What Happens in Scotland (18 page)

She was leaving. Of
course
she was leaving. What was there to keep her here, except the investigation of the last remaining bits of his memory loss? “There is no coach tonight,” he told her. “The town closes the street to carriage and horse traffic, after they start the bonfire. And I expect there are questions you’ll want to ask the smithy.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

James sighed. “What we did in the time between when we were seen leaving the Gander and when we returned to take this room is still unresolved.” His gaze fell to the ring she twisted nervously on her finger.
His
ring. The ring that still demanded some sort of explanation.

“And unfortunately,” he admitted, dreading the words but knowing they were all too true, “the usual place to get married in Scotland is the blacksmith’s shop.”

Chapter 20

T
HE SMELL OF
heated coal announced their arrival at the blacksmith’s shop a block in advance. As they moved closer, the smell of burning hooves introduced itself too. James had wondered if they would be too late, given it was approaching five o’clock on Bealltainn Eve, but the sound of a hammer ringing on steel assured him the man was still bent over his day’s tasks.

Pity. He was not looking forward to this interview, and would have been quite willing to delay it until morning. For the first time all day, he had a pretty good notion of what to expect
before
he asked the questions. His memory had settled with the discovery of the receipt in his purse, and he was quite sure he remembered all of it. All that was left to do now was to check the evidence and sort out which pieces could be undone.

Georgette’s gentle grip on his arm told him she still hoped for an easy resolution. He let her think that. She would be shattered soon enough.

The blacksmith grinned at them over the top of his leather apron as James approached the shop with an uplifted hand. “Oho, MacKenzie,” the man called out. “Not like you to be so late. Was expecting you back for your horse hours ago.”

James covered Georgette’s tightening fingers with his own and squeezed. “I had an unavoidable delay.”

The man released the bellows and came around the edge of the forge, wiping his hands on his apron. “Well, I replaced the missing shoe first thing this morning, and he should be as good as new. He’s tied up out back, and wanting some oats over the bit of hay I tossed out for him.”

James nodded. Yes, so far his memory was proving correct. They had slipped out of the Gander after his fight with MacRory, and he had been drunk enough he had forgotten to pay for the physical damage wrought in the pub. He had kissed Georgette good-bye, fully intending to let her go. But she had difficulty walking, no doubt due to the feathers still attached to her feet. Moreover she had been frightened of the nameless, faceless man she claimed had threatened her. And so James had put her up on Caesar, intending to transport her to safety of his own house. Halfway down Main Street, the horse had thrown a shoe, right in front of the bloody blacksmith’s shop.

“Thank you for the loan of the mare last night,” James told him. “Although you should know, the beast came up lame before we made it four blocks. I don’t think the horse will be much use as a riding animal in the future,” he added. “David Cameron has the mare now, and I expect he’ll want to keep her.” He grinned then, one good thing coming out of this mess. “You’ll need to contact him about what he owes you.”

“I reckon I know where to find him.” The blacksmith glanced between James and Georgette and grinned. “Congratulations, again. I was right proud you picked me for it.”

“What, exactly, did we pick you for?” Georgette asked beside him, her voice as thick as the smoke coming off the forge.

“Why, the nuptials. You were the third couple I married this week, although I suspect the others won’t last a fortnight before they start at each other’s throats. You two seem different. Happier, I suppose.”

James heard the whistled intake of air in Georgette’s throat. Her hand dropped from his arm. He felt the loss of contact like a fist to his abdomen. “Did . . . did we actually get married?” she stuttered.

Not that James blamed her. They had both done a lot of swinging back and forth on this particular issue today. She didn’t remember, but he did. They had banged on the blacksmith’s door and the man had come, bleary-eyed in his nightshirt, and presumed they were there to elope. It had been
her
decision, not his. But he had not objected.

In fact, he recalled being all too willing.

Georgette’s stunned reaction seemed to confuse the blacksmith. He picked up a rumpled sheaf of papers from a nearby shelf, flipped through several pages, and presented it to them. “He gave you a ring. Signed my register and everything.”

