Lord Grayson's Bride (11 page)

Josephine entered the small parlor reserved for the family. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, but her spirits didn’t raise as they usually did when entering the cheery room. She crossed to the window and stared out at the garden. Sight of the roses alone usually brought her joy, but she could think of nothing but getting a copy of the
Bull
and reading the letter Lord Wylst had made public. She’d slept little, her mind turning over and over the possibilities.

She and Nicholas had danced last night until the wee hours of the morning. No one else had approached them as Lady Evers had, but Jo hadn’t missed the furtive glances and whispers that stopped when she drew near. Lady Evers had spread her poison. Josephine prayed Nicholas had been bluffing with the threat of forcing Lady Evers’ husband to answer to her accusations, but Jo hadn’t known Nicholas to make an idle threat—including the one she knew still hung in the air between him and Lord Beaumond.

The marquess hadn’t been heard from since he left Lady Allaway’s party, and she prayed the man had returned to England or, better yet, had fled to France as he had after ruining Nicholas’ sister. Jo felt on the edge of tears again. She had made a mess of everything. Nick was determined to marry her, despite the fact that everyone now knew the truth. If he one day regretted that decision—her chest tightened. She couldn’t bear that...nor could she bear to live without him.

Josephine turned away from the window and walked to the couch. She stopped at sight of an oblong velvet jewelry box sitting on the cushion. She sat down beside the box, then picked it up and lifted the lid. Jo gasped. A single strand of pearls lay across the cloth. The pearls her father had given her. But how?

A shadow in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked up to see Nicholas in the doorway, leaning, one shoulder against the jamb.

Silent tears began to spill down her cheeks.

“I believe I told you, Lady Josephine, that if you cried, I would take you over my knee.”

“Did you do this?” she asked in a whisper.

His gaze remained fixed on her face. “Aye.”

She leapt to her feet, heedless of the pearls on her lap. They hit the coffee table with a clatter, skidded across the top, and dropped off the edge as Josephine rounded the table. She flew across the room toward Nicholas. He straightened from the doorjamb and took two steps into the room just as she flung herself into his arms.

Josephine buried her face in his chest. “How-how did you find them?”

“Finding the pawn shop was much easier than finding the solicitor Wylst sent that damn letter to. Did you know there are far more solicitors in Inverness than there are pawnbrokers? A staggering thought.”

Josephine shook her head, unable to halt the tears. “Nicholas, you—”

Strong fingers grasped her chin and tilted her face upwards. “No more tears, Jo.”

“But you cannot—”

“The Earl of Grayson can do anything he pleases,” he cut in. “Especially marry the woman he loves. The only woman he ever loved.”

She shook her head, tears blinding her. “Everyone knows that I—” Her voice broke.

“That you are the Marquess of Montagu’s daughter.”

“Annabel must carry on my father’s title,” Jo said through a hiccupped sob.

“Annabel will likely be carrying on a title of her own,” Nicholas said.

Josephine shook her head in confusion.

“The Marquess of Northington has offered for her.”

“Offered for her?” Jo blurted. “Once he learns the truth about me—”

“The truth—” Nicholas cut in, “is that Wylst tried blackmailing you with a falsehood, and when you refused to pay him and told your father, he went mad. A fact your father has already informed him of.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Your father is no fool, Jo. He and Annabel met the matter head on.”

“They did?”

“Of course we did.”

Josephine started at the sound of her sister’s voice, and Nicholas turned slightly so that she could see her sister and father in the hallway. Jo started to pull away from Nicholas, but he held her tight.

“You will forgive me, Montagu, but I am not quite finished with your daughter.” Nick started to close the door, then paused when Dobbs, the butlers appeared at her father’s side.

“Henry Maxwell and another gentleman are here to see Lady Josephine and Lord Grayson,” he said.

“That would be Reverend Williams,” Nicholas said. “Tell him we will be down presently.” Nicholas nodded to her father, and said, “Montagu,” then closed the door.

“Nicholas,” Josephine cried. “You can’t close the door in my father’s face.”

“I can.” He drew her close.

She glanced at the door. “What is Reverend Williams doing here?”

“In a minute, Jo.” He cupped her neck and held her firm as his mouth covered hers.

