The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Adaira Ferguson threw a look over her shoulder.

Bother and blast. Mr. Marquardt stood staring, or rather glowering, at her. Even across the distance, she could see the pinching of his well-formed mouth and his angry narrowed glare. She’d bet her father’s best tartan, sky-blue sparks spewed from Marquardt’s eyes. Apparently he didn’t tolerate deception.

She snorted. Ironic given
his
history.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t corrected him when he’d first called her lad. Or why she’d thickened her brogue when she could speak the King’s English perfectly. No, that wasn’t true. It was because he was a stranger to Craigcutty, and something about him had unnerved her the moment she laid eyes on him.

Then, when he’d revealed his name was Marquardt. . .

There, it happened again. The fine hairs on her arms and back of her neck rose, chilling her to the bone.

She shuddered.

Och, someone walked over my grave
.

Rot and bother. Marquardt.

The cur had tried to kidnap and despoil Yvette, his own stepsister, when she lived in America. Adaira fingered the topaz cross resting at the juncture of her throat. She’d been unable to suppress her oath when he revealed his name. Yvette was Adaira’s sister-in-law now, and the thought of what that monster had attempted. . .

Clenching her riding crop, she envisioned thrashing him with it, the ruddy
bastart
.

She bent over, snatching her cap off the ground. “Sorry, Seamus. I was in a hurry and wasn’t paying attention.”

Settling the hat on her head, she stuffed her mass of hair inside, aware of the baleful glare boring into her back. “Did I injure you?”

Bending again, she retrieved the crop.

Seamus crouched. “Nae, Miss Adaira.” He began to gather the scattered boards. “Ye be unharmed?”

“I’m fine. Can I help?”

He chuckled, shaking his grizzled head. “Nae, lass. Any fool can see ye be inna great hurry.” His arms full, he grinned good-naturedly. He gave a quick jerk of his head. “Git on with ye.”

“Thank you!”

Offering an apologetic smile, she waved and ran to the rear of the blacksmith’s where she’d tethered Fionn. Named after Fionn Mac Cool, legendary for his great strength and bravery, the huge horse was Adaira’s dearest friend.

She really should help Seamus with the lumber, but she didn’t have time to dawdle. She made short work of mounting the pewter-colored stallion. With a click of her tongue, a squeeze to his sides, and a nervous peek over her shoulder, she tore from Craigcutty.

She didn’t have to look behind her to know Marquardt’s fuming gaze remained riveted on her. The icy tingling along her spine was evidence enough. Every instinct in her screamed he was dangerous.

Once he realized she’d sent him directly into the woods bordering the bogs, and the castle lay a good three miles away, instead of one, he’d be even more furious. God help her if he discovered there were at least two serviceable mounts stabled in the village livery.

Adaira shivered, recalling his scowling face. Her heart kicked against her ribs in a mixture of anxiety and anger.

Bending low over the gray’s neck, his coarse, black mane whipping her face, she urged him onward. “Come on, my brave friend. We’ve no time to lose.”

With luck, maybe Marquardt would get lost on one of the numerous rambling trails leading from the branch in the road she’d told him to take. It wouldn’t take him long to realize most of the tracks eventually led back to the main road.

A niggling thought burgeoned into a scheme. Ewan was still in London, although he was due to return any day. What if she kept Marquardt away from Yvette until Ewan returned? Then, her brother could deal with the blackguard.

She flicked a glance to the sky, checking the sun’s position. She had an hour, maybe a mite more, before Marquardt emerged from the woods on the far side of the castle, right where she wanted him to be. Adaira hoped he didn’t encounter her family or a clan member headed to or from the castle. She must be the one to intercept him.

It wasn’t likely if he stayed on the route she’d suggested. The pathetic mare was sure to slow his progress.

Adaira wrinkled her brow. Was the man daft, riding the ancient nag? Couldn’t he afford a better mount? His clothing had been fine enough. Buff colored pantaloons hugged long, muscular thighs. His boots, albeit dusty, were Wellington’s. Marquardt’s soft fawn hunting coat hugged his upper body, hinting at a muscular torso.

