Much Ado About Marriage (5 page)

The mare hunched her shoulders and began to swell.

“What the—”

In a swift move, the mare dropped to her knees and threw herself onto her side.

“Oof!”
The wind flew from his lungs as Thomas went down with a bruising blow to his hip and an incredible pressure on his leg.

It took him a full moment to realize what had happened. He was trapped beneath a fat, hide-bare nag, his leg held as securely as though shackled in iron.

“Move, you ill-begotten, mangy bag of bones!” he roared.

Thunder bared her teeth over her shoulder and lunged. Thomas stared at his torn sleeve in amazement, then bellowed in rage.

He placed his free foot squarely on the horse’s back and pushed with all his might. The horse grunted, but the shaggy head didn’t even move. He tried yet again, but his efforts elicited only a heaved sigh from the horse.

Thomas lay back panting, his struggles leaving him as breathless as the fall from the window. It was unbelievable. He, Thomas Henry Wentworth, the fifth Earl of Rotherwood, scion of a long line of immaculately bred, impeccably comported, and extremely dignified English nobility, was pinned in the cold mud beneath a fat, wheezing nag.

Things could get no worse.

A sudden noise had him straining to see over Thunder’s
heaving sides, and Thomas found himself gazing at the mangiest, most flea-bitten mongrel ever to put four paws to earth.

It was
that
dog.
Her
dog. Which meant—

“Och, imagine that.” The honey-rich voice was laced with amusement. “Here’s a horse just a-lying about the wood with nary a rider to be seen.”

He should have strangled her when he had the chance.

Fia peered over Thunder’s side, her hair a riotous mass about her shoulders, her lips parted in feigned amazement. Peeking from the safety of her skirts was the scrawny, ugly dog. Half of one ear was gone, the jagged edge pointing straight into the air, while his narrow muzzle was adorned with a ridiculous grin.

Thomas looked about for a good-sized rock.

“Why, ’tis Lord Thomas! You poor man, have you gone and hurt yourself yet again? Scotland’s not been very kind to you, has she?”

Thomas clamped his mouth shut. He’d be damned if he’d let her see how angry he was until he was in a position to do something about it. Like putting his hands around her lovely neck and choking the grin off her face.

“Och, ’tis a pity. First you hit your head in the garden, and now your backside is like to be just as bruised.” Husky and inviting, her voice quivered with laughter.

Strangling was too quick.
First
, he would lock her in a dungeon and starve her.
Then
he would strangle her.

“If you’ve come to gloat, be gone,” he ground out. “I’ve no need of your company, nor of that hellhound of yours.”

“Sweet Mother Mary, is that the way you speak to someone who has come to help you?”

“Help me? Like you helped yourself to my gold?”

“You can keep your gold.”

He scowled at her. “Oh? Have you found some other innocent to fleece?”

“No, though I have to wonder that you call yourself an innocent. You were climbing into MacLean’s castle through a window; I’d say that was evidence that your intentions were hardly pure.”

He sent her a sour look. “I refuse to engage in a debate with you. I’ve other, more pressing issues at hand.”

She quirked a brow, and he noticed how the morning sun lit her hair to a deep, rich brown. He reflected with satisfaction that he had never liked brown hair, especially unruly brown hair.

Thunder reached out and pushed her nose against her mistress’s hand.

“There, you sweet beastie. You are the best horse in all of Scotland, are you not?” Fia crooned as she lovingly stroked the horse’s nose.

“That is the most disgusting untruth I have ever heard,” Thomas stated flatly.

Fia patted Thunder’s neck. “Thunder, don’t mind the Sassenach. Some of his manners must have leaked from his head when he cracked it in the garden.”

“I have perfectly good manners, when they’re warranted.”

“Hmm.” Dropping to the forest floor, Fia maneuvered herself so Thunder’s head lay comfortably in her lap.
Her
horse, Thomas reminded himself grimly. Which was lying on
his
leg. Her dog padded to the other side of Thomas and sat regarding him with what could only be described as a huge grin, his long tongue lolling out one side of his muzzle, his ragged ears perked in interest.

Thomas wished his leg would simply rot off so he would be free of the whole lot of them—lackwits, every one.

