Much Ado About Marriage (13 page)

Married to a ragamuffin of a chit who thinks more of her mangy animals than she does of the proprieties. She will be a disaster in court, and the one thing I’ve sworn to prevent with my dying breath—seeing the Wentworth name humiliated yet again—will happen without fail.

Thomas couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it. If only they’d left his bedchamber a few moments earlier. If only he hadn’t paused to kiss her.

Truthfully, that kiss—like all of the ones before—had done nothing to satisfy the hot, frustrated lust that burned inside him. It was a sickness of some sort. A yearning like no other he’d ever experienced. Was this what his mother had felt for the man she’d left his father for?

Guilt tightened about his heart. If it
was
something his wild, undisciplined, selfish, and shallow mother had felt, then he needed to fight it with every ounce of his being. He would
never
embarrass the family name for something as transient and insignificant as mere lust. He owed his father and his family name far more than that.

But now he was stuck with the woman who caused him such a surfeit of feelings. He had to fight the way Fia made him lose control. Fight it for all he was worth even though it seemed that the harder he fought, the more deeply he was ensnared in her net.

For the first time in his life, Thomas wondered if the chit had put a spell on him. He could make no sense of his reaction otherwise.

The sound of the sea lifted from the haze-shrouded trees around them and he took a deep breath of the fresh, tangy air, pulling his thoughts from such treachery as spells and magic.

Things will be different once I return to the sanity of London. Here in the wild Scottish countryside, Fia shines like a rare gem against a streambed of pebbles. That will all change once we reach the English court and are among the sensual and accomplished women who surround the queen. Fia will fade into the paneling like a knot on a pine plank.

MacLean’s voice boomed out, ordering his men to keep a closer eye on “the damned groom.” Thomas favored the laird with a sour gaze. The laird rode in front of Fia’s coach, looking as dark and forbidding as Thomas felt.
Damn the man. If I ever get the chance, I’ll—

Fia leaned out the window of the coach and her dark gaze locked with his. Thomas’s thoughts flew away as if blown by the wind that caught her hair and swirled it behind her, a banner of rich russet brown. He could almost feel the silken curls and smell the heather that twined through them.

She smiled with all of the beauty of the sun breaking through the a clouds, and suddenly the gloomy day seemed brighter, warmer.

God’s blood, it
is
a spell.
His heart sank into his boots.

Just then the path opened onto the shore, the mist blown away by the joyous sea breezes. As the
Glorianna
burst into view, Thomas’s heart swelled with pride. She was so beautiful; he’d never seen a prouder ship.

MacLean pulled up his horse. “Wait here, Sassenach. I wish to speak to Angus before you leave.”

“Angus?”

“Mary’s husband. He’s escorting Fia to London.” MacLean’s gaze narrowed. “He will be sending me missives every two weeks, so have a care how you treat my cousin.”

Thomas shrugged. “He may write every day, should he wish it.”

“He may. I shall send some men to serve as runners, too.” With a dark smile, MacLean turned and rode to where a small group of men stood by the quay.

Fury rippled through Thomas. He dismounted, tossed the reins to a nearby Scot, then stalked across the beach toward the ship. Damn all Scots, every last one.

He strode to the natural rock quay where the
Glorianna
was moored. Soon he’d be on his way. Although he’d be saddled with a wife he did not want and an escort of unofficial guards/runners, at least he would be gone from this cursed place.

Each step toward his ship restored his calm. As he reached the gangplank, he scanned his ship with expert eyes. She was in fine trim. His first mate, Simmons, had kept the men busy cleaning and polishing every surface during their wait, for she gleamed. A swell of pride lifted in his chest.

Behind him someone shouted at him in a gruff voice, “There ye are, ye lazy Sassenach! Turn and face yer accuser!”

There it was—a vent for his anger, a challenge so direct that Thomas could retaliate. He turned on his heel, hands fisted to deliver a message to the rude dolt who dared speak to him so.

There, his blue eyes sparkling in a handsome face framed by a trim black beard, feet planted firmly apart, his hand resting casually on one hip near a jeweled sword, stood Robert MacQuarrie.

“Robert!” Thomas hurried forward, aware that the Scots were muttering and looking black.
Let them, the paltry fools.

Engulfing him in a hug, Robert slapped Thomas upon the back and then held him at arm’s length. “How fare thee,
mon ami
?” Robert’s blue eyes took in every scratch and bruise, his merriment fading, though the smile remained steadfastly in place for those who watched from the shore.

