The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (3 page)

For a moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.

Gothard continued to stare.

Jason’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Now, Gothard.”

The stare held hard and unwavering. Finally his thin-lipped mouth curved in a hint of a smile. “My nearest and dearest enemy,” Gothard drawled.

A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn’t uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut. He looked to have but a handful of years on Jason’s twenty-three.

Confusion churned with the anger in Jason’s stomach. “Why should you call me your enemy?”

Gothard’s gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. “The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?”

“I am,” Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to Cainewood, back to his calm routine, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.

Blue eyes that might never open again.

And there stood the beast who had hurt her. Smiling at him from the shadows.

“I’ve done nothing to draw your malice—we’ve never even met.” Jason peered at the shaded figure. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled in the sun—and it looked as though they’d been much in the sun of late. “Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest.”

Gothard’s blue eyes went flat with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.

Maybe they
had
crossed paths.

“A pox on you, Cainewood.”

Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. For Mary and Clarice. The questions could wait—for now. Responsibility weighing heavily on his mind, his focus shifted to the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Father would have expected this of him. To defend his people, stand up for what was right—no matter the cost.

Deliberately he slid the rapier from its scabbard.

Gothard drew his own sword with a quick
screak
that snapped the expectant silence. “We will settle this here and now.”

Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circling the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade’s thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.

His free hand trembled at his side.

With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.

Vibrations shimmied up Jason’s arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm’s way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.

Like most young men of his class, he’d been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.

Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.

ADAM LESLIE
dipped his quill in the inkwell and carefully added “My” in front of “Dear Sister,” frowned, then squeezed in “est” in the middle.
My Dearest Sister.
There now, surely Caithren wouldn’t be miffed at his news after such an affectionate greeting.

Gazing up at the paneled walls of the Royal Arms, he flipped his straight dark blond hair over his shoulder. That he wouldn’t be returning to Leslie soon shouldn’t surprise Cait—he hadn’t spent more than a few days at home since his eighteenth birthday. But it wouldn’t hurt to be loving when he imparted the news…he did love her. And he knew that she loved him as well, though they rarely saw each other.

Och, Scotland was boring. He was happy to leave the running of the Leslie lands to his younger sister and their Da. He chuckled to himself, imagining Da’s latest fruitless efforts to marry her off.

“Are you not finished yet, Leslie?”

He glanced up and smiled at his friends, the Earl of Balmforth and Viscount Grinstead. Dandies, they were, dressed in brightly colored satin festooned with jewels and looped ribbons. Though he kept himself decked out in similar style, he considered himself lucky they let him keep their company, untitled as he was—at least until his very healthy Da died sometime in the distant future.

Da was naught but a minor baronet, so Adam wasn’t entitled to call himself anything but Mister until he inherited.

“Leslie?”

“Almost done,” Adam muttered, pushing back the voluminous lace at his cuffs before signing his name to the bottom of the letter. He sprinkled sand on the parchment to blot the ink, then brushed it off and folded the missive.

“An ale for my friend!” Balmforth called.

Adam nodded. This was thirsty work. Losh, any work was thirsty work.

He preferred not to work at all.

He flipped the letter over and scrawled
Miss Caithren Leslie, Leslie by Insch, Scotland
on the back. After dusting the address with sand as well, he rose and crossed the taproom to the innkeeper’s desk, pinching the serving maid on her behind as she sauntered by with his tankard of ale.

She giggled.

“Have you any wax?” Adam dropped his letter on the scarred wooden counter and dug in his pouch for a few coins. “And you’ll post this for me, aye?”

The innkeeper blinked his rheumy eyes. “Certainly, sir.”

Adam pressed his signet ring into the warm wax, then went to join his companions. He lifted his ale and leaned across the table. Their three pewter mugs met with a resounding
clank
.

“To freedom!” Grinstead said, shaking off some foam that had sloshed onto his hand.

“To freedom!” Adam echoed. “Till Hogmanay!”

Grinstead raised an eyebrow. “You told her you’d be gone till the new year?”

