Imposter Bride (33 page)

“She wants to.”

“Balderdash!”

“She told me so.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I found her walking along the
beach, and I asked her what she wanted—to be with me or to be with
Edward.”

“Surely she didn’t choose Edward.”

“Yes, she did!”

“That makes no sense.” Lady Auliffe’s brows drew
together. Then she glanced up at Ramsay. “Will you quit that
pacing!”

He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why
do you care about her anyway?”

“I have my reasons.”

Ramsay regarded the older woman from the corner of
his eyes, curious in regard to her interest in a servant, but
hoping she would continue to speak without being prodded by
him.

“Katherine is dead,” Lady Auliffe continued. “I’ve
had time to accept the fact. Not that I would not have grieved for
Katherine, but I didn’t even know the child. Sophie, on the other
hand, has brought nothing but joy to my life these past weeks. She
reads, she plays, she cooks, she keeps me company. She is gracious
to everyone, even the servants. I daresay William is half in love
with her.”

Ramsay shook his head, remembering the way Charles
and Betty Betrus had fallen all over themselves to please Sophie.
What was it about her that drew people to her? Yet he didn’t really
have to ask. He knew. Sophie was warm and kind, and though she’d
played the part of another person since the day he’d met her, she
was one of the most innately genuine human beings he had ever
met.

Lady Auliffe took a bite of beef and bread.
“However, no matter who she is or what she’s done, I have no
intention of letting that sweet young woman marry a scoundrel like
Edward Metcalf.”

Ramsay sucked in a deep breath and let it out,
knowing he’d be an even bigger scoundrel if he pushed through his
plan to acquire Highclyffe at Sophie’s expense. He felt his world
spinning, his choices shriveling.

“Can you imagine what he will do to her when he
learns the truth?” she added.

At her question, a heavy stillness hung in the air
as they both contemplated the thought. Metcalf would ruin Sophie
Vernet. He would ravish her until he was tired of her, and then
turn her out, broken and likely pregnant. Ramsay knew only too well
how cruel the English could be. He rubbed his forehead with his
thumb and forefinger, tormented by the thought.

Lady Auliffe regarded him silently, her face dark
with concentration. Then she picked up her drink. “And you. You are
in love with her, aren’t you?”

“I hardly know the girl.”

“You are.”

Ramsay couldn’t look at her. He glared at the fire,
feeling as if the same flames were burning inside him instead of
upon the grate. “What does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal!”

“Not if it’s unrequited.”

“And how can you be sure it is?”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “She spurned me.”

“As you have never spurned her.” The older woman sat
back in her chair, one arm over the back. “Hmm? As you have never
cut her off or been cold to her.”

“I couldn’t encourage her. It would have ruined
everything.”

“What, to find yourself in love?”

“Love? We’d only known each other a few weeks!”

She laughed to herself. “And just how long do you
think it takes to fall in love, young man?”

He stared at her.

“It can happen in a day, a month, or a year,” she
continued. “Or in an instant.”

She continued to stare at him, daring him to
contradict her.

“This afternoon, did you tell her you loved
her?”

“Not in so many words. I thought it was
obvious.”

“Obvious?” She looked up at the ceiling in dismay.
“Dear man, do you know nothing of women?”

Ramsay heaved another sigh. He was tired, confused,
and heartbroken. He had no patience for a lecture, yet he could not
bring himself to leave. It was as if he carried a great weight on
his back that he longed to set aside. But no one else could take it
from him. No one owned the weight but him.

Lady Auliffe heaved a sharp sigh as well. “I can’t
say why Sophie feels she must marry Edward Metcalf, but I can see
into you, Ian Ramsay. Quite clearly.”

The last thing he needed was to be illuminated by an
old woman. Still, she was one of the few Englishmen he admired or
even countenanced. He said nothing, knowing she would go on without
encouragement from him.

“You are the son of that rebel, Alec MacMarrie,
aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Not only was he unwilling to
divulge his personal history, he couldn’t speak because a painful
lump was rising in his throat.

“I saw it in you the moment I met you.”

He clutched his arms more tightly about his chest
and kept staring at the fire.