“You’re not helping matters, Sassenach. If you’re nice to Thunder, she’ll be nice to you. She’s had a hard life, the poor bairn. Her master beat her and made her work from dawn ’til night, so she tends to hold a grudge.” Fia’s silky voice crept into his ears and tried to lull away his anger, but Thomas would have none of it.

As a child, he had endured his share of beatings. It hadn’t affected him in the least, other than to make him determined never to treat any child of his with such sternness.

“You really should stop that,” she said.

He glared at her. “Stop what?”

“Grinding your teeth so. It can’t be good for them. I had an uncle once who had nary a tooth in his head. ’Twas piteous; he could eat naught but pap.” She frowned. “Or soup; he could eat that. And he did take bread soaked in milk for his Sunday supper. I once saw him try to eat a piece of manchet, but it took him two hours just to gnaw down one bite. Even then he couldn’t eat mo—”

“Forget your toothless uncle, and get this damned horse off my leg!” Thomas snapped.

The dog growled, and Thomas snarled back.

Fia raised her eyebrows. “You’ve the devil of a temper, haven’t you? ’Twas a simple observation that you seem addicted to grinding your teeth.” She nodded wisely. “I think you should see a specialist when we get to London town.”

“We?”

“Aye.” She met his gaze, calm and cool. “If you wish Thunder to rise, you must promise to take me to London.”

It was a ludicrous idea. He was on a
mission
, for God’s sake, though she didn’t know that. “No.”

Fia shrugged, her lovely eyes shadowed with disappointment. “Fine. Do it your way, then. But be aware that MacLean may arrive any moment, and we have yet to make our escape from the main grounds of the castle.”

“I don’t—”

“Meanwhile, Thunder here has quite a temper. I’ve seen her lie this way for hours when she gets into one of her moods, never moving though ’twas snowing or raining buckets.” Fia stroked the horse’s neck. “Didn’t you, poor beastie?”

Thunder snorted her agreement.

Thomas rubbed his pounding temple. Sweet Jesu, he would give all he possessed to be gone from here.

Fia regarded him from beneath her lashes. “Of course, if you would be willing to assist me to London . . . and make one or two other small efforts once we arrive, I might be willing to get Thunder off your leg
and
show you a shorter path to the shore.”

Try as he might to resist, the velvety voice laid a steady assault against his anger. With great reluctance, Thomas admitted that he might indeed need Fia’s help to reach his ship before dark.

Some hint of his thoughts must have shown, for she flashed him a saucy grin. “I make a merry traveling companion, I do. I can even sing a wee bit.”

“Please, no singing!” He sighed deeply. “I know I’m going to regret this, for I’ve always heard it said ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.”

“Och, my mother used to say the same thing!” A wistful smile curved her mouth. “She died when I was but eight.”

“She had to warn you about the company you were keeping when you were that young? From what little I know of you, I’m not surprised.”

She chuckled. “I was forever sneaking off to play with the animals. I had a partiality for pigs. My mother would always find me in the barn, covered with hay and dirt.”

He felt an unexpected surge of envy. His memories of his own childhood weren’t nearly as happy.

Younger than his father by almost fifteen years, Thomas’s mother had been undeniably beautiful, with black hair and cool, distant brown eyes. When Thomas had been a small child of six, she had run away with a man of no fortune and less breeding. After that, Thomas’s father had become obsessed with proving to everyone that the legendary Wentworth luck—a family myth that had followed the head of the family through wars and famines—still existed. More, he was determined to prove that it was even stronger after his young wife left.

“You look sad,” Fia said softly.

“’Tis having this damned horse on my leg,” he snapped, irritated at her close scrutiny.

“Do you agree to our bargain? You will take me to London and—” She stopped and regarded him uncertainly.

“And what?” he asked.

She flushed, and a horrible suspicion crossed his mind. He eyed her narrowly. “You aren’t asking me to help you steal the crown jewels or the like, are you?”

“As though I would do such a thing!” she answered hotly.

“Then out with it, plague take you! My leg is likely to wither off before you finish a sentence. Whatever duty you have for me, ’tis apparently so horrendous you cannot even ask it without stammering and blushing.”