The kiss was gentle, sweet, yet her stomach flipped, and she feared her knees would buckle.

He breathed deep, then ended the kiss and looked down at her. “We had better hurry.”

Her heart raced. “Nick, the reverend, we cannot—”

“Don’t force me to lay you down on that couch and make love to you, Jo.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your father might allow me a kiss, but he is liable to take exception to me bedding his daughter while he and the rest of your family wait with the minister who is to marry us.”

“Nicholas, you wouldn’t.”

“Aye, love, I would.” His eyes gleamed. “And with relish.” He drew her against his side and opened the door. “Your father tells me you have not seen Cecily since her son was born. I think a long honeymoon at Whitehall is just the things for us. You can visit her.” Nicholas looked down at her as they passed through the doorway. “Once we decide to leave my bedchambers.”

Award winning author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second. She writes modern classical romance, and paranormal and romantic suspense. Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New York with her daughter.

If you enjoyed
Lord Grayson’s Bride
, you might enjoy the other novellas in
Highland Winds – The Scrolls of Cridhe Volume 1

In addition to Lord Grayson’s Bride, the collection contains the following:

Highland Revenge
– by Ceci Giltenan

Hatred lives and breathes between medieval clans who often don’t remember why feuds began in the shadowed past.

But Eoin MacKay remembers.

He will never forget how he was treated by Bhaltair MacNicol—the acting head of Clan MacNicol. He was lucky to escape alive, and vows to have revenge.

Years later, as laird of Clan MacKay, he gets his chance when he captures Lady Fiona MacNicol. His desire for revenge is strong but he is beguiled by his captive. Can he forget his stubborn hatred long enough to listen to the secret she has kept for so long? And once he knows the truth, can he show her she is not alone and forsaken? In the end, is he strong enough to fight the combined hostilities and age-old grudges that demand he give her up?

The Taming of Mairi Mackenzie
– by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Mairi MacKenzie can bring the dead back to life but it is an unbearable curse. She hides away in the Glen of Winds, allowing folk to believe she’s a banshee.

Once counted among Scotland’s greatest warriors, Sir Gare MacTaggert hasn’t lifted a sword in years because of a battlefield tragedy that broke his soul. Now he must marry, yet can't wed any woman, dead as he is inside. He seeks the banshee’s aid to restore his will to live. But together they must face a greater challenge: the forbidden love that could destroy them.

Stealing Moirra’s Heart
– by Suzan Tisdale

Thrice widowed Moirra Dundotter needs a husband. With a reputation for losing husbands, the men of Glenkirby are not exactly lining up. Just as she is ready to give up, Moirra happens upon a very handsome man--locked in the village pillory.

Desperate to be free of the pillory, the stranger reluctantly agrees to handfast with Moirra, but refuses to tell her his real name -- or much else about his past. He’ll stay only long enough to help her harvest crops in the fall. Two months. And not one day longer.

Fate oft has far different plans.

The conclusion of Moirra’s story is in
Saving Moirra’s Heart
, due for release on June 15, 2015.

Spirit Stones
– by Kate Robbins

Connected to the spirit world, Sheona engages with souls long departed. When in the midst of a vicious battle, she is captured by her bitter enemy. Armed with only her gift, can she escape his clutches?

Malcolm MacDonald seeks change. Exhausted from the ancient feud with the MacLeods, Malcolm sees no future for any of them until his enemy’s intoxicating daughter stirs a desire for peace that drives him to risk everything—except her.

Together, they can change destiny—if they dare.

A Tear for Memory
– by Kathryn Lynn Davis

Celia Rose lives happily in Fairies’ Haven, where the lies that protect her from the past keep the fairies away. She finds her only magic when she paints. Then a stranger comes on a mysterious errand, showing her new colors and new passions. But he also brings danger, and is not what he seems. Can Celia trust him enough to learn the dark secret that could both destroy her innocence and forge in her a woman’s heart?

A Jewel in the Vaults
– by Lily Baldwin

In 1802, Edinburgh’s poverty-ridden Old Town is rife with danger. To safeguard herself, Robbie conceals her femininity--to all the world she is a lad, but beneath the ruse is a woman aching to break free.

