Imposter Bride (40 page)

“Ian, you’re ill!” she protested. “This can
wait.”

“No.” He closed his eyes and opened them again, his
expression grim. “I made myself live so I could tell you some
things.”

He paused and licked his lips. Sophie reached for
the water glass and helped him take a long drink.

“Thank you.” He sighed and sank back onto the
pillow, and she could tell that every word he uttered drained him
of his newfound strength.

Sophie sat down, a small frown on her lips, worried
that Ian would tire himself out by telling his tale. But he was
correct—she needed to hear the reason behind his betrayal as much
as he needed to tell it. She wondered if she would be able to keep
from crying. A broken heart was not as easily mended as a bullet
hole. Her wound was still raw.

“You cannot tell this to anyone,” he said.

“All right.”

His gaze pinned her to the back of her chair for a
moment, and then he sighed and looked up at the ceiling, as if the
effort to divulge his story was almost too great an effort.
Finally, he began.

“When I was ten years old, I had a father, a mother,
and a wonderful and secure life. My father was a good man, the head
of a successful family. My mother was a kind woman who played the
harpsichord much as you do. But that all changed. When the Scots
rose against the English in ‘45, my father was captured and made an
example of to any Scot who thought to come out of the hills and
defend his homeland from the English. He was hanged and left to
swing until his flesh was picked clean by crows. My mother was run
naked though the streets, publicly humiliated by the King’s
soldiers, and then burned alive. Afterward, the Crown trapped all
at my family’s home and burned them, every man, woman and child,
every horse and hound.”

A chill took hold of Sophie as she recognized the
tale told to her by John MacEwan the night so long ago at
Highclyffe. How could Ian’s tale be anything but the story of the
Clan MacMarrie? That made Ian the son of a Scottish laird, son of a
massacred family, and a man with a past to protect. Suddenly, his
secretive life, his dogged determination to get Highclyffe, and his
strong connection to Scotland made sense. Though her skin tightened
with gooseflesh, she felt the frost inside her beginning to
melt.

“Ian—” she breathed, her voice cracking.

Unaware of her realization, Ramsay continued his
story. “When the trouble began, my mother told me to run and hide.
When I came back home two days later, I came back to Hell on Earth.
Everything I had known and loved had died suffering.”

He paused, distraught, and Sophie gazed at him as he
struggled to regain his composure, his stare locked upon the flames
in the grate.

“I had no idea,” she murmured, “that Highclyffe was
your home—”

“Aye.” He opened his fingers to reveal the clan pin
he’d been clutching for days. “This is all I have left of
them.”

Sophie touched the silver circle with a fingertip.
The metal was warm with the heat of Ian’s flesh.

“Metcalf took it as a souvenir. Even at ten years
old, the bastard was taking souvenirs for his collection.”

“Oh, Ian!” She ached to hold him but was afraid she
would hurt him.

Ian looked down at the pin and closed his fingers
around it once more. “After the rebellion, my life took on a single
purpose. To avenge my family’s death. To regain the family estate
and help my fellow Scots, no matter the cost. Everything I did, I
did for Highclyffe. For twenty years, I lived like a monk and
worked like a fiend. I allowed nothing to come between me and that
goal.” He lifted his glass, but didn’t take a drink.

His arm lowered. “And then I met you.” His voice
softened. “You were perfect for the final stage of my plan. Using
your looks and your charm, I could convince everyone that you were
an heiress, ruin Metcalf, and provide you with a new life to get
you out of the trouble you were in.”

“You knew about my trouble?”

“I knew all about you.”

“How long?”

“From the very first.”

Sophie looked down at her hands. She’d never
considered the possibility that Ramsay might have taken her plight
into consideration when planning his moves.

“And yet, you allowed me to use you,” Ramsay put in,
as if reading her thoughts. “You took advantage of the situation,
too.”

“I tried to tell you the truth about myself, but you
wouldn’t let me.”

“It would have ruined my plans.”

“Yes, your precious plans.”

“It was all I had, Sophie. All I knew for twenty
long years.”

“And now, can you say it was worth it?”

He sighed and gazed over at her, his expression
grim. “Getting back Highclyffe was the most hollow victory of my
life.”

At least he had learned something from the hardships
they’d suffered. Still, his admission held no gratification for
her. He reached for her hand again.

“Did you never wonder why I came to Scotland this
last time?”

“I assumed you went on business.”

“I came to see Highclyffe, to see for myself if it
was all I had dreamed it would be. If it was worth the
sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice?”

“The sacrifice of you.”

She glanced up at him, her throat clenched with all
the despair she had suppressed. Had they allowed each other to make
confessions weeks ago, how different their lives might have
been.

