The Runaway McBride

Table of Contents

 

 

Praise for the Novels of Elizabeth Thornton

“Thornton skillfully combines Regency-style suspense, a roguish hero with a good heart, a heroine ahead of her time, a psychic curse, an evil stepmother, a budding book industry, and a truly twisted villain to make an unforgettable tale.”
—Booklist

 

“Only an author of Thornton’s talent could pull off a story as tangled with plotlines, as filled with memorable characters, as tingled with paranormal touches as her latest . . . One of the best books of the season. It’s lush, rich, exciting, passionate, and humorous. What more could you want?”

 

“[A] fun, fast read. Ms. Thornton is one of the best story-tellers in the historical romance genre. All of her characters are wonderfully written and her attention to detail is second to none.”
—A Romance Review

 

“As multilayered as a wedding cake and just as delectable . . . [Thornton] excels at creating likable characters who play well off of each other . . . A memorable start to a new trilogy and a fine introduction to Thornton’s work.”

 

“Exhilarating Regency romantic suspense...Fans will gain plenty of pleasure from this fine historical.”

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE RUNAWAY MCBRIDE

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Mary George.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-440-69826-2

BERKLEY
^®
SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY
^®
SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

It was February, the coldest, most miserable February in Scot
tish memory. Out on the North Sea a tempest raged, and fishermen had long since drawn in their nets and steered their boats to the safety of the harbor. Gusts of raging wind and torrential rains blasted the coastline, driving everyone to find shelter.

John Sievewright, the landlord of the local tavern, dried off a tankard as he glanced out the window at the overcast sky. “It’s the witch’s doing,” he said. “Lady Valeria McEcheran,” he added respectfully for the benefit of the stranger who had taken shelter from the storm and was nursing a whiskey in a dark corner.

The few locals in the bar bobbed their heads. They were well aware of the name of the celebrated witch who had come to live at the castle when she became a widow.

“Drumore Castle is her son-in-law’s place,” Sievewright felt obliged to add. He was a businessman first and foremost, and he made a point of making strangers feel welcome, especially strangers who ordered the best whiskey the house had to offer.

One of the locals took up the story. “When the storm dies, it will be all over for Lady Valeria.”

“Aye,” said another. “The witch will be gone, and another will take her place.”

The landlord’s wife straightened from the table she had been scouring. “What superstitious nonsense!” she declared. “No one believes in witches these days. We’re living in the nineteenth century, for heaven’s sake.”

No one contradicted her. She was a newcomer to the area, having married Sievewright a scant ten years before. Besides, she was English. One had to make allowances for
furreigners
.

Mrs. Sievewright sucked in a breath when a sudden shriek came from outside.

“It’s only the wind,” her husband soothed.

An ancient graybeard spoke to his tankard of ale. “Could be a banshee,” he offered. “They only comes out when someone is near death, someone like a witch. She’s calling her own.”

Mrs. Sievewright shivered. Her voice wasn’t nearly as confident as before. “That’s only a fairy tale. She can’t be a witch. She is a great lady, isn’t she? ”

Another sudden shriek had the landlord’s wife scurrying to the back of the bar counter. There were subdued chuckles, but not from the landlord. He looked at each customer with a steely eye. Few could withstand that hard stare, and they looked away.

“Dinna fash yerself, m’dear,” Sievewright said, then, remembering that his wife was English, translated from the vernacular. “Don’t upset yourself, my dear. It’s not the storm that tells us her ladyship is not long for this world. The family is gathering. Her three grown grandsons are already there. They wouldna travel in this kind of weather unless they were sent for.”

“What of the rest of the family? ” There was a quaver in her voice. “I don’t trust those trains. What if the wind has blown their train over? There have been accidents before now.”

Her husband gave a reassuring laugh. “There will be no trains out in this weather.” He spoke with as much confidence as he could muster. In fact, he’d never been on a train and wouldn’t travel on one even if someone paid him. “Take my word for it, Esther. They’ll be holed up in some comfortable inn at the border, waiting for the storm to pass.”

The wind had lost some of its bluster, and the shrieks had died to a moaning lament.

“That would be the fairy bagpipes calling the witch home to her own,” a voice piped up.

Someone coughed into his hand. Another slurped his beer.

Mrs. Sievewright knew when she was being mocked. She lit a candle from an oil lamp on the counter. “I’m going upstairs to see to the little ones,” she said, her chin jutting aggressively.

“Aye,” said her husband, “you do that, lass.”

She pushed through the door to the vestibule and quickly mounted the stairs. The Sievewrights had three boys, only a year or two apart, and the hurricane-like storm had made no impression on them. They were snuggled together in the big bed, sleeping blissfully.

Her own three boys made her think of Lady Valeria’s grandsons. They were very affectionate, by all accounts, and very attentive to their grandmother. That covered a multitude of sins in her eyes, and if the gossip that was rampant was to be believed, there were quite a few sins to cover.

Two were brothers, Alex and Gavin Hepburn. The eldest, James Burnett, was their cousin, and one day he would be the Laird o’ Drumore. James was viewed as a tragic figure who had turned to drink for solace when his wife died. He could drink anyone under the table, an admirable virtue in Scotland, though her own chapel folk would consider him the devil’s disciple. Gavin was known as “the randy dandy,” and that was viewed with a tolerant eye as well. Alex was a bit of a mystery. He kept to himself. What was known was that he was clever and worked at a government office in Whitehall.

She wondered how her own boys would fare when they, too, went into the world to make their way. She hoped they stayed close to home. Lady Valeria’s grandsons all lived in London. It was nothing to them to hop on a train when they were needed at home. Money was no object. She shouldn’t find fault with them. She’d left her mother and sisters in England when she’d come north to marry her John.

After setting her candle on a table, she walked to the window and drew back the lacy curtain. From this vantage point, she could see the lights of the castle, but only barely. There was a steep incline down to the rocky promontory on which the castle was built. With lights blazing, it was like a beacon to ships at sea, warning them away from the treacherous rocks. Tonight, it seemed to be calling the storm to itself.

She made a small sound of impatience. Wouldn’t those old codgers in the bar laugh up their sleeves if they could read her mind? That was the thing about the Scots; she never knew when they were being serious and when they were not. Perhaps making fun of her was their way of saving face. What sane man wanted his neighbors to know that he believed in the old superstitions? Witches, sorcerers, banshees—those were old wives’ tales.