Megan Frampton (6 page)

Alasdair bent down and sheathed his knife in his boot. He straightened, and then regarded her coolly. “We’re not going to follow him. If you’re as good with the reins as you are with a stick, I’ll be driving. We’re going on to Scotland.”

He swung onto the bench and looked at her. “Come on.”

Already his skin was starting to crawl with the itch of wanting more opium. He had to fight it, had to get her married to him and then to London, and safety.

It was going to be a hell of a honeymoon.

“You can’t be serious.” Mary batted futilely at the marquess’s arms as he hoisted her up onto the outside carriage seat.

His only reply was to frown and push her, none too gently, into the corner of the seat. He walked around to the other side and swung himself up with lithe grace.

“Did you hear what I said?” Mary asked, glaring at his profile. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of turning to look at her.

“Yes. You’re already nagging me, and we haven’t even gotten married yet, Miss Smith.” His voice was bored, slightly impatient, and full of aristocratic hauteur. Mary wanted to box his ears. “So unless you want me to remove my cravat and stuff it in your mouth, I suggest you stop speaking about it.”

She could imagine him doing it. Mary clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn’t tell him just what an arrogant, idiotic lunatic she thought he was.

The next ten minutes were spent in complete silence, save for Mary’s occasional huffs of frustration. Except for a tightening around his mouth, the marquess gave no indication he noticed her.

“When are we stopping?”

At last he looked at her. She noticed his eyes looked tired, although she knew firsthand he had slept well and long the night before. His skin, too, had become a shade lighter, and his lips were drawn, as though in pain. “Do you have to use the necessary?” he asked before turning his attention back to the horses. All thoughts of his appearance vanished at his words.

Mary felt herself color. She’d never discussed anything of the sort with a man, much less one she’d just met.

Of course, she hadn’t expected to ever share a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, either. Though he would be soon. So she shouldn’t be surprised at anything that happened to her, not anymore. “No,” she said in a stiff, polite voice. “I am just asking when we are stopping. We cannot make it across the border today, and I was just
wondering if you had a plan.”

He snorted, a derisive noise that set Mary’s nerves on edge. “I have a plan, yes, but it has nothing to do with where we are staying. We will drive until we stop. Is that enough of a plan for you?”

“Do you even know where we are going to get …”

“Married? From what I understand, one arrives in Scotland, finds some sort of minister, and does it. And Scotland is a good, God-fearing country, so there must be all sorts of ministers lurking about on the moors.”

Mary’s heart sank. He had no plan beyond taking her to Scotland. And from what she knew, it didn’t even take a minister. She’d heard about girls from her village who’d fled to Scotland to be married, and that all they’d needed to do was stand in front of a blacksmith. Why a blacksmith, she had no idea, but that’s how it always happened. “I don’t think there are moors in the part of Scotland we are going to,” she replied automatically. It was something she would have said to her charges a lifetime ago.

While the marquess had saved her, he was now causing her impossible delays. What would happen if—no,
when
—Matthias beat her to London with her mother’s letters?

What if she really had no choice but to stay with the marquess?

“Miss Smith,” he said, interrupting her churning thoughts, “that unpleasant man who was attempting to take you away—that was your brother, is that what you told me?”

“Half brother,” she corrected automatically.

“Half brother. Tell me again why he auctioned you.”

“He had some debts, and since our father died …” She felt her throat begin to thicken, and she pinched herself so she wouldn’t burst into tears. The sharp, quick pain made her wince. “Since our father died,” she repeated in a stronger voice, “Matthias has been spending his inheritance at the gambling table, and he is not lucky. You would probably say clearly he is not, since
I
am his sister.”

“Half sister,” he replied, casting her a quick, amused glance.

She pursed her lips. “He drinks. A lot. And when he is drinking, he is capable of anything.”

The memories surged, and she winced, even though Matthias hadn’t struck her
since before the auction.

She did not want to talk about that. Not at all, especially not to him.

“Tell me about yourself, my lord. Where are you from?” She tried to inject as much innocence into her voice as possible.

