Three

INES

Ines could not tear her gaze from the Scotsman seated across from her. He was like a dream—or a fantasy—come true. In the flesh he was even better than she had imagined. He was taller, gruffer, and more dangerous than she could have hoped. They sat in the public room of an inn in a village she did not know the name of. He’d told her, but she’d been looking at his hands. Large hands she suspected would feel deliciously rough on her skin. Watching her warily, he bit off a hunk of bread and motioned for her to eat. She tried, but it was difficult when she could not stop thinking about what he looked like under his clothes.

Everything about this day was surreal. Duncan Murray was looking at her, had been talking to her, was eating with her. Of course, he didn’t know who she was. He thought she was a Portuguese woman named Beatriz. Ines hadn’t planned to lie to him or to pretend she didn’t speak English. She’d been struck mute when she’d awoke to find him looking down at her. Her throat had closed up and her mind hadn’t been able to think of anything except the words I love you. And when he had asked her name, she had been about to tell him she was Ines, but then she realized that once he knew she was Catarina Draven’s sister, he would take her straight back to London. And so she’d given him one of her other sisters’ names, and she’d pretended she didn’t speak English so she didn’t have to try and think of any more lies. Ines was not a very good liar. Catarina always said Ines’s face was like an open book.

Quickly, she looked down and ate a spoonful of soup. If her face was an open book, she had better stop staring at him because he’d know right away she was lusting after him. But was that such a bad thing? If he knew, he might try to take advantage of her. She shivered at the thought of his kisses.

“Are ye cold, lass?” Duncan removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Ines was not cold, and though she liked the warmth of his coat and the scent of him surrounding her, she could not appreciate his chivalry. Why did he have to be such a gentleman? Didn’t he want to ravish her? Didn’t he want to sweep her into his arms, carry her up the stairs, and kick open a chamber door then have his way with her?

Ines sighed. Given that Duncan Murray had been given the sobriquet the Lunatic by his fellow soldiers, Ines feared that it was not propriety that kept Murray from following his baser instincts. He had taken one look at her and didn’t want her. Catarina always said Ines was the pretty one, but she’d heard Murray was looking for a wife these past weeks in London. The fact that he was going home without one meant he was quite choosy, for surely he could have had any woman he wanted. He was breathtaking to look upon and exciting to be with.

Ines could only assume that whatever Duncan was looking for, it wasn’t her. He probably wanted one of those pale, yellow-haired English women with blue eyes and a curvaceous figure. Ines was dark haired, dark eyed, slender, and petite. She’d been told many times she was attractive, but obviously she did not have the qualities that would tempt the Scotsman.

“Why the long face, lass?” he asked. “I ken ye miss yer family, but we’ll have ye back in Town for supper tomorrow.”

Oh, good. Just what she wanted. To sit across from Catarina and Benedict and explain how she ended up in Duncan Murray’s carriage. The Scotsman would probably be none too pleased when he learned she spoke perfect English. She was beginning to regret not simply telling him who she was to begin with.

Murray pushed his plate away and lifted his glass of whisky. “I do wonder how ye ended up in my coach. It doesnae make sense tae me. Why would ye climb into an unfamiliar coach?”

She wished she could tell him about Podmore. She would have climbed into the mouth of a lion to avoid the cartwright.

“But I suppose that’s one more thing I dinnae ken aboot London. I went there tae find a bride.”

She did know this, but she was surprised he was speaking of it. Perhaps the whisky he’d drank made him talkative. Or perhaps it was easy to talk to someone he didn’t think could understand him.

“But do ye ken what I found instead? A passel of lasses who jumped everra time I said boo.” He shook his head and drank more whisky. “I was an idjit to believe anything had changed. We Scots are considered little more than barbarians.” He leaned closer, speaking conspiratorially. “In my case, that’s nae altogether untrue, lass, but I dinnae advertise the fact.” He winked, and Ines made a little sound of need, like the sound a puppy makes when waiting impatiently for her food to be set down.

The wink was roguish and unexpected from a man who had the look of a barbarian with that long hair and the scratchy beginnings of a beard. She liked barbarians just fine.

“To tell ye the truth, I wouldnae have bothered with the English if my mother had nae insisted.”