In pursuit of his prodigal brother, Conall MacKay solicits the aid of a young street lad named Robbie. But Conall soon realizes that there is more to both Robbie and Edinburgh’s Old Town than meets the eye.

In a world where wickedness governs and darkness reigns, a savage struggle for dignity, survival, and love begins.

Dear Reader:

Sometimes, young love really does turn into more. I hope you enjoyed Nick and Jo’s struggle to find one another. Love is never easy, but it does make life interesting. I have included a tidbit from another of my Scottish romances.

Enjoy!

Tarah

A man torn between two worlds. Both need him… neither wants him.

Groomed for a life amongst the English aristocracy, Lord Erroll Rushton is unexpectedly thrust back into his father’s Scottish world when the Englishwoman he compromises refuses to marry him. 

No gentleman breaks into a lady’s bedchamber...but then, no lady sleeps with a pistol under her pillow.

Miss Eve Crenshaw will marry for love or won’t marry at all. When London’s most notorious rakehell breaks into Eve’s bedroom in the dead of night and compromises her beyond repair, she plans a daring elopement that shocks even the earl. 

Chapter One

March 1807

Manchester, England

If ever a woman deserved to be shot, it was Miss Crenshaw. But dawn appointments weren’t meant for the weaker sex. Weaker sex. The lady was anything but weak, which is why Erroll intended to throttle her.

Erroll laid a shilling in the innkeeper’s palm. “You understand the need for discretion.”

“Indeed, I do, my lord,” the man replied. “Your betrothed’s reputation is safe with me.”

Erroll managed to maintain a bland expression as the innkeeper handed him the key to the lady’s room. So news of his impending nuptials had sped from Coventry to Manchester even quicker than he had—which meant London society would hear the news by morning light and the story would cross the border to Edinburgh just as quickly.

Which of the gossipmongers had he to thank for that? He was grateful to the heavenly powers that his mother had remained in Scotland and had not accompanied his father to England this month. God help him if she got wind of this entanglement before he had a chance to extricate himself from the tenacious claw of the husband-hunting wench.

“A beautiful woman is hard to resist,” the innkeeper said.

“Indeed,” Erroll murmured, glad the man had interrupted the mental picture of his mother outfitting the deceitful huntress in her wedding dress. No bachelor’s mother was more determined to see her son wed than Erroll’s own dear mamma, and since his return from the navy, his father had put his considerable weight behind her efforts.

He whirled toward the stairs, climbed to the second floor and made a left down the hall. At the third door on the left, he stopped. Erroll had endured his father’s hour-long diatribe that ended with the command to marry the woman who had accused him of compromising her—a woman he’d never laid eyes on—before he finally broke away to discover his accuser had fled Coventry. The hard five hour ride to catch her before she reached her father’s estate would have been in vain if not for the fact a wheel on her carriage broke forty miles distance from Manchester. 

This experience would teach him to dally with the women outside of London. Had he satisfied himself with the eligible ladies in Town—if those females could be called ladies—he wouldn’t have gone to Coventry and attended the damn house party that had gotten him into trouble. The fact he’d spent a pleasurable hour with a lady in the hostess’ gardens had only served to put him in the very place his accuser said he’d been. Erroll felt sure the cunning creature was well aware he’d been in the gardens, and therefore claimed to be the object of his attentions.

Erroll quietly unlocked the door, slipped into the darkened room, then eased the door shut and slipped the key into his pocket. Faint moonlight filtered in through thin curtains and outlined the sleeping figure in the bed. Erroll crept forward until he reached the bed. He braced a knee against the side of the mattress, then placed a hand on each side of the woman and brought his face to within an inch of hers.

She shifted in her sleep and lush breasts grazed his chest. He wondered how long it would be before she became aware a man was in her bed, then concluded that since she hadn’t awoken with a shriek she must be accustomed to having a man in her bed. He should ravish her as she’d said he had just for good measure. The thought froze at the pressure of a pistol jammed against his abdomen.

“I am a crack shot.” The feminine voice was steady—as was the hand holding the gun. “But even the worst shot in Great Britain couldn’t miss.” The gun dug deeper into his belly. “Move away.”

