The Marriage Ring (9 page)

Years ago, Stone had played a terrible prank on one of Richard’s schoolmates. He’d pretended to befriend him, gave him too much to drink, robbed him of his clothes, and tied him up to the school’s signpost just for the sport of it.

Richard was tempted to do the same to Stone, but wanted a more subtle touch.

That’s when he spied the loaded hay wagon under some trees.

In the stable, he found some rope and fairly clean cloth for a gag. He carried Stone over to the wagon, lifted the tarp covering the hay and dumped him into it. He quickly tied his hands and feet, then tied the cloth around his mouth. He tossed hay over the unconscious Stone and re-secured the tarp.

“Can I help you, sir?” a man’s voice asked behind him.

Richard turned. A man in yeoman’s garb walked toward him.

“Is that your hay?” Richard asked.

“Aye. Was there something you were wanting?”

“No,” Richard hurried to assure him. “I’d noticed the good quality of your hay earlier, when I saw your wagon, and decided to have a closer look at it. Couldn’t sleep,” he added as an excuse for why he was prowling around in the dark. “Are you delivering it here?”

“I’m taking it on to London,” the driver said with no little amount of pride. “It’s quality stuff and that’s where I’ll receive the best price—especially this time of the year, when most hay barns are empty. Were you looking for hay?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. What time will you be leaving in the morning?” he had to ask.

“Before first light,” the driver assured him.

“’Tis unfortunate I’m going in the opposite direction.”

“I haul to London on a regular basis, sir. Perhaps I can deliver to you on another of my trips.”

“Yes, please do search me out. The name is Stone, Lord Stone. I’m in Mayfair.”

“Yes, sir—I mean, my lord. I shall do so, my lord,” the man said.

“Have a safe trip then,” Richard said, thinking he rather liked being toadied to. No wonder Stone was so insufferable.

As he walked, the moon popped from behind the clouds and for a second, it was as if the universe smiled down upon him. Roddy Bankston and a host of other boys who had been brutalized by the likes of Stone had won one.

For the first time in his life, Richard felt like a man.

And he was handsome, too.

Chapter Nine

G
race didn’t have any trouble rising the next morning after enjoying hours of deep, trouble-free sleep. In fact, she was looking forward to the day…and to seeing Mr. Lynsted.

She opened her door to go downstairs just as he opened his across the hall.

For a second, they stood facing each other, not speaking. When they had first met, his tall, brawny frame had attracted her. However, now that she knew him to be so honest, so forthright, she wondered how could she not have noticed how handsome he truly was?

“Good morning,” he said.

He’d shaved. The clean, spicy scent of his shaving soap swirled in the air around her. “Good morning,” she echoed, suddenly shy.

“I trust you slept well,” he said.

“I did. And yourself?”

He laughed then, the sound startling her with the sense of newness about it. This was a man who rarely let down his guard, but he had…for her.

“I slept with the peace of angels,” he answered, “and I trust Lord Stone did also. Don’t worry about your bag. Herbert will see to it.”

That’s when she noticed the valet listening with great interest as he lingered in the room behind his master.

Grace took hold of herself. She wasn’t one to go buffle-headed over men. They went buffle-headed over
her.
She’d learned the distinction the hard way and would be wise to follow the rule.
Especially
with Mr. Lynsted.

“Thank you,” she murmured and came out in the hall. She carried her cape, cap, and gloves.

Mr. Lynsted fell into step beside her as they journeyed down to the dining room. “So, have you seen Lord Stone this morning?” she had to ask.

“I understand he is already on his way to London,” he answered.

“He left? In the middle of the night? I’d always understood that Stone’s consequence was so puffed up no one could ever convince him to do anything that wasn’t his idea. How did you manage?”

“I can be very convincing when I wish to be,” he answered, stepping back to let her enter the dining room first.

“I have no doubt of that,” she murmured.

The innkeeper, his wife, and two of his serving girls were busy cleaning up after what had obviously been a very profitable night. Many of the guests were stretched out on benches where they’d passed out the night before. One man was curled into a ball under a table.

“Good morning to you, sir,” the innkeeper greeted them. “It’s a pleasure to see you are both bright and cheerful on a morning like this. Please excuse our mess. There’s a clean table in the corner.”

In spite of the sleeping bodies around them, Grace and Mr. Lynsted proceeded to have a very nice breakfast…especially when she realized he truly listened to what she said. An unusual quality in men, lacking in the circles she usually traveled.

And she liked his green eyes. They were intelligent, compassionate. She thought of the story he’d told her about his schools days the night before and wondered, if he had been as tall and muscular then as he was now, would he have become the same man? A man she found she could respect.