“You’ve spent your entire life plotting and scheming
to get Highclyffe back, haven’t you?”

“So? ‘Tis no crime.”

“Not entirely.” Lady Auliffe rose in a soft rustle
of silk. She moved forward, and he was concerned that she might
venture too close for comfort. Still, he refused to give way to
her. She touched his shoulder. “But Highclyffe can’t be a reason to
live.”

“Believe me.” His voice was gruff and hard. “It
can.”

“How old are you, captain? Twenty-eight?”

“Thirty.”

“Well, I’m seventy-seven years old. I’ve lived twice
as long as you. And I have seen a lot happen in those years. But
the only damn thing I’ve found that matters is love. Not power, not
gold, and not property. What matters are the people who love you,
and those you love back.”

“Your experience has been different than mine.”

“That’s right, because I was brave enough to
love.”

Her words rang out in challenge, and he pulled away
from her, striding back to the table for his half-finished
brandy.

“Ian, your father didn’t live for Highclyffe. He
lived for the future of Scotland.”

“There’s no need to lecture me on the matter,”
Ramsay retorted.

“But you,” she continued, undaunted by his frosty
demeanor. “You live only for the past. Would your father have
wanted that for you? What kind of life can that be for you?”

“‘
Tis no life!” He turned and
bellowed, “You’re right. ‘Tis no life! I don’t know what living
is!” He quaffed the fiery liquid, and it burned all the way down
his throat. “I’ve only Highclyffe!”

“Until now.”

“Nothing’s changed!”

“Poppycock!” She threw at him. “You don’t know what
to do with this new feeling, do you—this feeling that you might
have been wrong, that Highclyffe and Scotland may not be everything
after all. Make room for more, Ian MacMarrie, besides hate and
revenge.”

”‘
Tis all I know,
dammit!”

He stormed to the door of the drawing room, but her
voice stopped him.

“Tell her that you love her.” Lady Auliffe called,
her tone softening. “Take the chance. Find Sophie Vernet tonight
and tell her. Or you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

Ramsay barreled through the night, spurring his
horse onward with uncharacteristic harshness. He had to get to
Sophie Vernet. He was on fire now to tell her everything, to tell
her he loved her. He didn’t care what happened, what he had to do
to, what he would lose to get her back. He knew now what he’d been
sure of all along but hadn’t allowed himself to admit. Sophie
Vernet was all that mattered to him in the world, more important
than his heritage or his past. As self-indulgent as it sounded, it
was a truth he could no longer deny.

By eleven, he saw the few lights of the village
still burning, thundered past the Ram’s Head Inn where Puckett
waited, and continued along the road to Highclyffe as a light rain
began to fall. He didn’t look back to see if his assistant had run
out to the yard to discover who had gone by, sure that Puckett
would do his duty. He was too bent on his objective to stop and
explain himself.

Highclyffe lay four miles to the east of the
village. If his horse could keep up the pace, he would be there by
half-past eleven. Even if the loving couple were asleep already, he
would demand to be let in, or make enough noise to wake the
household, and if need be, wake the dead.

Desperate but with his heart soaring ever higher the
closer he got to Highclyffe, Ramsay rode like a madman. He pulled
up at the entry, jumped off his horse, threw aside the reins, and
then dashed to the front door, pounding upon it with all his
might.

After what seemed an eternity later, an old man
pulled the door open. For a moment the man stared at Ramsay, his
face draining of color, as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Laird Alec?” the man choked. He stood holding the
door, his mouth hanging open, gaping in astonishment. Remembering
Lady Auliffe’s comments about his similarity to his father, Ramsay
realized the servant must think he was witnessing the return of a
spirit, come to wreak havoc on the living.

The man wasn’t completely off the mark.

“Ian Ramsay,” Ramsay answered. “I’m here to see Miss
Hinds.”

“I’m afraid ye can’t—”

“I know it’s late, but it’s imperative that I—”

“But she’s—”

“I must!” Ramsay pushed past him and strode quickly
into the main hall, hardly taking the time to appreciate the first
glimpse he’d had of his childhood home in twenty long years.