Erroll considered. Her calm response to his presence almost made him think she’d expected him. “If I’m to be shot, I should at least commit the crime for which I’m accused.” The click of the pistol’s hammer being pulled back was his answer. “I see you do not agree.” He straightened off the bed.

“Step back,” she ordered.

He retreated two paces.

“More.”

He moved back another two paces.

“I promise you, sir, my aim is as true at such short a distance as it was when you were an inch from my face. Back against the door.”

Erroll complied. A light click indicated she had released the hammer back into place. She rose, a small figure in the shadows, and picked up something from the night table. The clink of glass was followed by the scrape of a match on wood, then light flared and he got his first look at the woman who claimed he had ravished away her innocence. Dark brown eyes pinned him with a hard stare. Honey-brown hair tumbled down her shoulders. The top of her head was no higher than his chest.

The muff pistol remained pointed at him as her attention shifted to the lamp on the nightstand. She bent slightly and her full breasts strained against the nightgown as she lit the wick. His cock jerked and he couldn’t deny his good fortune in not having met her at Lady Baldwin’s party. He very well might have fallen prey to her charms and been guilty of her accusations.

She blew out the match and tossed it onto a metal tray, then took a step toward him. The lamplight illuminated the outline of her body through the nightgown. The curves he discerned were fuller than were fashionable and the kind he’d sought without success. His cock began to lift. He might end up shot after all.

“You are no common housebreaker,” she said. “Who are you?”

Erroll’s mind snapped to attention. The wench didn’t recognize him. Fury doused his lust. He gave a mocking smile and bowed. “Lord Erroll Rushton, at your service.”

Shock registered on her face, then an answering fire appeared in her eyes. “I see we shall have to break you of the habit of entering a lady’s room uninvited.”

“You use the term lady too loosely.”

“That is the pot calling the kettle black.”

He nearly laughed.

“One would think a prospective groom could keep his cock in his pants with his wedding but two days hence,” she said.

“Three days,” Erroll corrected. That was how long it would take him to get the special license his father ordered him to procure. “Pray tell, what sort of lady carries a gun?” He didn’t ask what lady used the word ‘cock’ as easily as the word ‘groom?’ That was perhaps too obvious.

“The sort who knows what to expect of a man,” she replied.

“The very sort who understands a man might object to being forced into marriage?” he said.

She gave a derisive laugh. “You are a rakehell, sir.”

“I never denied being a rake, madam, but I am no liar.”

She wasn't what he’d expected. He’d been told this was to be her second season, but this woman was no debutante and, given the way she unabashedly stood before him in her nightclothes, he would wager she was no virgin.

“Surely, you’re a little old for this game?” he drawled.

Her brow knit, but he detected no shame. She was too collected. But a level head—along with a liberal dose of nerve—is exactly what it took to accuse a complete stranger of compromising her.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” she asked.

The question startled him.

“Now who is the pot calling the kettle black?” he said. She shifted and Erroll could have sworn he discerned a dark patch between her legs. “A shame we met under these circumstances.” He flicked a glance at her breasts. “We could have been friends.”

Her mouth thinned. “By God, I really should shoot you.”

“Tut tut, love, not until the vows are said and I claim what is left of your virtue.”

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Your righteous anger is completely undone by the fact that you’re nearly naked.”

Her mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Forgive me, my lord. Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.”

“You are impeccably dressed for the occasion.”

Did she have any idea how visible the contours of her body were with the lamplight behind her…or how her nipples pressed against her nightgown? She shifted, widening her stance slightly and his cock jerked harder. Oh yes, the witch knew.

“I should send you to hell this instant,” she said.

He lifted a brow. “The marriage vows will take care of that—had I any intentions of marrying.”

“My father will ensure that you do not escape this time.”

“That sounds as though you think I am getting what I deserve.”

“You do not deserve such a good and innocent wife.”

Erroll laughed. “Innocent? A woman who puts herself in such a position is no innocent.”

“How dare you?” she hissed.

“How dare I? I understand there were several suitors for the honorable Miss Crenshaw’s attentions at Lady Baldwin’s party. I wager none of them were as good a prospect as I, which is why you gambled that no one would notice if I was included on that list.”