James took the bundled pages and scanned them quickly. Both their names were there, his in a barely legible scrawl, hers in a neat, feminine script. The date appeared correct, as did the spelling of his name. “Not that a signature on the register is absolutely required under Scots law,” he murmured, the solicitor in him already sifting through possibilities. “But it does serve as an unfortunate piece of evidence.”

Georgette whirled on him. “You told me we weren’t married.” Her finger pushed into his chest in relentless condemnation. “I refuse to believe that this farce of a ceremony could be any more legitimate than the fun you had over the public table at the Blue Gander! Why, the man isn’t even a registered official!”

Beside him, he could see the blacksmith’s eyes grow wide, no doubt in response to such a visible display of their purported “happiness.” James covered her accusing finger with his own hand and pushed her arm down gently. “It doesn’t take a man of the cloth or the law, Georgette. It takes only a solid citizen witness, claiming intent. The smithy is clearly that. He officiates half the marriages in Moraig.” James knew from personal experience. One of the most depressing parts about being the town solicitor was dealing with the desperate requests of people who regretted their irregular marriages. It was one of the reasons England had passed Hardwicke’s Marriage Act. It prevented foolhardy mistakes such as this.

But this was Scotland, not England. And James was not yet convinced this was a mistake.

“So we
are
married.” Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

The blacksmith broke in. “Well, you started the process.” He squirmed a bit, an odd sight for man of his size and profession. “Was it . . . I mean, did you . . .
finish
it?”

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice sounded hollow.

“He means did we consummate it,” James explained.

“ ’Tis none of his business!” she exclaimed.

But it was. It was an entirely legitimate question. And because of it, the issue of whether they were married was still a matter of legal interpretation.

“Thank you,” James told the bemused blacksmith by way of ending the awkward conversation. This was a discussion best continued in private. He eyed the woman shifting beside him. Her color was high now, her lips a flushed shade of red. She was unspeakably beautiful, spitting mad, and looking to make someone pay. If they had they been married properly, with a posting of the banns, the issue of consummation would not be a point of concern.

But they had not embarked on a regular marriage. They had eloped. That made things more difficult, but also offered a possible way out.

Georgette had made it very clear she did not want this outcome, no matter that she had seemed close to tupping
him
a half hour ago. It struck him as unfortunate that there could be no exploration of the promise in this marriage. But with the way she had stiffened at the blacksmith’s congratulatory remarks, and the way she had colored up now at the discussion of consummation, he more than had his answer.

If she wanted it undone, he would do his best to give her that, his pride and feelings be damned.

G
EORGETTE WAITED AS
James slipped around the side of the shop and came back leading a saddled horse. It was a fine-looking animal, all rangy chestnut limbs and springy steps. No wonder he had been so anxious to find it, and angry with her when he thought she had something to do with the stallion’s disappearance.

He stopped in front of her, lines of strain visible around the edges of his mouth where beard overtook skin. Georgette wanted to put her hand on his lips and ease some of the worry she saw branded there, but instead she lifted a hand to the horse’s nose. It was like stroking crushed velvet. The horse pushed impatiently against her hand, demanding more attention.

Unlike the man.

She dropped her hand and surveyed the horse’s owner. James MacKenzie had shown her a good deal of decency today. If she had trapped him into a marriage he didn’t want, she was going to be damned twice over.

“So are we or aren’t we?” she asked him, her voice low enough so the smithy couldn’t hear. Her mind seemed squeezed from four sides. She had gone from thinking she was married, to believing she wasn’t, and back again in the space of less than an hour. It was enough to make a woman want a glass of brandy.

He picked up her hand. He had a habit of doing that, she noticed. Touching her, when it didn’t need to be done. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. In London, such an action would be considered vulgar, particularly lacking gloves as they both were. The feeling of skin on skin was shockingly improper. But the way he did it, so easy, made it seem more a meeting of minds than an attempt to seduce her, or worse, shackle her to him.

“It is not that simple,” he told her as they began to walk, his big fingers working circles over hers. “By Scots law, we are nearly there. We are lacking only consummation, or cohabitation with repute.”