She drew herself up with regal pride, and Thomas had to fight the unexpected desire to grin. Her queenly air was
strikingly at odds with her appearance; bits of straw stuck out from her wildly disordered hair, while the morning sun added a healthy golden glow to her skin. She had the look of a milkmaid just tumbled in the hay.

“There is nothing horrendous in my request at all. ’Tis just that if I wish to make my way in London, then I will need a patron.”

A patron.
He couldn’t say a word.

“I thought perhaps you could sponsor me.” Her voice was all forced unconcern, but the trembling of her hand as she stroked the horse’s nose told another story.

For a moment, he was tempted to refuse her. Surely the horse would get up of its own accord. But Fia’s eyes caught his attention. As dark as the rich peat that covered the forest floor, they shimmered with determination.

God’s wounds, she wants a patron?
His gaze wandered, lingering on her mouth and coming to rest on her tight bodice, and he realized with shock that he would have been willing to fill that position without having been caught beneath this damned horse.

Perhaps the Wentworth luck hadn’t completely abandoned him after all. He met her anxious glance with a warm smile. As soon as he got her to London, he would take great pleasure in tying back that frustrating mass of hair with yards and yards of silk ribbon. “Don’t fret, comfit. You had only to ask. I will be your patron.”

Her relief was evident. “Och, I was so worried you wouldn’t like the idea. Though I’m surprised you didn’t ask for proof of my abilities.”

Thomas burst out laughing. “You’re a forward piece, even for a Scot. Now is not the time for evidence of your skills; I can scarcely appreciate such a display while
weighted down, can I? The world looks vastly different from the underside of a horse.”

He was rewarded with such a laughing look that he began to tingle in places not being pressed into the dirt. “I hate to rush you, sweet, but my leg is numb.”

“Of course.” She stood, her skirts swaying about her narrow hips.

He admired her lithe, graceful movements with new awareness.

“Up, Thunder,” Fia commanded softly. Wheezing heavily, the horse clambered to its feet.

“That’s it?” Thomas managed to get the words out through the rush of pain that flooded his leg. “You just say ‘up’ and she gets up?”

Fia blinked. “What else should I say?”

He rubbed his leg, trying to force the blood back into it. “I won’t tell you what you
should
say to that horse, for we’ve wasted far too much time as it is. So come, let’s get off this cursed isle of yours. My ship awaits.”

She led the horse beside Thomas. “I had best mount first, to keep Thunder from nipping at you.”

He nodded curtly. He would get out of this abhorrent land if it killed him.

Fia tied her bag to the saddle and nimbly climbed onto the horse’s back, her skirts sliding up to expose rounded calves and delicately trim ankles above small, muddy boots.

His body responded instantly.
I must have injured my head to be so affected by the sight of a pair of ankles.
“Your boots are muddy.”

“Aye, ’tis the rainy season. Your boots didn’t fare much better.”

He glanced at his boots, which they were just as caked with mud as hers.

Her chuckle instantly made Thomas’s mouth go dry. “I dislike wearing shoes of any kind, and often forget to wear them. Duncan swears he’d nail them to my feet, would it do any good.”

Thomas scowled at the mention of her old lover.
He
was her patron now, and as soon as he got up on the horse, he would remind her of that fact. As he lifted his good leg to the stirrup, he stifled a moan as his bruised leg protested. He doubted he would be able to move it at all when the day was over.

Setting his jaw, Thomas threw himself onto the horse, the pain wiping out every other ache in his abused body. It took a moment before he could speak; then he said through clenched teeth, “My ship is north of here.”

“I know.” She sent him a smug smile over her shoulder. “There’s only one safe harbor on the isle other than the one by the castle.”

“Let’s hurry.”

“Aye, Duncan is not known for wasting time, and we have to stop for Mary and Angus.”

“Stop? For whom?” he demanded.

“Mary is my maid. She has worked at Duart Castle since she was a child. Angus is her new husband and knows the harbor like no other.” Fia looked over her shoulder, the trees casting long shadows across the silk of her cheek. “Mary has been like a mother to me. ’Twill take no time at all to fetch them.”

Thomas looked into her uptilted face. Common sense urged him to say no, but something about her pleading look made him hesitate. She’d been so fearless up until this
moment, yet now true concern darkened her gaze. “How old are you, comfit?”