He didn’t miss the way her fingers flexed on the gun.

“Everything I’ve heard about you is true,” she said. “You have no conscience.”

“In that we are alike. Should my father succeed in coercing me into marriage, I will make the worst sort of husband you can imagine. I will not settle down and sire an heir as he expects. Instead, I will send my wife to the family estate in Scotland while I go about my pleasures in London.”

“So the choice is desertion or ruination?”

“Be honest, the ruination was done long before you concocted this plan.”

“Plan?” she repeated. “I feel certain I can convince the magistrate of self-defense. After all, you broke into my room.”

“Think again.” Erroll reached into his pocket.

“Beware,” she said.

He slowly withdrew the key from his pocket and held it up. “The innkeeper was very obliging. He feels nothing should stand in the way of true love.”

She frowned, then comprehension cleared her expression. “I should have guessed. You think you can browbeat me into helping you avoid the marriage vows. You, sir, are the worst sort of knave.”

“So we do understand one another.”

“You are a fool,” she muttered.

He’d had enough. “You are the fool if you believe I will marry you.”

“Marry me? What—”

Erroll started toward her.

She took a faltering step backwards and he lunged. She gave a startled cry. He seized the hand holding the gun and shoved it upward in their tumble backwards. They landed on the bed, him on top of her. Her lush body yielded beneath his hard planes—his stiffening cock in particular. To his surprise, she didn’t struggle, but released the pistol. The weapon bounced off the mattress and struck the carpet with a thud.

“Is this how you described my having ravished you?” he demanded.

Shock registered on her face. He blew out a frustrated breath. He’d come ready to battle the vixen and she was already crumbling. Moisture appeared in her eyes. Ah, there it was. She was simply moving onto another tactic.

“Lies, pistols, tears, and…” He moved suggestively against her breasts and felt the rigid nipples beneath his shirt. “Your arsenal of weapons is impressive, madam.”

“I tell you, mamma, I heard a scream.”

A woman’s voice penetrated the door on the right wall. Erroll jerked his gaze in that direction as the door swung open. Two women stood in the doorway staring, one young—in her second season, he would guess—the other, the mamma the girl had addressed.

Erroll looked at the woman lying beneath him. “I thought that was a closet.”

* * *

Panic streaked through Eve and she struggled to push Lord Rushton off her, but he continued to stare in shock as her mother fainted dead away.

Her sister’s wail split the deadly silence. “He’s mine!”

The earl looked at Eve, a strange sense of understanding in his eyes. “She’s Miss Crenshaw?”

Eve wasn’t sure if his confusion was due to the fact he’d accosted the wrong woman, or that the woman he was supposed to have compromised was beautiful enough to rival Aphrodite. He wouldn’t be the first man struck dumb at first sight of Grace.

“He’s mine!” This time Grace’s wail became a banshee cry.

She hurled herself at them and landed on the earl’s back with a force that seemed impossible given her small stature. Eve winced when his hardened shaft dug into her pelvis. He grunted and she fleetingly wondered if it was Grace’s weight landing on top of him or the fact that even a steel rod could be crushed by the force of such an assault. It would serve him right if he never sired an heir.

Eve caught sight of his jaw tightening and realized he’d broken from the spell. Grace seized his head and shoved. His face mashed into Eve’s breasts. Her breath caught and she clutched at his shoulders. Muscle bunched beneath her fingers as he tried to push upward in unison with her shove, but Grace was like a rogue elephant pounding them with all her weight and might. The hall door flew open and Eve glimpsed their father in the doorway.

Lord Rushton jerked his head in an obvious attempt to look up, but Grace shoved harder, slamming his head deeper into Eve’s soft flesh.

“What the bloody hell?” their father roared.

An instant later, the weight lifted. Eve vaguely understood her father had pulled Grace off them, then she suddenly felt light as a feather and realized the earl had shoved off of her. He whirled, swinging a large fist that cracked against her father’s jaw. Eve jumped from the bed and tripped. She hit the floor shoulder first. Pain radiated up her arm. Her father rammed a fist into the earl’s stomach. Lord Rushton stumbled back a step, but jerked straight and sent a hard jab to her father’s ribs.