He also had the longest lashes. Any woman would have given her right hand for such lashes—

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Are your eggs not to your liking?”

Grace looked down at her plate. She’d become so lost in listening to him and her own thoughts, she hadn’t even touched her food. The irony was that here she was mooning over the only man in the whole inn who didn’t bow and scrape to her.

“The eggs are fine,” she murmured. “I was just thinking about the perverse nature of women.” Herself in particular.

His brows came together in puzzlement.

She laughed. “Don’t try to make sense out of my rambling,” she warned him. “I can’t and I’m the one with the thought.” She dove into her food, aware that he was still watching her.

After the third bite under his scrutiny, she set her fork aside. “Is there a problem, Mr. Lynsted? Have you not witnessed a woman enjoying her meal before?”

“I don’t understand women.” He said this as a confession, almost apologetically.

She stirred her tea. “I often fail to understand men.”

“This shouldn’t be so difficult,” he said. “Are we not both human beings? Do we not want the same things?”

“In some areas,” Grace said, “but the poets tell us differently.”

“Poets? Do you pay attention to poetry? It’s all flowery nonsense from people who think too hard.”

Grace burst out laughing, finding she agreed with him.

He smiled, the expression almost self-deprecating as he confessed, “I’m a plain man and I like plain words and emotions. Do you see the innkeeper’s wife over there?” The woman had just come into the room to pick up a tray of dirty dishes. “Do you believe her thoughts are so much different from her husband’s? She wants to have good custom in this place. She wants food on her table for her children. Her husband wants the same thing. That’s life. Men and women are more alike than they imagine.”

“Yes,” Grace agreed, “but that is everyday living. The hardship, the toil. Perhaps we are different in how we perceive each other beyond the practical.”

Mr. Lynsted frowned as he if couldn’t comprehend what she was saying.

“The courtship,” she explained. “Life has many layers. Certainly the innkeeper’s wife wants him to recognize her for something more than working hard around the inn. Men think if they are working hard, it is a sign they care.”

“Is it not?”

Grace set her fork down, finished with her meal and said thoughtfully, “’Tis…but perhaps she wants something more. Perhaps she would like some romance.”

His gaze narrowed as if she’d said something shocking. “They’ve been married for years. Do they not have children?”

“But there must still be some romance,” she insisted.

“Romance after years of marriage,” he protested. “Look at them. They are like two old shoes that have walked the same path.”

“All the more reason for romance,” she answered.

“What is this—romance?” He sounded it out as if it were a foreign word. “What are you saying that is different from what I am saying?”

“I’m saying that just because two people have been married for years, they should want—” She paused. What
was
she saying? She was the last person in the world to be giving advice on marriage. “You are right. I was being fanciful.”

“No, explain to me,” he said. “What do you think it is like when two people have been married for years?”

There was an intensity to his question, an earnestness. He really did want to know.

“Just because someone has been married for years, they should still like each other. And be attracted to each other. In fact, from my friends who have been happily married, and I know only two—Fiona, Duchess of Holburn, and Constance Lachlan, who married the leader of my clan—it seems to me that when you truly love someone, then every day is better than the one before. Or so they told me.”

“Does that make sense?”

Grace pushed the end of her fork on her plate, considering the question. “Yes. But I don’t believe everyone feels that way.”

He mulled over her words. “That may be true. I’m not around Holburn and his duchess. They still are newly married.”

She nodded her agreement, fascinated that his lawyer mind had taken hold of this idea and was analyzing it.

“Most married couples I know,” he said, “are like my parents. They live very separate lives. Mother has her interests; Father has his. They rarely spend time together. That’s marriage.”

“It’s not like that for Fiona and Constance. They and their husbands seemed intertwined in each other’s lives.” She hesitated a moment and then, because a part of her needed to speak such, she confessed, “I thought like you at one time. Marriage just seemed too cold. I don’t remember the time before my father was sent away. I sense it was happy…but I’m not certain. I was too young.”

“And after he returned?”

“My mother left.”

“She left?”

“She grew tired of being the pariah’s wife. When he returned, she left.” Left
her.
Grace focused on the food on her plate, a tightness forming in her chest.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked, sounding amazed a woman would walk out.

“I believe she has remarried and is living in Brussels.”

“Your father is alive, isn’t he?”

Grace nodded. “Of course he is. That’s why we are going to Inverness.” She placed her napkin on the table, crossed her arms, holding herself tightly. She’d not back away from this conversation. He needed to know just how much devastation his uncle and father had brought on her life. And yet now, she wasn’t certain she wanted to discuss it.