“I prosper, now you have come.” Thomas returned the back-slap with a bit more vigor than necessary.

“Careful! You’ll damage my ruff.”

Thomas chuckled. Few others knew the quality of the man behind the foppish exterior of the lean and elegant Viscount Montley. “Your neckwear has always been in keeping with your person, Robert. ’Tis overdone and too damn frippery to stomach.” Even now, positioned to take to the sea, Robert wore a fine Italian doublet of plum velvet shot through with silver, complemented by exquisite woolen hose and ornate leather boots, his cuffs and ruff of the finest Belgian lace.

Robert ran a critical eye over him in return. “Look to yourself, man. Where
did
you get those hosen?” He shuddered. “As good to be out of the world as to be out of fashion.”

“’Tis but clothing.”

“I would hesitate to call that clothing. God’s blood, what’s afoot? I came prepared to fight my way through a welter of angry Scotsmen at yon castle to free you by sword or ransom, only to find you escorted to your ship like an honored guest, although dressed like a court jester.”

“Trust me; I am no honored guest.”

“Aye, I can see it in the lumps you have acquired.”

“’Tis naught. What’s this of ransom?”

“Hearing of your predicament, I brought a chest of Spanish gold to win your release, should the edge of my sword have no effect.” Robert smirked. “I know their weaknesses as my own; there’s nothing a Scotsman prizes more than the gleam of gold.”

“Your own money? I am touched.”

Robert shrugged. “I’m certain Walsingham would have repaid any loss I suffered. After all, ’tis his arse I pull from the fire as much as yours.” Robert brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve. “So, how did you come to be captured?”

“’Tis a story for another time.” Thomas could not, would not, explain how a tiny mite of a wench had summarily disposed of him, the greatest instrument of Walsingham’s secret network. “How did you find out I was here? When I left Simmons, you were not on board this ship.”

“When you failed to appear, Simmons came after me posthaste. Luckily I was nearby.”

“And why was that? You rarely come this far north.”

Robert’s smile was that of a cat with the cream. “I happened to be rusticating in a small Scottish village in a nearby harbor.”

“But how did Simmons know where you—”

“Your ship is a beauty.” Robert gestured toward the
Glorianna.
“I was glad for the chance to sail her; she’s as steady as they come, light and responsive to the touch. If you ever wish to sell her, let me know.”

“That will never happen.”

Robert stroked his trim beard as he turned back to Thomas, a glint in the bright blue eyes. “I hate to plague you with questions, but MacLean sent a most curious missive. He said that not only would the Earl of Rotherwood be gracing us with his presence, but the
countess
, as well.”

Wonderful.
“I’ll explain after we sail. I want to get under way as soon as possible.”

“So are you wed or not?”

“Aye,” Thomas said grimly. “Forced to marry the laird’s cousin at the tip of a sword.” Even now the memory singed.

“Thomas, I am sorry to hear that.” Robert looked around. “Where is she?”

“In the carriage.”

“I’m truly sorry, my friend. Is she short and fat, too plain to mention?”

Fia, plain? Infuriating, bothersome, maddening—yes. But plain?

He caught Robert’s quizzical gaze and forced himself to shrug. “She’s an ill-dressed, ill-mannered, ink-stained chit who wants nothing more than to take her mangy animals to London and become a playwright.”

Robert blinked, a slow smile spreading over his face.
“Mon ami
, she sounds delightful! Where is this paragon? I must make her acquaintance
immediately
!”

The queen had always held that it would be easier to turn the Thames than to stop Robert MacQuarrie from being a useless fribble.

Thomas turned toward the shore, where Fia’s coach had just come to a halt. “There she is now.”

Thomas refused to watch as MacLean’s men opened the carriage door.

Robert murmured a heartfelt “Sweet Jesu!”

Scowling, Thomas kept his gaze fixed on his ship. He knew what Robert was seeing—Fia, cheeks pink from the ride to the harbor, her reddish-brown hair flowing about her shoulders, her full lips parted in a smile—

He ground his teeth as his body tightened. “Well?” he demanded as Robert’s silence stretched.

“She’s, ah . . . very . . .
rounded.”

“Rounded?” Thomas turned toward the coach. There beside MacLean stood Mary, her broad face damp with perspiration, her reddish-gray hair curled riotously, her rotund form shaking with laughter.

