Man of My Dreams (20 page)

The Scotsmen were laughing again, all three of them this time. Megan didn’t care. She’d entered the shadows beyond the camp to look for Caesar, and if she found him, she had every intention of leaving by herself.

Megan’s stiffness had lasted all of two minutes after Devlin had placed her on Caesar and mounted behind her. Then she’d relaxed against him and a few minutes later fallen fast asleep. She hadn’t spoken to him, however. Her annoyance with him had been as plain as her red hair, but nothing new for him to worry over.

He supposed his rescue of her was not the romantic affair she might have been hoping for. She ought to be grateful he’d found her at all, for he’d had a devil of a time following their trail after the sun went down. Stumbling upon them had been pure luck, aside from the fact that the landscape provided very little in the way of obstruction to block his view of
their campfire, which he’d seen from miles away.

Devlin flexed his jaw and winced. He supposed
he
ought to be grateful Megan had stopped that fight, which had been nothing but sheer folly on his part. He should have gotten her straight out of there instead of seeking revenge because his damned pride was a bit lacerated over losing her in the first place. But no, he’d thought he could take the man, despite his size. MacDuell had disabused him of that notion quickly enough. Damned Scot had a cast-iron jaw.

And the audacity of the fellow, to stand there grinning when he had had a gun pointed at him. If Devlin weren’t still smarting over the whole affair, he would probably admire the chap.

MacDuell had even had the gall to ask Devlin before he left, “Do you and the lass ever get along, mon, or are you after arguing with her all the time?”

Devlin had shrugged. “I’m coming to the conclusion that she enjoys arguing. You didn’t notice?”

“That I did, but do you enjoy it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why do you want tae marry her?” Lachlan had asked baldly.

An excellent question. Devlin had merely smiled, answer enough for the Scotsman, as far as he was concerned. But the question had stayed with him as he’d gathered their horses to take with him—he was determined
not
to
meet up with MacDuell again if he could help it—and gone to collect Megan. It had stayed with him after he’d found her and been given a dose of her silence, so complete that she hadn’t even asked why she had to ride Caesar when he had the other horses. And she was asleep when he let the other mounts go several miles away, which would have answered the question she had stubbornly refused to ask.

But the Scot’s question wouldn’t go away. Why did he want to marry her, aside from it being the honorable thing to do? And he did want to. There was no denying that, after the fear and rage he’d felt when she was taken from him. He wanted her to be his wife. He wanted to have the authority over her that marriage would grant him. He wanted her in his house. He wanted her near at hand. He wanted to know where she was every minute of the day. He wanted her in his bed, though that was one thing he wouldn’t insist on until she wanted it, too.

He wanted her to love him.

Good God, he’d fallen in love with Megan Penworthy!

How the devil had that happened? And no wonder his mood was so bloody rotten. Loving a girl like Megan was asking for nothing but heartache and an end to his sanity. She was beautiful, certainly. He’d give her that. But the only good thing he could say about her quirky temperament was that she didn’t hold a grudge. The girl might explode frequently
in anger, but her tantrums didn’t last long. Although why should they, when she always had something new to get mad at the next time around.

He must be mad. On second thought, he must be trying to put a nice face on his lust. That was all. He still lusted after the girl. One visit to his mistress ought to take care of that; then he could start dealing with Megan a little more impartially. At the very least, he’d stop losing his temper, stop letting her emotions wring his guts, stop thinking about her constantly—stop wanting her so much.

’Course, he’d have to go to London to visit his mistress, but why not? He’d rusticated for nearly two months. Freddy’s sister had to have married by now, or been found out for the little liar she was. And what would that matter anymore when he’d be coming back with a wife himself? Except Freddy still might want to blow his head off, but that could be dealt with when the time came.

It was nearing dawn when Devlin found the town he’d noticed on his race north. It wasn’t Gretna Green, but it had a Scottish kirk, so it would serve.

The proper thing to do would be to register at the inn and get some much-needed sleep, then get married at a decent hour. But Devlin wasn’t thinking of proper just then; he was thinking more in line with getting the thing done before anything else happened to prevent it.

The Scots clergyman didn’t appreciate that. Neither did Megan. But a hefty donation to one, and a little bullying and prodding to the other, and Ambrose Devlin St. James, fourth Duke of Wrothston, had himself a new wife and duchess.

Megan woke to the sound of children shrieking in play and someone whistling a cheery tune. It took some time for her to realize the racket was coming from below an open window in the room where she’d finally gotten some undisturbed sleep—undisturbed until now.