Ines wanted to ask why his mother wanted him to marry an English lass—er, lady.

“She’s English, and my uncle, the laird, has had nae end of trouble with the English. Lady Charlotte thinks if I marry an Englishwoman it will be a boon tae the entire clan. She’ll blister my ears when I return withoot a bride.”

Ines’s own ears felt blistered at his words. He needed an English bride. Not only English, it seemed, but a lady. She was neither of those things. No wonder he didn’t look at her. So much for her fantasies about marrying Duncan Murray.

Duncan was still speaking, something about the trouble the laird had in the past with English soldiers, but Ines was not listening again. Yes, Murray’s mother, Lady Charlotte, had wanted him to marry an English lady. But it now appeared that eventuality would not come to pass. He was returning home without a bride or a betrothal. Ines had always said she wanted to pick her own husband, one with the PED (Passion-Excitement-Danger) qualities she prized. She’d already escaped one marriage and she didn’t think she was so lucky as to be able to escape a second. But if she could not have Murray, a marriage for her would have to be years in the future. She wanted to experience the world a bit first. She wanted to kiss a man like Duncan Murray and perhaps a few dozen others before she decided who she would tie herself to permanently.

The problem now was how to make Murray realize he should kiss her. She couldn’t tell him since she was pretending she couldn’t understand him. Perhaps she could use nonverbal communication...

Ines made a show of yawning and covering her mouth prettily. When he didn’t seem to notice, she did it again.

“But ye must be tired, lass. I’ll see ye tae yer chamber.”

He had secured them separate chambers. Hers was at the top of the stairs and to the right, and his was on the other end of the first floor of the inn. He’d certainly made sure he was far away from her. Now he took her arm and escorted her up the stairs. Ines’s heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear a word he said, if he even spoke. He’d drank quite a bit of whisky but didn’t seem the least bit impaired. That was too bad because she’d been hoping he would stumble, and she could catch him. And then they’d look into each other’s eyes, and he wouldn’t be able to resist ravishing her.

They had almost reached her chamber and there’d been no sign of stumbling or hints that a ravishing was coming. Well, if he wouldn’t fall into her arms, she’d have to fall into his. At her door, she took the key from her glove and inserted it into the lock. Then she opened the door. He couldn’t kick it open now, but she was willing to forgo that part of the fantasy. She turned to tell him goodnight and pretended to trip and fall forward.

If all had gone as she’d wanted, she would have fallen into his arms. Instead, his hand shot out, caught her elbow, and he righted her with one easy motion. Damn his strength and agility!

“Careful, lass,” he said, still holding her at arm’s length. “Goodnight.”

She glared at him and at his puzzled look, finally managed to parrot his “Good night.” And then he was gone, and she closed the door behind her and wondered just exactly how everything in her life always went wrong.

***

STRATFORD

Stratford had little hope the posting house in the distance would yield him any more answers than the last three where he had stopped. But the light was fading, his horse was tiring, and he could use a drink before going on. He didn’t like that Emmeline had managed to get ahead of him. As a single rider, he should have easily overtaken the coach. The problem was he couldn’t be absolutely certain she was on it, so he had to stop at every inn or public house the coach might have stopped at to inquire after her. So far no one remembered her.

That didn’t discourage Stratford. At most of the stops, the coach would not have paused long enough for the passengers to disembark. But eventually the passengers would be allowed down for refreshment and personal needs. He simply had to find the posting house where the coach had paused and hope Emmeline had stepped out and been seen. He slowed, tossed his reins to the groom who hurried out to greet him, and ordered a fresh horse. “Did the mail coach stop here?” he asked.

“Which one?” the groom asked. “One headed north stopped about an hour ago.”

Finally! Good news. “Was a young woman among the passengers? Dark hair, blue eyes...”

“I can’t say, sir. I didn’t see the passengers. Mr. Miller will know.”

Stratford followed the groom’s eyes toward the low building a few yards away. “Mr. Miller is the proprietor?”

“Yes, sir. We have another coach scheduled in a quarter of an hour, so he might be supervising in the kitchen. He’ll hear if you call for him.”

Stratford thanked the groom and entered the dark public house, his eyes surveying the room for any sign of a Mr. Miller. The room was empty and though Stratford thought it rather gauche, he called out for the man.