“That’s not her,” snapped Thomas. “That’s her maid, Mary. There—MacLean is assisting Fia now.”

Her hair tumbled as Thomas had predicted, Fia stepped from the carriage, the wind ruffling her skirts and hair even more. On another woman such a ruffling might have been disastrous, but on Fia it merely made her appear more like a windswept fairy.

“God’s breath! She’s—” Robert opened and closed his mouth and, for the first time in the fifteen years Thomas had known him, fell silent.

A slight sense of relief washed over Thomas; he was not the only one she affected. “She’s handsome,” he said grudgingly.

“Are you
blind
? She’s—” Robert clasped his hands over his heart. “I would brave a thousand dangers for a glance from those dark eyes. I would fight the fires of hell with my bare hands to receive a kiss from those dewy lips. I would—”

“She is
my
wife.” Thomas’s voice was so harsh that it surprised both him.

Robert raised a brow. “I’faith, you’re possessive. Though ’tis no wonder—you won her, after all.”

Thomas managed a shrug.
Good God, where did that flood of possessiveness come from? I do not wish her to be in my life at all.

Do I?

Robert sighed heavily. “You have proven the Wentworth luck once again,
mon ami.
You come to Scotland to procure a mere piece of paper and walk away with a bride worth a fleet of
Glorianna
s. You make it difficult for the rest of us to stomach our mundane lives.”

MacLean approached them, his arm about Fia’s shoulders, his black gaze narrowing at Robert. “Well, well. If ’tisn’t the Coward of Balmanach.”

Robert made a graceful bow. “So ’tis. And you are the Black Laird of the MacLeans, known for your spitting temper and hamlike fists.”

MacLean’s gaze narrowed, but he turned to Thomas and said in a rough voice, “You’ll miss the tide if you tarry.”

Thomas nodded, itching to be at sea. Once he was back on English soil, the odd feelings that had overtaken him on this isle would leave, and he would once again be in complete command of himself.

He turned to Fia. “Come. We leave.”

Fia swallowed a sudden burst of intense loneliness. The cool brown eyes that met hers were impersonal; they held no emotion, no welcome. They were the eyes of a stranger, not a husband.

Duncan took her hand. “Write often, poppet. At least once a week.” He glared over her head at Thomas. “If she’s not happy, I’ll come for her.”

“I’ll write,” Fia said, collecting herself. “Though I’ll be hard-pressed to think of something to say. I rarely see you more than once a month now, what with all your meetings and the like.” She stood on tiptoe to deliver her kiss, and he swooped down to hold her tight.

Thomas stepped to one side, pulling MacQuarrie with him.

Thankful for the privacy, Fia tightened her hold on Duncan’s neck. “I’ll miss you.”

“Och, as will I you, lassie,” he replied, his voice husky. With a final hug, he gently set her on her feet. “I’ve done what was best for you, but if you find you’re not happy, you’ve only to tell Angus and he’ll bring you home.”

She tried to smile. “I know.”

Wiping his eyes in a suspicious manner, Duncan turned to MacKenna. “Where is it?”

MacKenna withdrew a small velvet bag from inside his doublet. “Here, me lord.” The Scotsman handed it to Duncan, then went to oversee the loading of Fia’s trunks onto the ship.

Fia looked at the heavy velvet bag that Duncan had placed in her hand, an odd warmth creeping into her fingers. “What is this?”

“’Tis the amber amulet from Maeve Hurst.”

“The White Witch?” Fia looked at the bag. “But . . . won’t she want it back?”

The ghost of a smile touched his hard mouth as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “She is already on her way to fetch it now. My spies tell me she’ll arrive any day.”

“Duncan, she’ll be furious! Aren’t you afraid she might—”

“Nay, I am not.” Before Fia could respond, he added gruffly, “Give that cursed thing to the English queen as a gift from the MacLeans. ’Tis the sort of trinket Elizabeth loves, and she’ll think well of us for it.”

Fia started to open the bag, but he closed his big hand over hers. “Be careful. It—” He clamped his mouth closed.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“The amulet makes a person dream.” Oddly flushed, he released her hand. “And don’t be asking me about what, for I’ll not say. The White Witch cursed it just to outwit me. The closer she gets, the more I dream, and the more I—” He caught Fia’s fascinated gaze and his jaw flexed. “Take that damned thing with you and never let it see the sun of Scotland again.”