Georgette swiveled her head to meet his profile. Surprise did not begin to describe the sentiment scuttling through her. “We did not . . . ?”

“No.” He did not look at her, kept moving forward. But his voice sounded firm on that point. She was reminded that he, at least, had his memory restored.

A curious sense of disbelief prodded at her. “But we spent the night together. We
did
things.”

“Things.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Yes, well, that was not one of the ‘things’ we did.”

She stopped short and pulled her hand out of his. “You tossed my corset on a drapery rod and watched me jump on a mattress!”
Unclothed
, her mind screamed, though she could not bring herself to give voice to that part. “We were both undressed when I awoke. It seems a stretch to believe that did not happen.”

“I’ll not say we didn’t want to, Georgette, or that it was easy.” He took a half step to face her, one hand still firm on the reins. “It was just that I thought it would be better to wait until morning, when you could no longer claim a clouded judgment.” He reached out his free hand and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted you to remember it,
wife
. In bone-shaking detail.”

She stood a long, frozen moment, caught between the desire to lean into his touch and the need to shrug it off. James MacKenzie made her want those things they had been verbally dancing around, things she had never stopped to think about during her first marriage.

But such thoughts were treasonous, no matter how his unexpected display of tenderness made her knees wobble. Her first husband had not been above the occasional pretty phrase, or the blatant lie. She had not known
his
true nature either, not until she married him and discovered his penchant to spend her dowry on things like jewelry for his luxury-minded mistresses.

Unlike her cousin Randolph, the man gazing down at her now had not once hinted that he wished to marry her because of the money she had received through her wedding settlement. He had no knowledge of such circumstances, had appeared shocked to his toes by her earlier suggestion to pay him two hundred pounds to be done with it all.

But she must not forget what was at stake here. Her future, her financial independence, the
rest of her life
were in the hands of a man she barely knew, and would remain so unless she fixed this now.

Enjoying James MacKenzie’s caress was an extravagance she could ill afford.

She pulled away from his lingering fingers. “So can it be annulled?” she asked. “According to
English
law?”

His hand fell away. “The annulment of a marriage under English law is exceedingly difficult. Lack of consummation itself is not usually adequate grounds. You would have to prove I was impotent.”

Georgette raised a brow. “
Are
you?” No man of her admittedly limited experience would have willingly spent the night with a naked woman and emerged saying he hadn’t touched her.

He snorted. “Certainly not.” His gaze turned hot and suggestive. “And I would be more than happy to prove it to you.”

She felt a blush creep onto her face. “Well, that cannot be the only way to an annulment. If it is, there are a horde of impotent men striding about Britain.”

That brought a chuckle out of him, and her body warmed to the sound. “One can file for an annulment on the basis of fraud as well,” he admitted. “But we both signed our legal names on the register, and I don’t believe either of us promised the other anything that we are incapable of delivering.” He paused. “You can claim one spouse or the other is incompetent. You don’t strike me as the hysterical sort, so I don’t think it’s a viable option.”

“Why, thank you,” she huffed. “Although we were both apparently quite drunk . . .”

“Intoxication is not the same as mental incompetence.” His hand shuffled on the reins. “One of us would have to be locked away in order to prove that claim.”

Georgette pondered the few options he had presented. There
had
to be a way. “Elsie said you were an excellent lawyer. Can’t you do something?”

“There are people who are not above lying to meet the qualifications for an annulment.” His lips hardened, and the tone of his voice matched. “But you should not count me among that crowd.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I would never expect you to compromise your principles on this matter. I just want to know what we can do within the bounds of legal authority.”

His shoulders loosened, ever so slightly. “We might be able to argue the union was never legal under Scots law. That would require a presentation of facts before Edinburgh Commissary Court, but I am afraid the evidence may not be in our favor. Proving we did not consummate the marriage may be difficult, given your lack of memory and no proof of your virginity.” He paused. “There’s no chance of that, is there?”

Her face lit with embarrassment. She shook her head mutely. She had been married to a dissolute peer who demanded his marital rights on a regular, if unfortunate, basis. She certainly could not claim she was untouched.