“Metcalf!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the
dark halls. The place seemed desolate. All the furniture was gone,
as were all the familiar trappings of his ancestors. “Sophie!”

He didn’t wait for more than a moment before he
broke for the stairs and headed to the bedchambers on the second
level. The recovered servant implored him to stop, but Ramsay
ignored him and plunged upward. When he gained the top of the
staircase, he ran down the hallway, throwing open the doors and not
finding Sophie in any of the bedrooms. When he came to the master
chamber at the end of the hall, he pushed the door open and spotted
Edward Metcalf lying on his father’s bed.

Half-dressed in a shirt and breeches, Edward Metcalf
lay sprawled upon the coverlet with his right hand draped over a
small wooden box and his mouth half open as he snored. Ramsay
glanced around, thankful that Sophie was nowhere in sight. He
wouldn’t have put it past Edward to try to seduce the girl before
their wedding night. But if she wasn’t with Edward, where was
she?

He strode forward. “Metcalf!”

The manservant skittered up behind him. “Sir, you
shouldn’t wake him!”

“Metcalf!” Ramsay shouted, undaunted.

Edward stirred and blinked. He opened his eyes and
half rose on his elbows. His hair was tousled and his eyes red.

“What in th’ hell?” Metcalf’s eyes gradually
focused. “Ramsay?”

“Where’s Miss Hinds?”

Edward rolled his eyes. “MacEwan, throw the man
out!”

MacEwan reached for Ramsay, but Ramsay threw off his
hand. “Get up, Metcalf!”

“Go t’ hell!” Edward’s words slurred. He’d obviously
been drinking.

“I’ve come for Miss Hinds.”

“She’s not here. Never was.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ramsay. I know all about your
little scheme, you bastard!”

“Where is she?” Ramsay looked over his shoulder,
certain that Edward was lying and expecting to see Sophie show up
in the doorway any moment.

Edward sat up in bed and threw his legs over the
side. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because I love her, and she needs my help.”

Edward stared at him for an instant, and then burst
out laughing, holding his stomach and bending over, shaking with
glee.

“What is so blasted funny?”

“Oh, this is rich!” Edward sputtered. “This is too,
too rich!”

Ramsay took a step forward. “What’s got into you,
man!”

“I love her and she needs my help!” He mimicked,
laughing again. “Well, you finally get your just desserts, Ramsay!
Rich, I tell you! ‘Tis so perfect, I can’t believe it!”

“Tell me where she is, dammit!” He grabbed Edward’s
arm, yanking him off the bed. Shocked, Edward clutched the
bedclothes with his free hand, dragging the covers with him. The
wooden box on the bed fell to the floor, spilling its contents on
the flagstones in a glittering spray.

Edward struggled to reach for the box, but Ramsay
yanked his arm upward again, keeping him off balance. The violent
jerk put an end to Edward’s giggling, but he was still smiling as
he leered up at Ramsay, his bloodshot eyes dancing.

“So help me, Metcalf, tell me where she is or I’ll
pound it out of you!”

“Where she is? She’s at the bottom of Lake Lemond,
most likely. Soon to be fish food.”

“What?” Ramsay felt as if he’d been struck.

“She’s dead.”

“She’s what?” Ramsay felt another blow, a bludgeon
to his midsection this time, knocking the air from him. He stepped
backward, releasing Edward’s arm as the strength poured out of him.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

“She’s dead, Ramsay. Jumped off the southeast tower
a couple hours ago. Ker-plash.” Edward made a gesture with his
hands that mimicked sprays of water, and he burst into giggling
again.

Ramsay drew back and punched him in the face. The
blow threw Edward’s head back, and he careened across the floor,
crashed against the wall and slid senseless to the flagstones, with
his nose bleeding profusely.

Ramsay turned, almost tripping over the manservant,
who had dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and was picking
up the spilled contents of the box. Ramsay lunged for the door and
sped down the stairs, shouting for a lantern. Without questioning
him, the old manservant followed him and did everything he asked,
including accompanying him to the lake to look for Sophie’s body,
and telling him how a Constable Keener from London had done the
very same thing hours before.