But instead of a male reply, he heard a woman’s muffled voice and a pounding on the wall. “What the devil?” he muttered, moving closer to the sound of the pounding. “Who is there?”

“Open the door!” the voice called out. “Let me out of here!”

Stratford realized the sound of pounding did not come from behind a wall at all but from behind a door. A chair had been placed in front of the door, ensuring it remained closed with the occupant inside. Stratford looked about for the elusive Mr. Miller, but the man was still absent. With a shrug, Stratford moved the chair aside.

The door swung open and a woman tumbled out, followed by a jumping blur of brown-and-white fur.

What the devil had he unleashed? He had the urge to push the woman and animal back into the closet, but she stumbled right into him, and when he righted her, he looked down into the bright blue eyes of Emmeline Wellesley.

“Miss Wellesley,” he said, trying to ignore the dog jumping at her side.

“Stratford?” She glanced down at the dog, which he identified as a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel. “Hush.” But the attention only seemed to encourage the spaniel, who began to bark and run around them in circles. Emmeline said something else, but he couldn’t hear over the din of the animal.

“Pardon?”

“I said, what are you doing here, but now I realize you must have been sent to look for me.”

Her supposition was close enough to the truth. “And it seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

“What?”

“I said—oh, for God’s sake.” He bent, lifted the spaniel into his arms, and the animal quieted. “Do you want to explain what you were doing locked in a”—he peered over her shoulder—“storage closet with a spaniel?”

“Not particularly,” she said, crossing her arms over her generous bosom. If she’d been wearing a cloak earlier, she had shed it, and now she wore a simple white muslin dress. It was modestly cut, but it couldn’t quite hide her lush figure.

“Not even a cursory explanation? After all, I’ve been riding all day. I think after all the trouble I went to find you, I deserve that much.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Perhaps no one has ever explained to you that when someone runs away, they generally do not want to be found. So forgive me if I do not thank you for doing precisely what I did not want.”

Ah, yes. This was the Emmeline his aunt complained about, the one full of fire whom Stratford saw all too rarely. The dog licked his chin and Stratford wrinkled his nose. “And to think I always said you were no trouble.”

“I am no trouble because, as usual, I am not your concern.” She started away from him, crossing the room of the public house, and stepping outside. Stratford followed.

“What are you doing?”

“Continuing my journey,” she said, looking this way then that for a groom.

“Oh, no you are not. You are coming back to Odham Abbey with me.”

She shot him a look that said over-your-dead-body, and Stratford hoped she did not possess any weapons else his life might actually be in danger. At that moment, the groom reappeared leading a horse, and Emmeline walked right up to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I will take this animal.”

Stratford could not blame the man when his mouth dropped open in shock. He had known Emmeline was a force to be reckoned with. He had seen her take on her mother and more than one suitor, but she was clearly in a mood now, and pity the man or woman who stood in her way.

And that man was obviously him. “Wait a moment!”

The groom, hand half-extended to give over the reins, paused.

“The lady and I need a word. If you’ll excuse us.”

“We do not need a word,” she said.

“We do,” he said. He looked down at the dog in his arms then over at the groom.

“I’ll take her, sir,” the groom said. “She’s a real beauty.”

Stratford handed the dog to the groom who immediately crooned to the spaniel and brought her over to a patch of grass where the dog seemed relieved to be able to...well, relieve herself. Aware the groom was still nearby, Stratford lowered his voice. “Listen, Emmeline—”

She sighed. “This is the part where you tell me I cannot take this horse and I must come back with you and what will people say and think and so on.”

“Exactly.” There. She could be reasonable.

“And what I will say to you, Stratford Fortescue, is I no longer care. I am not returning. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

“Emmeline, be reasonable,” he said, hoping that he could will her into behaving logically.

“Stratford, I am being reasonable. This is how a reasonable person behaves when she has been pushed to the brink of sanity and made to attend event after event whereupon she is maligned and insulted and ignored. What I might argue is that it is not reasonable for that person to keep attending said events.”

Stratford could see her point, though her logic was twisted. “Then have that conversation with your mother.”

“Don’t you think I have? She will not listen. And of course, neither will you. You are not my brother. Our families are friendly, but you have no authority over me.”