He lifted one hand from the reins and waved it dismissively. “London. The country. Wherever you want.”

“That is not a satisfactory answer,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap. She was propelled into him as he suddenly tugged on the reins and stopped the horses dead in their tracks. “What did you do that for?” she asked, pushing off his shoulder to regain her seat.

He shifted in his seat to face her. She blinked at the sudden anger in his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Smith, are you this condescending to everyone who saves your delectable hide?”

“What?” She gazed at him in astonishment. And frowned when the truth hit her. He was right; she had been rude.

After all, he hadn’t ravished her the previous night, it appeared he had every intention of marrying her, and being with him was definitely better than being with Matthias.

She tried not to dwell on the fact he’d called her hide “delectable.”

She lowered her eyes. She saw that his hands were shaking. “I apologize, my lord.” Her own hands clasped and unclasped in her skirt. He reached over and stilled them, holding his large, elegant hand easily over both of hers.

His skin was clammy, even though the air was chill. “I know you think I am out of my wits, Miss Smith, but I promise you I know exactly what I am doing. Exactly,” he repeated, a grim tone entering his voice. He removed his hand and clucked the horses onward.

They rode in silence for a while longer, and then he finally spoke. “Essex.”

“Pardon?” Mary said, startled.

“I was born in Essex.”

“Oh.” Mary had never been further south than Lincolnshire. “Does your family still live there?”

“No,” he said sharply. Mary glanced at him and saw a muscle working in his cheek.

“Oh,” she said again, moving over to the other side of the seat.

He reached out with his left hand and clamped down on her thigh, pulling her closer to him, so close their legs touched. “Don’t move away,” he said in a ragged voice.

His hand on her leg felt warm, sinful, and utterly right.

“I won’t,” she said. She had always been too softhearted, and could never resist a plea for help. His was no different. Even if it was delivered in that autocratic voice of his.

She slid her hand down and clasped his hand, winding her fingers around his. If anything, his hand was even clammier than before.

If he were one of her pupils, she’d place her palm on his forehead to check for signs of fever, and insist that he drink a medicinal tisane. “Should we stop?” she asked in a hesitant voice. “So you can rest?”

He raised his head to look at the sky. No rain yet, but the clouds were dark over the horizon. “We’ve got another few hours before I’ll … before we’ll have to stop.”

“But if you’re ill …” she ventured.

He yanked his hand out of her clasp and turned to glare at her. “I am not
ill
, Miss Smith. Do you understand me? Not ill,” he repeated.

After about fifteen minutes, Mary couldn’t stand the silence anymore. She cleared her throat.

He ignored her.

She cleared it again, louder this time.

He gave her an annoyed look, raising one of those black brows. “Was there something you wanted to say? Because if you’re going to argue with me again, I will gag you.”

His expression convinced her he would do exactly as he threatened.

“No, I … that is, I have to”—she stopped and waved her hands—“you know.” She gave him a helpless glance, waiting for the inevitable look of annoyance. It came, accompanied by an exasperated sigh.

“And I suppose you cannot just go in the bushes, can you? I have to find a place?” he said.

She nodded, not trusting herself to answer without saying something provoking.

“There should be a village a few miles up,” he said in a resigned tone of voice. “We can stop there for the night. But we’ll be up before dawn, so be prepared.” It sounded like he was talking to a recalcitrant child.

Mary bristled at his tone. “Fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until we’ve arrived. You never know what will happen.”

Was that a threat, or a promise? Either way, she didn’t want to know.

***

Alasdair glanced over at her for the hundredth time. He wished he weren’t so entranced by her figure; by the warmth and promise and forgetfulness he might find in her body.

Just sitting next to her was making him mad, madder than Mary already thought he was. And he wasn’t sure which was more difficult, the longing for opium, or the longing for her. At least the latter was assuaging the crawling agony of the former.

But neither was a longing he could afford to satisfy.

If he could just get her to Scotland, just get her to shut up for long enough to realize he was doing this for her own good, for her ultimate survival, it would be fine. He could ensure her safety, give her all his unentailed funds and property, and then disappear. It would be a final act of contrition to atone for all that he had done.

