A Convenient Bride (9 page)

“We should reach Gretna Green by tonight, then?” She took a bite of eggs, and he nodded. “I hope we find Anne. I would hate to think I’d spent these last few days enduring your foul moods for naught.”

He paused and lifted his eyes to her. She stared innocently. He frowned and continued eating.

“And as I have been an excellent companion and investigator, I shall expect payment.” She indicated the dress. “This dress will make an excellent wedding gown.”

His fork clattered on his plate.

“Once we are wed,” she continued unabated, “my father will have to accept you as my husband. Any anger he has over my running off to Scotland with you will dissipate under his happiness to see me successfully matched.”

He grunted and spoke through a bite of ham. “Your father will despise me.”

Brenna chewed down a nibble of sausage. “Once our first child is born, he will forgive you.” She knew she shouldn’t tease him but enjoyed it nonetheless. “By child five, you will have fully returned to his good graces.”

Richard looked as though he wanted to paddle her. She reached for her teacup. “Oh, do not scowl so. I am teasing you. Truthfully, I need a husband, and you need a wife. If the worst happens and Anne married that bounder, you won’t want his
child inheriting Beckwith Hall, now would you?” She did not wait for an answer, as his deepening scowl was enough. “I promise not to make unreasonable demands on you. Your life will continue much as it was. You will live in the country, and I will reside in London. We will only need to suffer each other long enough to beget an heir and perhaps share an occasional Christmas goose to consider the union a rousing success.”

R
ichard’s hands twitched. Thankfully for her, they were in a common room with witnesses, making throttling her impossible. His orderly life had been tossed awry these last few days, and Brenna was at the top of the disorder.

The chit had planned out his life without considering his wishes. He did not want to marry her. Not now, not ever. The difficult part would be returning her to her father without Walter putting a bullet in him.

“The idea of spending the rest of my life with you strikes terror in my soul,” he grumbled. “You are far too flighty to make a good wife, and the idea of you mothering my offspring makes me shudder.”

Her mouth dropped open. She sputtered for a moment before collecting herself and leaning forward with a damning glare. “I am not flighty. Though I may be spirited, and sometimes act rashly, I am not without some intelligence,” she snapped. “And I will make a kind and loving mother.”

He pondered her for a moment. In spite of her impulsiveness, she was indeed well schooled. It was curbing the other that left him concerned.

“I do not wish for children,” he said finally. “I have seen what happens when childbirth goes wrong. I will not have another wife die at my hands.”

Brenna’s face paled. He did not take any satisfaction from shocking her with his bluntness.

“Not all mothers die in childbirth,” she said softly.

“Yet some do,” he said. “I’ll not take that risk again.”

He stood abruptly, and the chair wobbled. This was a conversation he’d not have with her. His private pain was not her business. If he ever did marry her, she’d have to learn to keep her nose out of his history.

Paying the innkeeper for breakfast, he walked out of the inn, Brenna hurrying along behind him.

Expecting an argument, Brenna surprised him by saying nothing. Clearly, his sentiment about children had finally left her speechless. But he would not change his mind. The loss of his wife and son had sent him into a darkness that had fully consumed him. If it hadn’t been for Walter Harrington, he would be dead.

M
inutes ticked by as Brenna followed Richard, the horses plodding along the dusty path back to Great North Road. She hated the idea of another long day in the saddle but knew complaining would earn her a space in a mail coach heading south. That could not happen before a legal and binding marriage between them.

The abject sadness that edged his words when he spoke of his lost family had nearly knocked her flat. His determination to never risk another wife and child to death had almost brought her to tears.

It was the idea of marrying him and never having his love, or his children, that sent a full complement of emotions whirling through her mind and heart.

Could she make such a bargain to save herself from an unwanted marriage? Was she truly that desperate? These were certainly points to ponder.

The road seemed an endless line of pits and ruts as Brontes followed Richard’s gelding with minimal guidance. Somewhere up ahead was Scotland. By the time they reached the border, her decision had to be made. How much could she sacrifice?

The weight of it filled her heart like a stone.