“And yet I feel as though I have an obligation to be certain you come to no harm.” That was part of the reason he had come after her. The other part was the rare chance to spend time alone with her. They might have known each other for years but he could count on one hand the number of times they had ever shared a private word. “Don’t be difficult.”

That was the wrong thing to say. He saw it in the way her eyes immediately narrowed.

“Difficult, am I? Wanting my freedom makes me difficult?”

“Emmeline, I thought we were friends.” He would explain and appeal to her reason. “There’s no reason for all this trouble.”

“Do you know why I was never any trouble when you escorted me about Town?”

Stratford did not like the look in her eyes.

“Because I felt sorry for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hot anger flooded through him. She felt sorry for him? The perpetual wallflower, the spinster of three and twenty, the woman who couldn’t secure a beau if she tried, felt sorry for him?

“I did. Because you did not want to be there any more than I. And you were as pathetic as I because we both did whatever we were told and dutifully followed the rules. Well, sir, I am done following the rules.” She made a move toward the horse, and Stratford grabbed her arm.

“Oh, no you don’t.” She gave his hand on her arm the most disdainful look he had ever seen. He could almost feel the heat of her loathing. “You are clearly distraught.” That seemed to be putting it mildly. “Therefore, I will ignore your insults. But I draw the line at allowing you to take that horse and ride away.”

She stepped closer to him, so close he could smell the lemon scent he always associated with her. Her eyes were so brilliantly blue that he almost needed to squint. “Oh, yes, I am.”

She snatched her arm from his grip and made an unsuccessful attempt to put a foot in the horse’s stirrup. The horse shied away.

“And just where will you go?” Stratford asked, clasping his hands behind his back to resist the urge to shake her until she listened. “It will be dark soon.”

She didn’t look at him, but her shoulders stiffened.

Ah, he had hit a chink. Now to exploit it. “Do you have blunt to pay for a room at an inn? Not that any inn will accept you. A lone female? Any decent inn will assume you are a fallen woman and not want you under their roof.”

She still did not turn to face him, but he could almost hear her thinking.

“I’ll stay here then.”

Time to wrench a crowbar into that chink and open it wide. “This is not an inn. There are no rooms to let, and if you haven’t coin to pay for food and drink, the proprietor will not let you stay.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said, and Stratford had no trouble believing she would bend the proprietor to her will. His strategy teetered on failure.

“Emmeline,” Stratford began. She glared at him over her shoulder. “Miss Wellesley,” he said sharply. “Clearly this is not a decision to make without more consideration and discussion.”

She rolled her eyes.

He ignored her. “I propose we inquire as to the location of the nearest inn, stop there for the night, and discuss this further in the morning, when we are both feeling refreshed and clear headed.”

“I won’t change my mind,” she said.

But she already had. When he’d arrived, she wanted to escape him as soon as possible. Now she was tacitly agreeing to go with him. “Of course not, but at least you will be rested and fed. Wait here while I secure another mount and inquire about the inn.”

He started toward the groom then realized he didn’t trust her not to mount his horse and ride off while his back was turned. He took the horse’s reins and brought the animal with him.

The groom was more than happy to give him the location of a good inn, which was not the nearest but was close enough to reach before full dark. But before he went to saddle another horse, he gave the dog he’d been playing with a baleful look. “What will you do with the dog, sir?”

Stratford stared at the spaniel. He hadn’t considered the dog in his plans. But, of course, if this was Emmeline’s dog, they must take her with them. “She can ride with me,” he said.

The groom nodded and gave the dog one last affectionate pat on the head. Stratford made his way back to Emmeline and informed her of his plans.

“That’s not my dog,” she said.

Stratford frowned. “I assumed she was yours since you were trapped in the broom closet with her.”

Emmeline’s cheeks colored and she looked down. Now this was an interesting development. He had rarely if ever seen Emmeline blush. “It’s a long story. She was—er, foisted upon me.”

“Then you don’t want the dog?”

The groom was leading another horse toward them and gasped. Emmeline gave him a look from the corner of her eye. “I did not say that. I can’t leave her to fend for herself.”

“Oh, miss!” the groom began. “If the dog isn’t yours, might I have her? She’s a beautiful dog, and she’ll be well cared for. I had one just like her when I was a boy, but she died a few years ago of old age.”

