The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) (54 page)

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Lauren & Devon’s next book is…
THE LAIRD’S ENGLISH BRIDE
Book Three of
The Chase Brides series

Young widow Clarice Bradford is perfectly content. She has a pretty one-room cottage and a lovely little daughter, and the
last
thing she’s looking for is another husband. Until one fairytale evening when she’s invited to a wedding at a castle…

Sir Cameron Leslie is used to getting what he wants—and since the moment he laid eyes on Clarice, what he’s wanted is to bring her home with him to Scotland. But beneath her shy exterior is a fiercely independent woman, and the closer Cameron gets, the farther she retreats. Can he persuade her to give love another chance before it’s too late?

Read an excerpt…

Village of Cainewood, England
September 1667

THEY’D SENT A
carriage to take her to the castle.

In all her twenty-three years, Clarice Bradford had never ridden in a carriage. Gingerly she climbed inside and perched on the leather seat, settling the pink skirts of her Sunday gown.

Dressed in blue to match her eyes, Clarice’s five-year-old daughter bounced up and down on the seat opposite. “I’ve been in this carriage, Mama. When Lord Cainewood brought me to live with you.”

In her short life, Mary had been orphaned by the plague and then abandoned during the Great Fire of London. But in the year since Lord Cainewood brought Mary to her doorstep, Clarice had come to love the girl like her own.

“I remember you climbing out of this carriage. That’s one day I’m unlikely to ever forget.” Clarice reached across and tweaked her daughter on the chin. “It’s a fine carriage, isn’t it?”

Mary shrugged, her blond ringlets bouncing on her shoulders in the same rhythm as the vehicle. “I would rather ride a horse.”

“That wouldn’t be a very elegant way to arrive at a nobleman’s wedding.”

A sigh wafted from Mary’s rosy lips. “I s’pose not.” She nibbled on a fingernail until Clarice pulled her hand from her mouth. “Who is Lord Cainewood marrying?”

“I haven’t met her, poppet, but if she’s marrying Lord Cainewood, she must be a grand lady. I’ve heard she’s from Scotland.”

“Scotland. Is that very far away?”

“Far enough.” Clarice leaned across the cabin and took Mary’s hands in hers. “Can you believe we’re going to a wedding at the castle?”

Though Mary smiled, it was clear she wasn’t overly impressed. “I lived at the castle before.” Last year, after Lord Cainewood’s brother had swept her from the fire and brought her to Cainewood. “For a whole month.”

“Well, I’ve only been in the great hall for Christmas dinner once a year,” Clarice said. “I’ve never seen any of the other rooms.”

“I’ll show you around,” her daughter proclaimed, displaying nary a hint of the awe that made Clarice’s heart beat a rapid tattoo.

The castle was grandly ancient; the very thought of entering the family’s private living space was both daunting and exciting. And the carriage was clattering over the drawbridge already.

Shadows sheathed the carriage’s windows as they passed beneath the barbican. Then it was bright again, and Clarice Bradford found herself inside the crenelated walls of Cainewood Castle.

The carriage door was flung open, and Mary ran down the steps into the enormous grassy quadrangle. “Who are you?” Clarice heard her ask. “And who is this?”

“You must be Miss Mary,” came a lilting voice. Clarice alighted from the carriage to see a young man crouched by her daughter, an infant in his arms. “And this is baby Jewel. Lord Cainewood is an uncle now, aye?”

“Lord Cainewood plays games with me sometimes. The babe is lucky to have him for an uncle.” Four stories of stately living quarters looming behind her, Mary ran a small finger down the child’s tiny nose. “But Jewel is an odd name. ‘Specially for a boy.”

“Ah, but Jewel is a lass.” A grin appeared on the stranger’s face, lopsided and indulgent. “Though she has little hair on her head yet, she’s a girl.”

“Oh. Will she have more hair soon?”

“Aye. A bonnie lass she’ll be. Just like you.”

Mary’s giggle tinkled into the summer air as the young man rose to his full height and caught Clarice’s gaze with his.

Something fluttered inside her when she met his warm hazel eyes. Since he hadn’t answered Mary, Clarice had no idea who he was. He looked to be a wedding guest, though, dressed in a fancy blue suit trimmed with bright gold braid. She’d been told this would be a small family wedding. Judging from his accent, she guessed he belonged to the bride’s side.

The stranger was tall. Clarice was not a short woman, but this gentleman topped her by nearly a head. Straight wheaten hair skimmed his shoulders and rippled in the light breeze, shimmering in the sunshine. And his eyes…

She gave herself a mental shake. This magical fairytale day was sparking her imagination—that was all. She’d never thought to be inside the castle walls as an invited guest to the lord’s wedding—she and Mary the only commoners invited—the only non-family invited, come to that. Lord Cainewood had said that since their misfortune had inadvertently led to his marriage, he wanted them with him to celebrate. The sheer wonder of it was going to her sensible head. Making her giddy.

“You talk funny,” Mary said to the stranger.

“Mary!” Clarice exclaimed, but she couldn’t seem to look at her daughter. Her gaze was still riveted to those hazel eyes. He didn’t talk funny, either. To the contrary, the Scottish cadence of his words seemed to flow right into her and melt her very bones.

Lud, she feared her knees might give out.