The morning aged, mist hanging over the low areas, refusing to give way to the sun. The road was eerily quiet but for an occasional coach rumbling past.

Richard rode in silence. She saw stiffness in his upright posture. She wanted to offer comfort but did not know how. Truthfully, she knew no matter what she said or how she said it, the topic of his lost family would make him angry. She was too weary to risk another argument. She wanted peace between them.

It was a full hour since they’d left the inn that she felt a prickle of unease on the back of her neck. Brontes spun her head around to peer back down the road. Brenna turned in the saddle to see what had interested the mare.

She saw a pair of riders coming up behind them, riding at a gentle lope, as if in no hurry. There was nothing outward about the men to cause alarm.

Perhaps they sought a runaway family member of their own. She’d heard that many fathers and brothers made this same desperate journey to rescue their daughters and sisters from their impulsive acts.

Still, she could not shake a feeling of unease. She felt it in her bones.

Turning forward, she urged Brontes to close the gap with Richard. It didn’t take long before she looked back a second time, and her stomach dipped.

The men had narrowed the distance between them just enough for Brenna to realize they were a pair from the inn she’d seen that morning. She recognized the taller man’s soiled green coat.

“That is odd,” she said to herself. “They left before us.” She watched them for another few seconds before a trill of alarm took root and spread through her. Their eyes were focused on her.

“Lord Ashwood. I think we may be in trouble.”

He twisted in the saddle. His gaze darted to her, then past to the men. He cursed low, stopped his horse, and spun around. Brontes, surprised by the change, jumped sideways, almost unseating Brenna.

“Stay behind me,” Richard commanded. He managed to put himself and his gelding between her and the men. As if understanding their stealthy attack had been thwarted, the pair urged their horses forward at a rapid clip.

One man pulled a pistol from his coat and aimed. Brenna gasped. A shot exploded, and Richard jerked sideways. The gelding startled and unseated his rider. Richard hit the ground with a thud and a pained grunt.

Brenna scrambled off Brontes and ran toward him. He had just enough time to get to his feet unaided when the men were upon them.

Whoops followed as the pair circled Brenna and Richard, their raucous calls breaking the quiet, their horses a blur of motion and slashing hooves. Brenna gripped Richard’s uninjured right arm, fearing she’d be trampled.

“What do you want?” Richard ground out, holding his arm. A small patch of blood marked his coat. “We have little coin.”

The men looked at each other, then back at Richard. The taller man grinned. “What luck. It appears we found us a nobleman to rob.”

The other said, “Ye wouldna know it from ’is clothes.”

Trying not to show fear, Brenna scowled. “Leave us be,” she demanded forcefully. All she gained was lecherous grins. “We have nothing you want.”

The tall man tugged his beard and rubbed himself through his trousers. His companion chortled. “I think we’ll take both yer blunt…and yer woman.”

The second man needed no further encouragement. He nudged his horse forward, right at Brenna. She darted sideways, releasing Richard. She cried out when a hand caught her hair and jerked her backward against the attacker’s horse. Richard tried to get to her, but the excited horse spun about, making rescue impossible.

“Release me!” She clawed at his hand, pain tearing through her scalp. She bit back a cry.

“Release me,” he mocked her in a high voice. Her capturer’s laughter ended with a pistol shot. He arched backward, a bloody hole in the center of his chest, freeing her, his eyes startled and wide eyed.

With a strangled grunt, he flopped back off the horse.

Brenna jumped away, though not fast enough to avoid the panicked horse. The beast knocked her down. Her left wrist twisted, sending a sharp pain through her hand. She cried out as the riderless horse bunched up and bolted off down the road.

Through the pain, she saw Richard holding a smoking pistol. His face was hard-set and dangerous. She shivered.

The other man, wielding a knife, looked from his fallen companion, then to Richard, and decided he was outmanned. He jerked his horse about and dashed away in a trail of dust.

Brenna raced to Richard. He lowered the pistol and looked
down at his arm. Just above the elbow, a patch of blood grew through his coat sleeve.