She still didn’t feel like getting up. She even thought about marching to the window and shouting down for some quiet. Some people had no consideration a’tall. But then she noticed the brightness in the room and decided it might be too late in the day for that kind of consideration.

How long had she slept? She had no idea, but she didn’t exactly feel rested. There’d been too many interruptions—every time Caesar would slow to a trot, then when Devlin had dragged her into that church…

Good God, she was married! And her husband hadn’t spent the night with her.

Megan looked over at the space beside her in the bed to make sure, but it was most definitely empty, the sheets still smooth. And then the memories starting returning with a vengeance: the fight, the dirty trick Devlin had played on her with the gun, the dirtier trick he’d played
in marrying her while she was half asleep.

He’d asked for two rooms at this inn this morning, and had escorted her to hers, leaving her with a curt good-night and an admonishment to lock the door. She’d still been too exhausted to think anything was strange in that. Strange? No, he’d simply meant it, a marriage in name only.

Did you think he was joking?

Yes
.

Well, I for one don’t blame him. You never give the man any peace
.

The man doesn’t deserve any peace
.

Then why are you crushed by his rejection?

I’m not
.

You are
.

Bitch
.

Are you cursing yourself?

Megan turned over and hit her pillow.

Megan had slept in half of her clothes. But after all the riding done yesterday, the rest were in as deplorable a condition as what she’d slept in. When she would be able to change she couldn’t guess. She didn’t even know if her trunk was still in that ditch with the coach, or if the coachman had managed to get the vehicle back on the road. Hopefully they would meet up with him today.

It was a splendid room that she’d been given, now that she was awake enough to notice. Scotland certainly outclassed England in the way of inns, and she’d stayed in enough this last week to know. She wondered if Devlin was throwing away good money again on account of it having been their wedding night, even though they hadn’t shared it, or because this
was the only hostelry available in this town. Probably the latter. But not for the first time, she wondered how he came by so much money to waste.

There was a vanity replete with perfumes, cosmetics, and everything necessary to repair her hair, but Megan was starting the day in a peevish mood because of her embarrassment over the rumpled state of her attire, especially since the expensive furnishings in her room declared the inn to be an elegant establishment that only the rich could afford.

It didn’t help her mood any to realize, when she left her room, that she had no idea which closed door along the corridor would lead her to Devlin. And she couldn’t just go knocking on each one until she happened to find him. The other guests certainly wouldn’t appreciate that.

She was forced to go in search of someone who could direct her, but she slowed her steps halfway down what was a grand staircase, amazed at the opulence below. So much for thinking this was merely an inn. It had to be a hotel, though she certainly hadn’t noticed the size of it last night. Of course, the lower lobby had been dark when they’d arrived at dawn, with only one light burning.

The more Megan looked around, the more her reasoning faltered. It didn’t really look like a hotel; it looked like the foyer of someone’s home. In fact, the innkeeper who had admitted them could have been a butler. Admitted?
Devlin
had
knocked to gain entrance, now that she thought about it.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. May I direct you to the dining room?”

It was the man who had let them in this morning, more fully dressed now, and definitely behaving like a butler. Your Grace? Megan groaned inwardly. Surely Devlin hadn’t lied again about who he was.

“You may direct me to my husband, if you would,” she replied.

“If you will follow me?”

She expected to be taken back upstairs, but instead he headed for a double set of doors at the end of the foyer. It turned out to be the dining room after all, a very large dining room, and Devlin was there, sitting at the head of a long table, being served lunch by not one but three uniformed maids who couldn’t take their eyes off him, and were almost fighting for the honor of bringing him what he wanted.

Megan was struck by that same emotion she’d experienced when she found Devlin frolicking in the hay with Cora, and she didn’t like it one bit. She waited for him to notice her. When he didn’t, her temper snapped.

“Out! All of you,” she said, looking straight at the maids. “There’s more food before him than he can possibly eat, and the man knows how to serve himself.”

The three servants weren’t very quick to obey a stranger, especially one so rumpled-looking, but one look at the butler and they were gone.
“What would you like, Your Grace?” he asked Megan.

That damn title again made her wince. “Just some privacy, thank you.” When he nodded but just stood there, she added, “And I’ll seat myself.”

The poor man seemed so appalled by that notion that Devlin stood up. “I’ll seat her, Mr. Mears. But you can bring her an extra cup.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

Megan waited until the butler was gone to say, “I’ll seat myself,” and marched down to the end of the table to do just that.

Devlin resumed his own seat. “Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did you?”