“Do you think so?” He tore his gaze from Clarice’s and looked down at Mary. “Ye should gae a’ folk the hearin’, ye ken?” he said in an accent so broad it was obviously exaggerated.

At the look on her daughter’s face, Clarice laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Surely laughter wasn’t appropriate at a lord’s wedding. She schooled her expression to be properly sober. “He means you should listen to people without passing judgment,” she told Mary.

The gentleman grinned, showing even white teeth. “I’m Cameron Leslie,” he said. “Cousin of the bride.” Shifting the baby to one arm, he reached for Clarice’s hand. When he pressed his warm lips to the back, her breath caught and she thought she might swoon.

Clarice Bradford had never swooned.

“And you two must be the mother and daughter I’ve heard so much about, whose trials set Cainewood on the road to meet and woo my cousin Cait.” She released her breath when he dropped her hand. “Though to hear Lord Cainewood’s side of it,” Mr. Leslie added with a wink, “it was Caithren who did the wooing.”

Clarice couldn’t help but smile. His cousin Caithren sounded like just what serious Lord Cainewood needed. “I’m Clarice Bradford,” she said.

“It’s pleased I am to meet you.” He looked down when Mary tugged on one leg of his velvet breeches. “What is it, sweet?”

“Will you pick me up?”

“Mary!” Clarice frowned and set a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

But Mr. Leslie handed the baby to Clarice, then reached down and swung her daughter into his arms. “Of course I’ll hold you, princess.” His eyes danced. “She’s charming,” he told Clarice.

“I…” She cradled the sweet-smelling babe, at a loss for words. Mary was acting inappropriately forward, to the point of burrowing into Mr. Leslie’s neck. And Clarice…

Clarice was
jealous
.

It was absurd. The planes of his face were clean-shaven, his skin flawless and…young. He was quite young. Not even twenty, she’d guess. She could see it in his complexion, the straightness of his lanky form, the angle of his head. This was not someone who had yet suffered the slings and arrows of life.

And Clarice was nearly twenty-four years old. Old enough to know she had no business fancying an aristocratic gentleman, especially one several years younger than she.

She hadn’t fancied a man in…well, a long time. She’d forgotten what a heady emotion it was.

And her daughter was clearly just as smitten.

Clarice was startled out of her thoughts when the whine of bagpipes filled the quadrangle.

“That’s our signal,” Mr. Leslie said. “I expect I should fetch the bride.”

When he set Mary on her feet, the girl reached up and firmly took his hand. “May I come with you?”

“Of course you may, princess.”

“Princess,” Mary breathed as they walked away. Bemused, Clarice smiled down at the cooing infant in her arms, vaguely wondering how she’d ended up holding a marquess’s niece. And what she was supposed to do with her.

She glanced up to ask Mr. Leslie, but he was already too distant and Mary was happily chatting away. She wondered if perhaps she’d lost her daughter to this man.

Mary had always dreamed of being a princess.

CAMERON LESLIE
was known to be a wee bit quiet. A young man of simple needs, he didn’t want for much. But when he did find something he wanted, he generally got it.

At the moment he was wanting Clarice Bradford. Or his body was, at least. His head told him he couldn’t come to that conclusion following a five-minute conversation.

Heavens, he mused as he led Mary up the steps to his cousin’s chamber, in all his nineteen years he’d never met a lass like Clarice. Nay, not a lass—a woman, with her quiet dignity, her wholesome beauty, the depth in her large gray eyes. She was vastly different from girls his age, though she couldn’t be more than a handful of years older. Vastly different and so much
more.

Was it because she had a daughter? he wondered, squeezing the small hand he held. Mary giggled. She was a delight, and clearly adored by her mother.

Nay, Cam decided. He’d met plenty of young mothers—some even younger than Mary’s—and none of them were like Clarice. She was special.

A pity his time here in England was so short. He wanted to get to know Clarice, but he had less than a week before he needed to head home to Scotland.

Hoping he could persuade her to spend some time with him anyway, he knocked on his cousin’s door and called through the sturdy oak to ask if she was ready.

When the door opened, his jaw dropped. “Cait?” Dressed for her wedding, she looked different from the girl he’d known since her birth. Unbound from its customary plaits, her dark blond hair, so much like his, hung straight and loose past her shoulders. She wore cosmetics and a sky-blue gown trimmed in silver lace. An English gown.

“Good heavens,” he said. “Cait, you look lovely.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, her hazel eyes sparkling as she surveyed his own attire, a deep blue velvet suit that he’d borrowed from one of the groom’s brothers. He suspected Caithren thought he looked as English as she. She aimed a curious glance at the wee lassie who still held his fingers gripped tight. “And who is this?”

“Her name is Mary, and she and her mother are special guests. She, uh, attached herself to me.” Cam lifted his hand, and Mary’s hand came up with it. Though he gave a sheepish shrug, he felt warm and pleased. “She may be walking down the aisle with us.”

Caithren knelt, her silk skirts pooling around her. “Good day,” she said.

“Good day,” Mary returned in a small, polite voice. “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.”

“I’m not—” Cait started.

“You’ll be a lady within the hour,” Cam interrupted with a teasing smile. “You may as well get used to it.” He knew firsthand how difficult it was to adjust to a new station in life, having unexpectedly found himself to be a baronet after Caithren’s brother died last month. He blew out a breath. “I, on the other hand, will never get used to being a sir.”