“You’re hurt.” She gently touched the place with her good hand and swallowed to fight back a sob. He’d be dead had the bullet hit a handsbreath to the left. The idea was too horrible to imagine. “You need to see a surgeon.”

He shook his head. “It is not deep.” He looked at the dead man. “I should have taken better care to make certain we were not followed. We may have avoided this.”

Brenna shook her head. “We had no reason to suspect we’d be robbed. The road is well traveled.” As if to confirm her words, a coach appeared around the bend and rolled past them, the coachman not even casting a glance in their direction.

Apparently a dead man lying on the edge of the road was not enough reason to slow the speeding coach.

Sighing, Brenna turned back to him. He bent and straightened his arm, then winced. “We must get you patched up,” she said. “Can you ride?”

He looked at her sidelong. “Truly, it is nothing.”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t care if it is nothing more than a burn. You will not help your sister or yourself if you die from an infection.”

Frowning, he met her eyes. She refused to look away. The stubborn man had met his equal.

Finally, he nodded. “We will continue north to see if we can find an inn or a surgeon. Will that please you, Milady?”

Brenna nodded. “A short side trip will not put us too far behind. And your steward will be in Gretna Green to watch for Anne. I’m certain he’ll not fail you, or face your wrath.”

Grumbling under his breath, Richard went to collect Brontes and helped Brenna into the saddle. She whimpered softly and rubbed her hand. He reached for her arm.

“What have you done to yourself?” he asked.

“My wrist. I hurt it when the horse knocked me down.”

He pushed back her sleeve. The wrist was slightly swollen. He probed it gently. She gritted her teeth.

“I do not suspect a break. More likely, it’s sprained.” He eased her sleeve down. “We will find shelter and tend to us both.” He looked at the dead man. “First we need to tend to him.”

A few minutes later, a farmer in a wagon appeared on the
road, and Richard waited until the man drew near. He waved the man down. “We were attacked by two men,” he explained. “The other escaped. You would do me a great kindness if you could turn his body over to the nearest constable.” He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. The farmer nodded and took the payment. Between them, they loaded the dead man into the wagon.

“My thanks,” Richard said.

With the transaction completed, Brenna held the reins in her good hand and watched Richard mount. He’d been correct. The bullet had not slowed him. He was as strong and confident as ever. It would take more than an ill-aimed bullet to break him. The man had strength aplenty.

It seemed like hours before they found an inn. The place was old and squat, and the term “inn” gave it an air of legitimacy it did not deserve. There were few travelers in the great room, and the place smelled little better than a stable.

“I apologize for the accommodations,” Richard said.

“Do not concern yourself over me,” Brenna said, glancing at his sleeve. “I could sleep in a barn.”

Their eyes met and held. His mouth twitched, and he nodded. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Richard found the innkeeper, and he explained what they needed. The man walked back through an open door. A few minutes later he returned, followed by a maid worn by age and circumstance. She carried cloth strips for bandages and a tin of salve. “The salve will heal anything that ails ye,” she said, and ambled back the way she’d come.

He took a key from the innkeeper and led Brenna up one flight of stairs to their room. The door hung on cracked leather hinges, and Richard both locked the door and pushed a chair up against it, not only for safety but for keeping the door from falling off its hinges.

“I stand a greater risk of catching an infection here than in the saddle,” he said gruffly, shucking off his coat and taking a seat on the bed.

Brenna looked around the dusty space and found a basin of tepid water. It appeared to be fresh. “I agree. Still, it has a roof. Hopefully, our stay will be short.”

Opening the tin, Brenna leaned forward to examine the
contents, and the pungent smell burned her eyes. She coughed and quickly replaced the lid. “It smells horrible.”

She joined Richard on the bed. She lifted the lid just enough for him to sniff the salve. He grimaced and said, “I suspect the recipe includes cow dung and rotten food.”

“I believe you may be correct.” Brenna waited while Richard removed his shirt. The bare flesh took her aback. Though she’d assumed that in spite of his title and wealth, he’d lived a life mired in physical labor, the reality of his hard male form displayed for her viewing pleasure was breath stealing.