She gave him a disgruntled little smile. “You mean that splendidly comfortable bed that belongs in a bloody palace? That bed?”

Devlin sighed. “Very well, brat, get it off your chest. What are you in a snit about this time?”

Megan chose merely the most recent transgression. “You’re telling that lie again, aren’t you?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. “It seemed convenient at the time.”

She frowned as she drew a basket of hot buttered muffins toward her. She could swear that wasn’t what he’d been about to say.

Nonchalantly, though with some definite malice, she asked, “Can’t you get arrested for impersonating a duke?”

“I should hope so.”

Her frown increased. The dratted man wasn’t making the least bit of sense this morning.

“Then why do you keep taking that risk?”

One of his brows rose slightly. “Are you thinking of turning me in, Your Grace?”

“Don’t call me that, and yes, I ought to, and I
will
give it some thought.”

He pushed a plate of ham and boiled sausages toward her. “When you do,” he said as he went back to eating, “you might want to consider that you’d be turning yourself in, too, since you happen to be my wife now, and these people think you are my duchess.”

Megan stared at him openmouthed for a moment before snapping, “You might have thought of that before involving me in your crime.”

“Yes, I might have, but I was too bloody tired to think beyond finding us a place to sleep. The only lodgings this town boasted burned down last week.”

“Oh,” she said, fixing her eyes on the crumbs she was scattering from her muffin. “In that case, thank you for the comfortable bed.”

Devlin put down his fork and did some staring of his own. Megan conceding a point? And actually
thanking
him for something?

“Did you get enough sleep?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you running a fever, then?”

She looked up, blushing slightly. “That isn’t funny. You’re making me out to be a monster.”

“No, just a nag and a termagant, and, don’t let us forget—a brat.”

She gave him a furious glare. “You’re not exactly per—” She had to stop as the butler returned with a cup for her. Her fingers drummed loudly on the table while the man made a production of pouring coffee and offering cream and sugar. But the second the door closed again, she said, “I’m beginning to think you’re a worse bounder than that bounder you’re impersonating, Devlin Jefferys.”

“Good God, then there’s no hope for me a’tall,” he exclaimed.

He was actually smiling at her. Megan was getting angrier by the minute.

“Can you be serious for two seconds?” she demanded.

“I will if you will.”

The man was impossible this morning. Megan almost got up and walked out, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her. “Whose house is this, anyway?”

“It belongs to a Margaret MacGregor. She’s an Englishwoman and a countess in her own right.”

“Living in Scotland?”

“She married a Scot in her younger years. When he died, she elected to stay on.”

Midnight-blue eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You’ve been gossiping with the servants, haven’t you?”

“Servants don’t gossip with dukes,” he replied in a perfect imitation of a pompous
nobleman, then spoiled it by grinning. “On the other hand, clergymen will gossip with anyone who will listen, and the one who married us happened to mention Lady MacGregor, and that she was putting up travelers until the inn is rebuilt.”

But not in her best rooms, Megan didn’t doubt, and with a passel of servants to wait on them. Unless, of course, they claimed to be the Duke and Duchess of Wrothston.

“You don’t remember?” Devlin added.

That was another sore subject better left alone, but Megan wasn’t inclined to. “No, I don’t remember,” she grumbled. “The one and only time I’m ever getting married, and all I have is vague memories of a ceremony in a dark church. When I’m finished being mad about it, I’ll probably cry.”

“The one and only time, Megan?”

She was too agitated to notice the softness of his tone. “The gentry don’t divorce, Devlin Jefferys,” she informed him haughtily. “If that was what you were hoping to do at a later date, you can just forget it. You’re stuck with me until death do us part, and I don’t intend to die so you can go about your merry way.”

He laughed at that point. “Good God, the notions you get astound me sometimes. For your information, divorce isn’t permissible in my family either, though why a woman who just got married should even think about—”

“I don’t feel married,” she interrupted him in a small, bitter voice.

Devlin became very still, not daring to even look at her. Keeping his glance on his plate, he asked carefully, “Do you want to feel married?”

Her head snapped up, but all she saw was his nonchalance. What else did she expect? He’d said that he hadn’t enjoyed making love to her any more than she’d enjoyed it. Not exactly the words of a man eager to come to her bed, now that he could. But if he thought she’d ask him to after that crushing rejection—well, he could rot before she would.

“No,” she said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

His fork clattered loudly on his plate as he stood up abruptly. “A stupid question, wasn’t it?” he said and headed for the doors.

“Wait a minute! Are we leaving?”

“We might as well,” he replied curtly without looking back at her.