The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Riding low across Fionn’s back, Adaira raced the stallion to the cottages. The bag of food slung across her shoulder bumped against her spine in an annoying rhythm. The pounding tempo of his hooves matched her frantic heartbeat as she’d torn from the keep’s lower levels several minutes ago.

Fear and memories surged to the forefront of her mind. She swallowed, ineffectually trying to force both to subside. When she stood before the cell, she’d panicked. Horror had overwhelmed her.

She’d been terrified
,
her only thought,
escape
.

Dropping everything she’d brought for Marquardt, she sprinted away. Just like that horrific day the blacksmith’s apprentice, Godwin Wallace, attacked her. When she’d regained consciousness, her skirts had been shoved to her thighs. She’d flown from the dungeon then too.

Today was the first time she’d returned.

She closed her eyes, trying to block the memory. Father, Ewan, or one of her other Scot relatives would have killed Godwin. The man was as good as dead. Knowing it, he’d fled Craiglocky never to be seen or heard from again.

Except, Adaira had told no one of the assault. Humiliation and self-castigation muted her. She blamed herself for his attack. She shouldn’t have been sneaking in and out of the dungeon. If she’d been in the schoolroom where she belonged, where her parents trusted her to be, she’d never have been accosted. Thank God she’d fainted before he. . .

Gulping against the bile in her throat, she closed her eyes.

She ran a hand over her thigh. She’d begun wearing Dugall’s castoff breeches that very day. He’d grown so fast. She had a stack of his barely worn garments in her wardrobe.

The old keep’s burned-out shell came into sight. She shook her head to wipe the haunting memories from her mind. Only the pressing need to keep Yvette safe could compel Adaira to go into the Craiglocky’s lower levels again.

Reining in Fionn, she walked him to a grove of alders situated a short distance from the ruins. Peering around the clearing, she frowned. Where was Brayan? Perhaps he’d been delayed.

What excuse could he have given Marquardt for waylaying him at the cottages anyway? A discussion about the pleasures of trout fishing would no doubt have commenced.

Brayan and his fishing.

What would she do without him? He was a kind and faithful friend despite his clumsy, sometimes maddening, attempts to win her affections.

Adaira dismounted and loosely knotted the horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch. Rubbing Fionn’s nose, she crooned, “I’ll be back.”

He nudged her pocket. She grinned. “Smell those, do you?”

It was her love of horses that compelled her to plead with—well actually, it had been more begging and nagging than imploring—Father to learn about horse breeding. He’d objected it wasn’t proper for a well-bred woman to know of such things.

Claptrap and balderdash, she’d argued. By whose measures?

Today, she owned over two score of the sturdiest draught horses in Scotland. Her reputation for breeding horseflesh was growing. Fionn was an enormous Flemish stallion at seventeen-three hands. She’d bred him to carefully selected mares at Craiglocky. The mares had been chosen for their larger than average size as well. He’d sired twenty foals. Once Father and Ewan saw the unusual size and strength of the mild-tempered horses, they encouraged her further.

Adaira smiled. She’d gifted Father with a colt two years ago. Dand, a massive but gentle beast at eighteen hands, was Father’s favorite horse.

Fionn prodded her with his nose again, as if to say,
I’ve been a polite chap long enough. Do hand over my treats
.

She chuckled. “Patience, my friend.”

Adaira pulled the apple and carrot from her vest pocket and extended both hands, the apple in one, the carrot in the other.

“Which do you prefer?”

Fionn wrapped his soft lips around the fruit balanced on her flattened palm.

“I’m not surprised, greedy beggar. You’ve always had a sweet tooth.” She dropped the carrot to the ground. He rolled his great brown eyes at her as he crunched the juicy apple.

“I’m already later than I told Brayan I’d be. You’ll have to make do with the carrot yourself,” she admonished.