“At the least.” Adam swallowed a gulp and swiped one hand across his mouth before the froth dripped onto his expensive satin surcoat. “We’ve the week hunting in West Riding, then Lord Darnley’s wedding in London come the end of the month. Wouldn’t care to miss Guy Fawkes Day in the City. Then I might as well stay through the Christmas balls, aye?” The taproom’s door banged open. “No sense in going home, then leaving again straightaway.”

“No sense at all,” Grinstead agreed, staring toward the entrance. “Will you look at what just walked in?”

Balmforth followed his gaze, then frowned. “Do you think she might be that MacCallum woman everyone’s talking about?”

Adam swung round to watch the tall lass cross the taproom and seat herself at another table.

“Nary a chance.” Adam tossed back the rest of the ale and signaled the serving maid for another. “Emerald MacCallum dresses like a man.”

“She’s carrying a knife,” Balmforth argued in a loud whisper. “And she looks hard. Like the sort of woman who would make her living capturing outlaws.”

“If a woman
could
capture outlaws,” Grinstead said dryly.

Adam let loose a loud guffaw. “You’re both of you in your cups. Emerald MacCallum carries a sword and a pistol, not a knife. But if she
were
here, she would trounce
you
, Grinstead, from here to tomorrow.” Adam straightened the lacy white cravat at his neck. “And me too, I expect.”

They all burst out laughing, until another bang of the door caught their attention.

An excited old-timer stood in the opening. “Duel at the Market Cross!”

AS HE AND
Gothard both scrambled for better footing, Jason whipped off his midnight blue surcoat and tossed it to his brother, his gaze never leaving that of his foe. Gothard smirked as he lunged once again, barely giving Jason time to adjust.

Gothard was fleet, but Jason was faster—and nimbler without the restricting surcoat. They grappled down the steps, and the crowd leapt back. Gothard was cornered, but Jason was incensed. He edged Gothard back beneath the dome, skirting the circular stone bench that sat in its center as he pressed his advantage. Then Gothard seized an opening, and Jason found himself retreating as their blades tangled, slid, and broke free with a metallic twang.

His arm ached to the very bone. Perspiration dripped slick from his forehead, stinging his eyes. But his opponent’s breath came ragged and labored.

All at once, a vicious swipe of Jason’s sword sent Gothard’s clanging to the stones and skittering down to the cobbled street, far from his reach.

Jason’s teeth bit into his own lower lip. “I didn’t come to kill today, Gothard. I merely want to see justice done.” He sucked in air and smelled the man’s desperation. “Are you ready to come peacefully?”

Eyes wild, Gothard stumbled back until his calves hit the round stone bench. Frantically he scanned the mass of people still pouring from the surrounding establishments. His gaze lit on a fellow dressed in bright, conspicuous clothing who pushed his way to the front, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Grinstead!”

Gothard’s eyes narrowed. In a flash of movement, he hurled himself toward the crowd while reaching down to the wide cuff of his boot, where the curved handle of a pistol peeked out.

Jason’s jaw went slack; his knees buckled. Time seemed to slow. He could hear the heated babble and smell the musky scent of the excited onlookers, feel the cool dimness in the shaded dome, see the bright green grass and streaky sunlight beyond.

As Gothard rose with the deadly pistol in hand, Jason’s sword arm went rigid, and he rushed headlong.

Gothard yanked the dandy in front of him as a shield. Jason tried to check his momentum, but his blade forged ahead, piercing satin and flesh with shocking ease. As long as he lived, he would never forget the astonished look in the dandy’s hazel eyes.

The sword pulled free with a gruesome sucking sound that brought bile into Jason’s throat. The fellow collapsed, his eyes going dull as his bright blood spurted in a grotesque fountain that soaked Jason’s shirt and choked his nostrils with a salty, metallic stench.

Stunned, he watched the blood pump hard then slow to a trickle—a spreading red puddle that seeped into the cracks between the stones. The dead man’s face drained of color, to match the white lace at his throat.

Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. “I’ll see you at the gates of hell,” Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.

Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.

WAS THIS
eternal torment? He felt so hot.

Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.

His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.

Hot. He was so hot.

Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny, deep red curls swam through his vision as someone moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.