gone out to rescue a sheep from the stream; the farmer was away to market and his wife was pregnant. When he came back, he was sneezing. Four days later, he was dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice.

Mary shrugged, as though it hadn’t destroyed her life. “Yes, well, it wasn’t as if he was a young man. He was sixty. He was already thirty-five when I was born.” And even then he hadn’t been married, but she didn’t tell him that.

It still hurt too much to know her father had lived a lie, had let her think her mother had died in childbirth, when she was actually alive, was still alive, living in London all this time. Although if Mary told him she was illegitimate, he’d surely—no, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t care.

She didn’t know him that well, but she knew he didn’t give a tinker’s damn about
what people thought. Oddly enough, that lifted her spirits.

“You’re older than you look.”

She half-turned in the saddle to look at him, and was surprised by how close his face was to hers. “What am I to say to that, my lord? ‘Thank you for complimenting me, despite my advanced years?’ No wonder you’re not already married, if that is your idea of flattery.”

His beautiful lips flattened into a thin line. “I was married.” His green eyes darkened, and he closed them for a moment, pressing his lids tight as though to suppress the image of something—or someone.

“Oh.” Mary turned back around, her face aflame.

“She died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper. “Was she—was it Judith?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Mary swallowed the lump in her throat. No wonder he was so unhappy—he must have loved his wife deeply. She knew that because of the way his voice sounded when he called her name.

After another half an hour, he spoke again. “We will be over the border in another hour or so. It’s my guess our pursuers are at least thirty miles from us now, more than a day’s hard ride.”

“So that means we’re safe?” Mary asked.

“Safe? Not hardly. It just means we know where our enemy is.”

“You sound as if you’ve had experience tracking your enemies. Of course, you must have a lot of them.” She tried to imbue her tone with a humorous note, to get his mind—and hers—off his dead wife.

“I was in the army.”

So much for getting his mind off dead people. “Oh. Where were you?”

His hands tightened on the reins. “Anywhere the French were.”

What
wouldn’t
remind him of all he’d lost? “Would you like me to read another poem?” she asked.

She felt him hitch himself forward, further into her back, and saw his fingers flex
on the reins.

“Yes, that would be … pleasant,” he said in a noncommittal tone of voice.

She dug into her skirts, noticing her hand was just inches away from his thigh. His strong, muscular thigh that gripped the barrel of the horse.

As she looked, Primrose skitted a little to the left, and she saw his thigh muscles bunch as he held on tighter. She swallowed and tried to find the book as quickly as she could, before she reached out and touched him as she longed to.

“Here it is,” she announced in her best schoolmistress voice. She wedged the book under her left leg and used her right hand to leaf through the pages. She cleared her throat. “ ‘The Sun Rising’—do you know it?”

“I don’t know any Donne, except as a weapon.”

“You can just stop talking about that, thank you very much,” she replied primly. “If you’re ready to listen?”

“Be my guest,” he replied in an exaggeratedly polite voice.

She licked her lips and took a deep breath.

By the time she reached the end, she could hear the emotion in her own voice. They were both quiet. Mary’s throat was tight; that was what love was, what it should be. Had her parents—her real parents—ever loved each other like that?

“Your Donne,” Alasdair said in a ragged voice, “has quite a way with words.
Pedantic wretch, indeed.”

Mary felt him draw a deep breath behind her.

“She’s all states, and all princes, I,” he quoted softly. “Too bad that is never true.” He had regained his composure, and spoke in his normal, acerbic tone. She hadn’t. She might never again.

Mary tucked the book back into her pocket and bowed her head, regarding Primrose’s mane through misted eyes. She couldn’t rebuke him—what could she point to, her father’s love for her mother? Ha. His love for her stepmother? A perfectly fine woman, but someone he’d clearly chosen because his little daughter needed a mother.

And she was getting married because he’d bought her, she had no choice, and it seemed he didn’t either.

It wasn’t the best reason, but it wasn’t the worst.

***

“Are we here?” Mary asked, blinking her heavy eyelids. She had nodded off, surprisingly comfortable astride Primrose. Or perhaps it was because she was cradled in his arms.

He’d stopped Primrose, and the horse was angling her head down to crop the grass. Mary looked around; they were at the outskirts of what appeared to be a small village. She saw a few curls of smoke emanating from chimneys dotting the horizon, and heard a faint thrum, as if from a village square.

“Yes, we’re here, wherever ‘here’ is.” Alasdair slid his arms from around her and dismounted, then held his arms up for her. “Come.”

She hesitated for a moment, caught by the look in his green eyes. They were filled with—well, in anybody else, she’d have said yearning, but since it was him, perhaps it was apprehension.

She took his outstretched hand, trusting the strength in his fingers, and hopped down from Primrose’s back.

“You wait here, girl, while your mistress and I go get married,” Alasdair said to the horse, looping her reins around a tree. He turned to Mary and held his hand out. “Well, shall we?”

She met his gaze and smiled. “Why, yes, my lord.” She allowed him to lead her toward the center of town. “And do we just wait in the middle of the town square and announce to everyone we wish to be married?”

“I am not sure. The last time I was married was in a church, with flowers, and guests.” He paused, and Mary swallowed.

How inadequate must this seem, compared with that?

“It was miserable,” he continued. “My father-in-law got drunk at the wedding breakfast, and my parents and I were still recovering from Anthony’s death.”

“Did—was your wife happy?”