She’d noticed his long, slim fingers when he’d dabbed his forehead with his perfectly starched handkerchief. Were they as soft as they looked, or were the pads and palms calloused? A prickle of awareness skittered over her.

Which would feel better on bare skin?

Stop it, goose.

She hadn’t expected him to be so terribly handsome. A scapegrace such as he should have a pockmarked face, beady swamp-colored eyes, and thin, curling lips dripping spittle. He should smell horrid too, not faintly of sandalwood and something spicy.

From what she’d heard whispered of him, she’d expected a trow, a Scottish troll. A short, grotesquely ugly monster, bent on making trouble.

Adaira knew the latter to be true. She’d eavesdropped on the hushed conversations at the keep between her father, Ewan, and their other male relatives. Ewan said Marquardt spied for the enemy during England’s war with France. Her brother suspected Marquardt was also involved in the murders of several Domestic Corps agents connected to the British War Office.

At nearly twenty, she’d no interest in tedious political discussions. However, when the conversation turned to Yvette, and the men’s voices dropped further, Adaira had shamelessly eavesdropped. As if assault and abduction weren’t enough, Yvette had confided to Ewan that she suspected Edgar Marquardt had poisoned her father and stepmother. The mulled wine Edgar’s mother had drunk, he’d intended for Yvette.

The man was unhinged, thinking he’d inherit Yvette’s fortune because he was her stepbrother. Of course, he didn’t know Ewan and Yvette had been joined in an irregular marriage under Scottish law. Still, when someone was touched in the upper works, rational thought was beyond them.

Unease scraped along Adaira’s spine. She nudged the horse with her heels. “Faster, Fionn. Come on, laddie.”

The horse raced across the meadow. A flock of doves took to flight when she pounded past the oat field where they fed. She smiled upon hearing the familiar whir of their wings. Once imported and raised as a favored food source, many flocks now flew wild in Scotland. She was fond of the sweet-natured birds which mated for life.

Silvery and resplendent, the castle rose into view, its smooth, rocky face bathed in the slanting rays of late morning sun. Dating back to the sixteenth century, the keep was surrounded by six foot thick defensive walls. Two towers rose majestically on the northern and southernmost points of the structure. Their mullioned windows competed with four turrets for the most magnificent view from within the keep. The drawbridge was lowered, allowing a glimpse of the bailey and gatehouse beyond.

The McTavish banner waved proudly in the gentle breeze. The flag paid tribute to the McTavish clan and its chieftains. Ewan, the current laird, and his father, who’d drowned over twenty-five years ago, were included amongst those noble warriors.

She leaned to the left as Fionn rounded a bend in the road paralleling River Falkirk. By Hades, but it was hot. Slowing Fionn momentarily, Adaira released the top fastenings of her jacket and shirt before yanking the hat from her head and jamming it inside her coat.

Eyes closed, she tilted her head upward, relishing the cooling breeze on her face and rippling through her streaming hair. Mother would scold when she saw the hint of new freckles across Adaira’s nose and cheeks. Father would tease her.

Dratted Scots complexion and her easily freckled skin
.

As a child, she’d refused to wear a wide-brimmed straw hat or carry a parasol when outdoors. Her face became so covered in blotches, she’d resembled the dumpies, speckled Scots chickens, roaming about the keep’s outer bailey.

Adaira didn’t care about a few freckles. She’d grown accustomed to censured looks. She wore breeches after all. How was she to ride Fionn astride? Climb trees? Swim in the loch or explore the multitude of caves nestled in the foothills beyond the keep if she were properly gowned? Wearing breeches made adventures possible.

Besides, she had a valid reason for spurning skirts. It was a lot harder to yank off a pair of breeches than it was to flip up the hem of a gown.

Mother said she’d inherited her unruly nature from her paternal grandmother. Father typically chuckled and agreed before launching into another tale about his unconventional mother.

Adaira knew she was an oddity amongst her kin and clan, especially her sisters, Isobel and Seonaid. She didn’t possess Isobel’s stunning beauty or quick wit, nor was she gifted with the second sight or ability to heal animals as was Seonaid.