He sneaked another look at her; her head was turned to the other side, her dark-brown curls swinging against her cheek. She was as stiff and proper as any lady he’d ever known. If he hadn’t seen her on that table himself, lain next to her and been teased with that soft, soft skin, he’d never think she was anything but another gentlewoman interested in knitting and good works.

Until he looked into her eyes.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, turning her face to his. Her voice was low and silky. He couldn’t help but look at her mouth, her lush, gorgeous mouth, the lips turned slightly downward at the edges. Her bottom lip was much fuller than the top, and both were a deep pink.

“Nothing, no,” he replied, assuming his most commanding voice even as his eyes
raked her figure.

She snapped her head away and moved away from him the fractional amount of space the carriage seat afforded. Leaving him alone with his memories again. With the agony of longing and regret. He watched the reins flop on the horses’ backs as his thoughts drifted.

Logically, he knew it wasn’t his fault Anthony had died. Either one of them could have been chosen to accompany Colonel Withers on the mission past the Spanish border.

But Alasdair knew, had always known, that Anthony wasn’t the soldier he was, and he knew their superiors knew it as well.

So when it had come time to choose which Datchworth was more expendable, they’d picked Anthony.

And that was after Judith had died so suddenly. Judith had never wanted to marry Alasdair. She’d always seemed slightly scared of him, of his passion. She’d preferred Anthony, that much was clear, but at the time, Anthony had been the heir. He was destined for a higher match, not the third daughter of a baron. So Alasdair got Judith, and Anthony remained unwed.

Anthony was never given the chance to marry, nor did he succeed to the title when their father died.

Because Anthony was already dead.

It was enough to make anyone lose his mind. But Alasdair hadn’t truly lost his mind; he’d just lost his senses. He’d returned home wounded himself, just a bullet through his shoulder, but the doctor had given him opium for the pain, and the oblivion, the sweet oblivion, felt so good he took more and more of it until he couldn’t feel anything but its effects.

Until last night. When he’d looked into her eyes, felt her anguish, he’d realized that she needed help, and he was her only chance for it.

And he’d felt her skin, too, hadn’t he, sliding his palm up her leg, seeing the bruises she’d received. He wanted to protect her.

And he wanted to have her. Completely.

He was hard just thinking about it. Just thinking about
her
. And here she was, sitting beside him with no one else in sight, and no one knew where they were, or where
they were going. He wanted so badly to stop the coach and pull her into the carriage, and strip her and soothe her sore, bruised flesh and make her forget everything but his name.

Make him forget everything but her touch.

He spoke more roughly than he’d intended. “I see smoke up ahead. With any luck, we can find an inn. I can’t guarantee it won’t be as filthy as last night, but at least they will have what you require.”

He enjoyed needling her, watching her eyebrows rise and her chest expand with an inhaled breath of outrage. It took his mind off the craving, the insatiable desire for the drug, for oblivion.

“My lord, may I remind you this was your idea? If we had done things as I wished, we would have followed our coachman back to the inn at Alnwick.”

“To meet up with your brother. Oh, excuse me, half brother. Tell me, Miss Smith, would he have sold you again? Perhaps for less money this time?” He tapped his chin with his finger, tilting his head in thought. “I wonder which of the gentlemen at the inn would have won the auction. Maybe the loud-mouthed one who was bidding against me? Or one of the quiet farmers lounging against the back wall? I’m sure once he was tired of you, you could have had a place with the sheep. Or the barkeep, he was an upstanding citizen, if you ignore the fact that all of his remaining teeth were blacker than—”

“Your heart,” she finished, her bitter tone scalding his ears.

“Precisely.” She knew him already. That was good.

“You’ve made your point, my lord.”

The carriage curved around a small country lane, then continued on to what was clearly the main road in the village. At first there were just a few houses, smoke drifting from their chimneys; then the buildings grew denser, and Alasdair spotted a few business establishments: a blacksmith, a carpenter, a small market.