Holding the riding crop between her knees, she slid the sack off her shoulder. The dueling pistol, swaddled in a pillowcase, lay beneath the food. After unwrapping the gun, she shoved the pillowslip into the thick bag. Tying the top, she hung the sack on another branch. Fionn or the squirrels were sure to help themselves to the contents if she left the bag on the ground.

Adaira gripped the gun’s smooth handle, balancing its weight in her hand. She’d never held a gun before. It was awkward and bulky, nothing like the svelte blades she usually wielded. The pistol wasn’t loaded, but Marquardt wouldn’t know that.

Was he a gambling man? Would he risk challenging her with a gun pointed at his heart?

With a shrug, she slipped the pistol in the waist of her breeches. Brayan would be there to help convince Marquardt to cooperate. If the lout resisted, she’d use her crop. Holding the whip before her, she removed the plaited leather casing, revealing a rapier sharp blade.

This, she knew how to use.

She smiled in smug satisfaction. One way or another, Marquardt would be residing in Craiglochy’s dungeon today. With a quick pat to Fionn’s shoulder, she darted down the path to the crofters’ cottages.

Adaira emerged from the forest edging one side of the loch. A dozen abandoned huts dotted the landscape. Twigs, pine cones, and rotting thatching littered the ground around the dwellings. Anxious to find some relief from the sun glaring down on her bare head, she strode to what had once been the Brodie’s cottage. Sweat trickled between her breasts and dampened the fabric beneath her arms.

She’d foregone her cap and jacket. Not merely because the temperature had mounted to an uncomfortable high, but because she needed to be able to move agilely.

Especially, if Marquardt proved to be uncooperative.

She grinned. Not likely with Brayan about. Marquardt wasn’t a small man, but she’d no doubt which of them would be the victor if the men grappled. Brayan was an accomplished wrestler. She’d seen him lift more than one opponent, and in a few, quick moves, pin the man.

She glanced behind her. Still no Brayan.

A wave of nerves coursed through her, settling in her stomach. Ducking beneath the cottage’s drooping doorframe, she sighed as the coolness engulfed her. She wiped the perspiration from her upper lip with her forearm.

Marquardt must be nearing the cottages. Unless he’d truly become lost. Or mayhap, out of consideration for the old mare, he was taking his time. The thought didn’t sit well with Adaira. She preferred to believe he was vile to his foul core.

Stepping over piles of rotten straw and broken rocks from the collapsed roof and fireplace, Adaira made her way to the sagging window facing the path from Craigcutty. She’d rather not confront him alone. But she couldn’t risk him reaching Craiglocky.

Patience gave way to irritation.

Where was Brayan?

He hadn’t gone to the village and told her father what she was about, had he? She leaned out the window. A piece of the wood frame crumbled beneath her. She grabbed the sash to keep from falling, and a sliver impaled her finger.

Swallowing an oath, she lifted the splinter free, then wiped the droplets of blood on her vest.

Brayan wouldn’t do that to her. He still harbored hope she’d return his misplaced affection. The warmest sentiment she could muster for him was that of a bothersome older brother. One who teased and played pranks on her, but was there if she needed him. The notion of a
tendre
for him was disquieting.

No, she could never set her cap for him.

For anyone, for that matter.

With her gaze fixed on the clearing, Adaira rested against the dilapidated wall. As she often did, she ran the tips of her fingers the length of the crop’s handle. The braided leather was worn smooth from thousands of strokes. She scanned the path and the trees before returning her attention to the trail once more.

She’d spent many hours traipsing in these woods and exploring the abandoned cottages and burnt ruins of the original castle. As many hours had been enjoyed riding Fionn across the heather-covered hills and meadows when she should have been studying Latin or learning new embroidery stitches.

She’d nearly died from the tedium of boring lessons and ladylike endeavors. Truth to tell, she’d rather enjoyed music, animal husbandry, archery, and fencing lessons. She’d begged for six months straight before Father agreed to the latter two, on the condition she commit herself to her other studies.

Heavy footfalls crunched outside the cottage reining in her musings.

Finally. Brayan had arrived.