Even her brothers raised their hawkish eyebrows at her antics. Ewan, her seven and twenty year-old half-brother, and Dugall, at six and ten, were guilty of far more outlandish behavior than she. Yet, they were rarely chastised.

There’d been no repercussions whatsoever to Dugall for the snake or bunny incidents at Bretheridge’s house party. Adaira knew everyone thought she’d released the creatures in the house. The guests blamed her for the disappearance of the chamber pots too.

She’d nothing to do with the snake or rabbits.

The tea voiders, however—

Remembering hoity-toity Margaret Shrewsbury’s frantic dash to the bushes to relieve herself still caused Adaira to snicker. That’s what Margaret earned for referring to the Ferguson sisters as, “Highland bumpkins with dung on their slippers,” to a group of her tittering friends.

Adaira, on the other hand, had been confined to her room for two days after challenging Brayan McVey to a horse race. True, she was wearing a ball gown hiked to her knees, but her riding boots covered most of her legs. She’d been perfectly decent. Or so she’d argued to her parents, to no avail.

There was no justice.

Oh, how she loathed the contradictory standards for men and women. Such hypocrisy. Her scowl shifted into a smile. It had been worth it. Brayan lost the race. He had to kiss Mistress Peeble’s prize sow . . . after the enormous pig indulged in a highly fragrant roll in the muck.

“Addy!”

Opening her eyes, she swung her gaze to the river.

“Addy, here I be, by the rocks.”

A fishing pole clenched in one hand, Brayan stood beneath a grove of alders heavy with summer foliage. He waved furiously at her.

Bother. She didn’t have time to chat with him.

Unless
. . .

Slowing Fionn, Adaira chewed her lower lip. Brayan was half in love with her—had been since she was barely able to walk. Just over three years older than her, he was her closest friend, aside from Fionn. Brayan wanted to be more than that. He never spoke of it. But she could see the affection glimmering in his eyes and heard it in his soft sighs. He’d do anything she asked.

But this
?

She reined the stallion around and trotted him over to Brayan.

A hopeful grin split his boyish face. “How are ye, lass?”

Adaira smiled against the wave of guilt sweeping her. “Very well. And you?”

“I canna complain.”

At three and twenty, Brayan was not overly tall, but he was well-muscled. Actually, massively muscled. She’d seen him carry a ewe under each arm as if he were toting week-old kittens. She eyed him as he wiped fish scales on his vest. Adaira drew in a deep breath, barely suppressing a grimace. She abhorred fish.

“Brayan, I need your help. I’m sure you’ve heard of the abduction attempts on Yvette, both in America and England.”

She gently tugged at the chain around her neck, fingering the prongs holding the citrine-colored gemstones in place. Grandmother had given her the necklace for her twelfth birthday. She’d said the stones reminded her of Adaira’s eyes.

Brayan’s gaze touched hers before dropping to the necklace.

“Aye.”

Squatting, he lifted a wriggling fish from the gravel. With his thick fingers, he threaded a thin rope through the brown trout’s gill. He added the fish to a dozen others, then tossed the lot into the icy river.

They landed with a splash. Pulling her cap from her jacket, Adaira hid a wince. After squirming for a moment, the fish lay still.

Attempting a smile, she met Brayan’s cheery gaze. “Her stepbrother, the suspected spy, is in the hamlet. He’s looking for her. I sent him along the wrong path to the keep. Still, he’ll be at the castle within the hour.”

A breeze blew by ruffling the alders’ leathery leaves. She caught a waft of sweet fragrance from the nearby heather. Adaira brushed at the hair blowing across her face.

“I want to delay him, to lock him in the keep’s dungeon until Ewan gets home.” She cast Brayan a sidelong look, garnering his reaction.

His calm gaze studied her expectantly, his russet hair moving with the wind.

Laying the crop across her lap, she gathered her hair into a knot, then crammed it beneath the cap. “He can decide what to do with Marquardt, and Yvette won’t even know he’s here.”

Neither would her parents. She squelched the unease jabbing her. They wouldn’t be pleased.

Adaira paused, emotion roughening her voice. “Brayan, you should see Yvette when anyone mentions Marquardt’s name. She’s utterly terrified of him.”

Brayan rubbed his face and nodded.