Emmeline looked at Stratford who shrugged. Then she cleared her throat. “Will you promise to take good care of her?”

“Yes, miss!”

“You will feed her and exercise her and all the other things one must do for a dog?”

“Yes, miss!”

Emmeline gave the groom one last long look. The man straightened his shoulders. He must be ten years her senior, but she was undeniably in charge. “Then you may have her.” She bent, took the dog into her arms, and handed the spaniel to the groom.

Stratford closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was why Emmeline was still unmarried. She was impossibly dictatorial, though she had a regal way of going about it. Still, no man wanted to be treated like a subject to the queen, and most men were no match for her. He’d watched her at countless societal gatherings over the years. She could dismiss a man with a single look. The braver men abandoned her when they realized she had a mind of her own and was not afraid to express it. As he mounted his horse and steered the animal in the direction of the inn, Emmeline right behind him, Stratford noted that she was unlikely to marry any time soon, if ever.

Why that thought should please him was a mystery better left unexplored.

***

DUNCAN

Duncan rose early, as usual. He hadn’t been able to accustom himself to the hours the English kept in Town. Highlanders were always up with the sun as were soldiers, and he was both. He’d slept hard and heavy, a dreamless sleep that left him feeling refreshed this morning. And yet as he made his way down to the public room, where a gray-haired woman hummed to herself as she dusted chairs and wiped down tables, Duncan couldn’t stop himself from looking just a little too long in the direction of the door leading to Beatriz’s chamber.

Though they did not speak the same language, he couldn’t help feeling she had wanted more than a curt good night the evening before. The way she’d looked up at him with those dark, brown eyes made him want to kiss her full lips. But he was probably imagining things. He’d just spent weeks in London, trying his damnedest to catch the interest of just one lady, any lady, and he’d failed spectacularly. Though he wouldn’t admit it publicly, his pride was bruised. He didn’t need to damage it further by soliciting rejection from a woman who had no choice but to stay with him.

There were lasses in Scotland who would be more than happy to catch his interest. They would not call him a barbarian or back away when he walked into a room as though he were some sort of murderer after their blood.

Duncan sat at a table by the window and looked out upon the cobbled street running through the center of the small village. In some ways, it reminded him of home. He too had grown up in a small, simple town, where he knew everyone and where life was simpler. But he was the younger son of the brother of the laird. He’d tried his hand at farming, then at raising sheep, then at several other professions. Nothing seemed to fit him. Nothing seemed to quell the roaring in his mind and his soul that had begun when he’d gotten his father killed all those years ago. No, the only time the pain and agony of that loss subsided was when Duncan used his fists.

And so his mother had suggested—insisted more than suggested, really—that he join the army. And what Lady Charlotte wanted, she got. But Duncan hadn’t fought her on it. Like most Highlanders, Duncan had no love of the redcoats, but when he’d been given the opportunity to fight the French on the Continent, he had gone. And then when he’d been approached by Lieutenant-Colonel Draven after a bloody battle and asked to join his suicide troop, Duncan hadn’t understood why he’d been selected.

Colonel Draven had merely cocked his head and said, “I need men who are not afraid to die.”

Duncan had snorted. “Everra man is afraid to die.”

Draven had nodded. “Some more than others. I just watched you, on foot, take down three mounted officers armed with bayonets.”

“I lost my horse,” Duncan said, “or it would have been more.”

Draven had leaned forward then, his blue eyes boring into Duncan. “Your commanding officer calls you the Lunatic. I can’t say as though I dispute his assessment. Answer me this, Lunatic. Are you afraid to die, Mr. Murray?”

Duncan had shrugged. “Nae verra.”

“Good. Then you’re one of mine now.”

But Duncan hadn’t died, though he’d been sent on missions that had killed others in the troop, and he’d done things that should have resulted in his death. It seemed the French forgot to fire if a man ran toward them with his face painted red and screaming like a banshee. Perhaps the soldiers who went into battle calmly were the real lunatics.

Duncan stiffened as he became aware of someone moving behind him. For a moment, he thought it might be the woman come to offer him refreshment, but the steps were too heavy. A familiar voice spoke, “Old habits die hard, soldier.”