Her gaze still on the path—Marquardt should be here any moment—she smiled, and said, “I’d begun to give up on you.”

“Indeed?”

Mocking. Cryptic. Scornful.

Adaira whirled away from the window. Marquardt stood illumed in the door’s opening. “You!”

She grasped the pistol. Panic tripped an uneven staccato across her nerves. The sweat dripping between her breasts was caused by more than heat.

“Come now, don’t feign surprise, Miss Ferguson.” He bent his neck slightly to enter the cottage.

“How do you know my name?” Adaira searched behind him, vainly hoping Brayan would appear.

“Did you think I’d obediently toddle down the path you directed, no, insisted I take?” Like a predator with cornered prey, Marquardt inched forward.

Adaira searched his eyes. Cold fury glittered in their depths. Already touching the wall, she was unable to retreat further. She pressed flat against the rough surface. Dread seized her. Terror squeezed her chest in a crushing grip.

His searing gaze lowered to the gun in her waistband. A humorless smile twisted his lips. “I’m sure you can understand my desire to make some inquiries after I discovered you weren’t a lad.”

With arrogant confidence he strode forward a pair of steps.

Was he limping a bit?

“You made the assumption I was a boy.”

“And you did nothing to correct me, did you?” His volatile gaze swept the room. “Why?”

Her stomach plummeted sickeningly when he eyed the gun once again.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Where the bloody hell was Brayan?

She wouldn’t have time to yank the pistol from her breeches and aim. She’d wager from the cynical skewing of Marquardt’s mouth, the knave knew it.

It was to be her riding crop, then. With calm determination, she released her grip on the gun.

He advanced a few more inches. His face glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. “I’ll assume you knew there were horses available as well.”

After a paralyzing moment when she couldn’t exhale due to the fear hammering against her ribs, she released a measured breath. She raised her chin in defiance and refused to answer.

His piercing indigo eyes skimmed Adaira from her hair to her boots. She scowled when his focus lingered for a moment on her hips and chest.

He lifted his disinterested glacial gaze to meet hers once more. “Which leads me to question why you deliberately deceived me?”

“Deliberately?”

She cast a swift glance beyond him. Brayan must have decided he wanted no part in the abduction. Even she was having second thoughts. What of Yvette, then? No, this must be done.

Her scheme could still work. True, capturing Marquardt would be more difficult to carry off. All right, a great deal more difficult, but she was confident she could do it.

He ran a finger across his damp upper lip. “The blame is partially mine. It’s obvious to me now you’re a skinny female, although your attire suggests otherwise. No doubt you’re a hoyden, to boot.”

Everything he said was true, so why did his words rankle?

Adaira raised the crop and settled into a defensive stance. “I care even less about your opinion of me than I do the horse shite I stepped in earlier.”

His dark brows swooped together. “And she swears. Like a common harlot,” he muttered. “A lack of Godly discipline and moral upbringing, to be sure.”

She scowled. “Do you do that often, talk to yourself?”

Wasn’t that a sign of madness? Ewan had hinted Marquardt was unbalanced.

He waved his hand languidly at a fly buzzing near his face. “Your parents failed to instill in you the qualities a lady of gentle breeding ought to possess.”

She pointed the crop at him. “Och, you pompous, Sassenach cur! I don’t care a trow’s hairy bum what you think of me, but you’ll not speak poorly of my parents.”

He swatted at the insect again. Even that was done with controlled precision. One crisp wave right. Another crisp wave left. “They’ve done a shabby job of raising you so far, I’d say.”

Adaira lunged and jabbed the whip in his direction, then danced a few steps backwards. “You dare to speak to me of appropriate behavior?”

She snorted. “You? A known spy?”

His pupils dilated in surprise. Or was it irritation?

Thrust. Retreat.

“You who tried to attack Yvette and abduct her?”

Jab, jab. Retreat. The last lunge brushed his arm.

Instantly Marquardt’s demeanor changed. His face hardened into chiseled lines. Body rigid, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “I’ve had enough of your confounded whip and false accusations.”