“Did your parents divorce?” he asked. Divorce was easier in Scotland than England but just as ugly an idea.

“Always the legal question first,” she murmured. “No, they never divorced. Father was a man of the church. He would not do such a thing and he still honors his wedding vows. He truly loved her…and there is the tragedy.”

“Then that makes your mother…” His voice trailed off. He looked away as if embarrassed for her.

“A bigamist,” Grace finished for him. “Yes, she is. But she is in another country and what does it matter? Nothing to her.” But it mattered a great deal to Grace. It had been a betrayal. Her mother, who had judged her so harshly after Harry Ellis’s attack, had apparently one standard for Grace and another for herself.

Nor had she wanted anything to do with either Grace or her father. Once she’d found love, they’d become encumbrances.

At that moment, the innkeeper came out and took his wife’s second dish-laden tray from her. For the briefest of seconds, their fingers touched and a smile passed between them. A longing the likes of which Grace had never known rose inside her.

Mr. Lynsted noticed them, too. “Is that romance?” he wondered.

“Being happy in your work when you are together? Yes,” she said decisively. “The little things are the romance. The wanting to be together.”

“And your mother didn’t want to be with your father,” he concluded. “Did you go with her?”

She drew her gaze away from the innkeeper and his wife and faced him. He leaned one arm on the table, his gaze intent. Why, of all the people who had crossed her path over the last five years, was he the first to ask questions?

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I stayed with my father but I was very angry.”

“About what?”

Grace shrugged.
About his having been sent away, about the way her life should have been, about the night Sir Nicholas Ellis’s son had raped her and the number of men, so much like Lord Stone, who considered her fair game after Harry bragged about taking her.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’m returning home. My father will have what he deserves, a fair hearing of his story.”

“From me?”

“Yes.”

“I assumed he’d want a magistrate if he wished vindication.”

“It’s too late for that, Mr. Lynsted. He’s served the time. It’s gone. But acknowledging his innocence is very important. When he sees you with me, when he realizes what I would do for him, then he’ll be happy.”

“I doubt if I will believe his story, Miss MacEachin. Will you be happy when all is said and done?”

Grace pulled on her gloves. The innkeeper and his wife had their heads together in the hallway now, arguing about something—and yet they stood so close to each other.

Before her mother left, her parents had stood far away from each other.

“Yes, Mr. Lynsted, as odd as that may sound, I’ll be happy. You see, my father was right. Happiness isn’t something others give to you. You must have peace in yourself. My taking you to listen to his story will say to him louder than words that I have faith in him. That’s all he’s ever asked of me. I just couldn’t see it years ago. But now, all will be well.”

He stood. “I pray it is, for your sake, Miss MacEachin.”

“But you have your doubts,” she added for him, smiling so he knew she meant no malice.

“I have my doubts,” he agreed. “Shall we go?” He helped her put on her cape and they walked outside together.

The day was overcast with a bit of a wind but fine driving weather. The coach was packed and waiting for them.

When Herbert saw them coming, he opened the coach door. Dawson was already in the box, holding the horses.

“Good morning, sir,” the valet said.

Mr. Lynsted nodded. “Good morning.” He offered for Grace to climb into the coach ahead of him. She did, feeling the valet’s eyes on her the whole time she did and knowing he was speculating over what she and his master had been up to for a portion of the night.

She should snap her fingers at what a servant thought…but she didn’t. She couldn’t. And therein might be the way she’d find herself again.

The old Grace, the girl who had been so eager to please, would have been mortified by what people thought. The woman she’d become had hardened herself against opinions other than her own. The woman she hoped to be was a melding of these two.

“There was a hay wagon under that tree last night, wasn’t there?” she heard Mr. Lynsted ask.

“Yes, sir. I believe the driver pulled out before first light. Is there a reason you asked?”

“None in particular. Let’s be on the road, Dawson.”

“Right, sir.”

Mr. Lynsted climbed into the coach, hanging his hat on the hook before pulling the door shut. Once again, his huge body took up most of the space between them, but this time, Grace didn’t mind. His presence was no longer unsettling.

Ever so slowly, her guard came down, and for the first time for what seemed like ages, she allowed herself to trust a member of the opposite sex. It was a good feeling.

Within minutes they were on their way again.

Richard had work he could do in his ledgers, but for the first time in his life, he chose not to put his nose to the grindstone—especially after Miss MacEachin asked him if he had a deck of cards in his satchel.

He did.

For the next nine hours of travel, including occasional stops for food or to stretch their legs, he didn’t think about what he
should
be doing. Instead, he indulged himself in the frivolity of playing cards with a very beautiful woman.