Duncan smiled. “One of these days I’ll sleep past six.” He turned just as Stratford Fortescue slapped him on the shoulder and took the seat across from him. The two had served together in Draven’s troop and had lately spent several weeks causing trouble in London. Duncan was glad to see his friend. “I thought I’d finally rid myself of ye when ye left London.”

“And I thought you’d be on your way back to Scotland by now. What are you doing in—where the devil are we?”

“How should I ken? This isnae Scotland. I plan tae be back on my way home after a wee detour tae see Nash.”

Stratford sat back in his chair. “His estate isn’t far from here, is it? Now, that’s an idea.”

“I can see by the narrowing of yer eyes, ye have a plan swirling aboot in that brain of yers. Leave me oot of it. I have a lass I need taken back tae London, but she doesnae speak English. I need Nash tae translate.”

Stratford set the legs of his chair on the floor. “I have so many questions that I’m not sure where to begin.”

Duncan waved a hand. “Then dinnae. She speaks Portuguese and so does Nash.”

“Do I want to know how it is you ended up with a Portuguese woman in the middle of the English countryside?”

“I’m still wondering that myself. What are ye doing here?”

Stratford covered his eyes with his hands, a gesture Duncan had only seen him make on a few occasions when he had to plan a particularly difficult sortie against the enemy. “It’s one of the Wellesley sisters.”

“Yer almost cousins, the ones ye’ve been squiring aboot the last few weeks?”

“Yes. Emmeline Wellesley ran away.”

“Which one is she? Nae the mannish one?”

Stratford stiffened and lowered his hands. “She’s not mannish.”

“I dinnae mean in appearance. I willnae argue that she has a fine pair of—”

“Eyes?” Stratford said coldly.

“Those too. But any man who spends three minutes in her company kens that she has her own mind and wants her own way.”

“Yes, well, apparently she has decided she’s attended her last ball and has run off to God knows where. I need paper and pen to let the baron, and through him her mother, know I have her and will return her today.”

“Ye think she will go so easy?”

“I think I’ll have to drag her kicking and screaming.”

The woman who had been cleaning the tables approached with a basket of warm buns and asked if they’d like tea or coffee. Duncan would have preferred whisky, but he settled for tea. He and Stratford were on their third cup of tea and their fourth basket of bread when Beatriz made her way down the stairs. Duncan hadn’t exactly been looking for her, but she caught his attention as soon as she stepped onto the landing. She wore the same yellow-and-white striped dress as she had the day before, and her hair was secured in a simple tail down her back. Her coffee-colored eyes swept the room, and he felt his throat go dry when her gaze landed on him.

Duncan didn’t make a sound, but he must have done something because Stratford turned in his chair and looked at her. “Is that your problem?”

“Aye.” Duncan stood, grabbed a chair from a nearby table and gestured for her to come over. She did, her cheeks pink when she looked up at him. She looked far too pretty with those pink cheeks and her simple yellow gown in the morning sunshine. Duncan made the introductions and pushed the breadbasket and pot of tea toward her. Stratford tried the two or three Portuguese phrases he knew, but her answers were unintelligible to both men.

“I need Nash,” Duncan said. “I have nae idea what she’s saying. Her family is probably worried aboot her.”

“Perhaps she’d like to write them a letter,” Stratford suggested. “You can send the letter when you see Nash and either take her back yourself or send her back in a mail coach.”

“Good idea,” Duncan said then sat straight. “Dinnae look now, but yer cousin is on her way over.”

“I’ll just go fetch the paper,” Stratford said, rising.

“Ye would leave me here undefended?”

“It appears I would.” Stratford rose and was gone. A moment later Duncan rose and offered his chair to Miss Wellesley.

“I trust ye remember me, Miss Wellesley,” he said.

“You are hard to forget, Mr. Murray.” She gave him an odd look when he introduced Beatriz, and then she did something even stranger—though nothing Emmeline Wellesley did could really surprise anyone.

“Would you leave us alone for a moment, Mr. Murray?”

Duncan cocked his head. “Leave ye alone with Beatriz?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But why? The lass doesnae speak any English.”

Miss Wellesley just stared at him, and finally Duncan sighed, stood again, and went to find Stratford. Apparently, it wasn’t just Portuguese women he couldn’t understand.