“She was marrying me.” His tone was completely devoid of emotion. His face was so set and expressionless she didn’t dare to ask him anything further. “There, we can find a blacksmith where those horses are coming from.”

Mary peered down the road to where a few dray horses were emerging from a low shed. They trudged in silence over the dirt road. At least she had sturdy boots for walking the road to hell.

***

“So ye wanna be wed, hm?” The blacksmith barely paused before slinging another ringing blow to a piece of metal lying in the fire.

Mary wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Yes.” Alasdair, to Mary’s disgust, was not sweating at all.

“It’ll cost you.”

Alasdair fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill. “Will this do?”

The blacksmith paused in his work to glance at the money. “It will. Give me a sec. Ye ken step over there to wait.”

Alasdair took Mary’s arm and walked her over to where the smithy had pointed. “It’s not too late to back out,” she said, her throat closing up in panic.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his voice strained. His face was white and drawn.

It had been a long time since he’d taken those pills. The pills she had destroyed.

“Ye ready then?” the blacksmith asked as he walked toward them, brushing his
hands off on his apron.

“We are.”

Mary drew a deep breath and pulled Alasdair’s arm closer to her body.

***

“We’ll stop here,” he—
her husband!
—said as they led Primrose back through the town. They were in front of a modest inn, not quite as bad as the last. And it was her wedding night. She gulped and looked up at the second-story windows. She’d spend her wedding night in one of those rooms. With him.

It was no more bizarre than the wedding ceremony they’d just had. Not even a
ceremony
, just a few words spoken by a huge, sweating man. She’d barely paid attention to what he was saying; her focus had been on not getting sick from the stench of burning coal that flooded her nostrils. And noticing Alasdair’s eyes were wet after the man had pronounced them wed.

Probably just the soot getting in his eyes.

In all of her romantic imaginings—which honestly hadn’t been too many—she’d never dreamed she’d be marrying a marquess who had promised not to touch her, and who had an unhealthy dependence on opium.

He bent his head down to hers. “Please don’t ‘my lord’ me,” he said in a whisper, even though no one was within earshot. “Hugh is probably sending people to look for us. I don’t want people to know we’re anything more than—what is your last name again?”

“Smith.”

He grimaced. “Smith. It sounds ridiculously obvious that we’re lying, but I don’t think you, with those trusting eyes, would be able to carry off an unfamiliar surname, even if it is now your legal one.”

She bristled, and opened her mouth to protest, until she saw his face.

He was
trying
to get her to react, trying to get her angry. Why? So she wouldn’t ask any more questions about him? So she couldn’t try to help him? She swallowed her irritation, and nodded.

“You are doubtless right, my—Alasdair.”

His eyes narrowed, his lips thinning into a grim line. “Just keep quiet, all right?” He grabbed her arm and marched her toward the door of the inn without waiting for an answer.

At least the inn was a lot cleaner than the last two she’d been in, Mary reflected as the innkeeper led them to their room.

The public area was nicely appointed, and the patrons appeared to be simple farmers relaxing after a day of work, not auctioneers, or gamblers, or anyone remotely resembling her brother.

Alasdair barely gave her a chance to look around, however, before demanding to be escorted to their room. If he thought he could keep his station a secret, Mary thought, as she watched him ordering the innkeeper around, he was much mistaken.

Every inch of him oozed aristocratic pride and arrogance, from the faultless cut of his coat to the negligently confident way he issued his demands.

“This will do,” he declared, as the innkeeper watched him anxiously. “We will need supper served in our room as soon as possible.”

Mary saw a flash of silver fly through the air.

“For your trouble,” he said as the innkeeper caught the coin.

The innkeeper headed downstairs to see to their food, and Alasdair shut the door firmly behind him.. Alasdair removed his coat and draped it over a wooden chair next to the door. Then he reached his arms up and began untying his cravat.

“What are you doing?” Mary said. She was mortified to hear her voice come out as a squeak. He gave her his raised eyebrow. She was really beginning to hate that eyebrow.

“What does it look like,
wife
?” he replied, emphasizing the last word.

Mary planted her hands on her hips. “It looks like you are setting out to continually aggravate me,
my lord
,” she said, returning his emphasis. “And doing a marvelous job at it. Congratulations,” she continued, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

He walked toward her, a predatory gleam in his eye. “You don’t begin to know how I could aggravate you, Mary Smith,” he said in a low tone.

Her skin prickled and her feet froze where she was standing.

She wanted to launch herself at him and kiss his firm, full lips until she was really
and truly aggravated.

Why did he always have to be such a bastard?
Alasdair thought as he watched the play of emotions across Mary’s face.

He stopped short on his way over to her, turning his head to look at the bed so he didn’t have to look her in the eye.

Not that it mattered; he felt her gaze on him, her gentle eyes belying what he knew was running through her head.
Don’t trust him, don’t let your guard down, don’t let him hurt you
. At least, that was what
should
be running through her head. He knew it was what Judith had thought whenever he was around.

“Are you all right?” Mary asked in a soft voice.

He cast his eyes down, watching her feet advance toward him. A hand touched his arm. “Can I get you something?”

Thoughts of what she could get him rushed into his head before he could stop them. Her work-worn hands stroking him, her breasts in his hands, her nipple in his mouth. Her hot warmth receiving him, a welcome soldier home from the wars.

“I just need to sit down for a moment,” he said, walking gingerly to the bed. His boot caught on a small hooked rug, and he half-stumbled, half-fell face down onto the top quilt. He stared at a small, blue daisy embroidered on the pillow, powerless to lift his head.