“Sophie.” He squeezed her fingers. “That day we met
each other on the beach—I had made a decision to give it all
up.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t have both—you and Highclyffe. And I had
come to realize that I didn’t want a life without you in it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I had decided to let Highclyffe go.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew how I felt! You made such love
to me—I thought that day on the beach was everything we needed to
say to each other.”

Color flared on his cheekbones, and she felt herself
flush in return as she slowly rose to her feet, realizing that
affairs had gone horribly wrong between them, worse than she had
ever imagined.

“I thought it was lust on your part,” she whispered.
“You never spoke of love.”

“I know. I was a fool to assume you knew how I
felt.”

He lay half-dead on a bed, but he was suddenly more
accessible to her than she had ever known him to be.

“You were in love with me?”

“Aye. But you insisted upon marrying Metcalf. I was
devastated. I could only guess then that you didn’t return my
love.”

“Ian, how could you think such a thing?”

“You never spoke of love either,” he replied with a
sad smile. “So I assumed you valued a title and property over the
affections of a common American.”

“Surely you knew me better than that!”

“I thought I did. But, dammit, Sophie, I couldn’t
fathom why you would choose Metcalf over me. And I knew you were
quite a little actress. I was aware there was a possibility that
you were just pretending to care for me. What was I to think?”

Sophie passed a hand over her forehead, overwhelmed
by his startling revelations. Her opinion of Ramsay had shifted
considerably.

“And all this time you thought I was dead?”

“Aye.”

“Then why did you endanger yourself going after the
Edward?”

“To avenge you.” His eyes blazed. “‘Twas the only
thing that kept me from losing my bloody mind.”

Sophie stared at him. “Ian, I never would have
guessed—”

“I rode back to Highclyffe that night after we met
on the beach.” His expression went dark with the memory. “I was
going to tell you everything, make you admit that you loved me, and
get you away from Metcalf. But by the time I got there, you had
already jumped. It was a nightmare, Sophie. A nightmare from which
I’m just now awakening.”

Sophie’s flush paled and her knees felt weak from
the shock of learning how close they’d come to each other and how
far they’d fallen away.

“The tides,” she explained. “The tides you told me
about in Loch Lemond? They swept me away in a great undertow that
night.”

He listened to her now as she filled in the part of
the story he had never imagined had transpired.

“I thought I was going to drown in that river
beneath the surface. But it didn’t drown me. It saved me. It
carried me far from the cliffs and into a small cove surrounded by
trees.”

“I know of that place,” he put in.

“A tinker found me. I was nearly dead. She saved my
life. When she saw my plaid blanket, she assumed I was of the
MacMarrie clan and took very good care of me.”

Ian nodded and his dark expression eased. “But why
did you jump in the first place?”

She sighed and looked down. “I never intended to go
through with the wedding to Edward. I was just using him to get out
of England. I was desperate, you see, because of a constable who
was after me. I didn’t think he would ever follow me to Scotland,
but he did. He had discovered my true identity. And then Edward
caught me when I was leaving Highclyffe. I was going to try to find
you, to tell you everything, and ask you to help me clear my
name.”

“You were going to come to me that night?”

“Yes. But then I learned of your plan to ruin us
all. I was astounded by the news—that you had betrayed me.” She
paused and looked at the ceiling, fighting off the vision of that
terrible night when she’d decided to take her own life. “I can’t
tell you how it shattered me, to learn that you had used me. It was
more than I could bear. I felt I had nothing left. I knew I would
be executed for a crime I did not commit, so I jumped.”

“Sophie forgive me!” He reached for her wrist and
drew her close. “I should have spoken sooner. I should have told
you everything.”

“We were both at fault, Ian. I see that now.”

Sophie reached out to caress his grizzled jaw with
her hand and gently stroked his face. She had wondered if she would
ever touch him like this once more, with his eyes blazing into
hers.

“You will forgive me, then?” he breathed.

“Yes.” Tears slid down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop
them. “I love you, Ian. I always have. I always shall.”

She felt his other arm rise to drape across her
back, urging her closer to him. Gingerly she lowered herself to his
chest, enough to feel his warmth radiating upward, but not enough
to cause him any pain with the pressure of her body. He held her to
him, and she buried her nose in the small of his shoulder, while
her own shoulders shook with sobs of joy.

“
I am the happiest man alive,” Ian
whispered in her ear. “The absolute happiest man alive.”

A week later Ian was recovered enough to leave his
bedchamber. In celebration, Lady Auliffe requested an extra special
tea to be set out in the afternoon. Sophie helped Ian to a big
wingback chair near the fire in the parlor and covered his knees
with an extra robe, while the lady of the house urged Mr. Puckett
to take a seat as well. Both her dogs insisted upon sitting at
Ian’s feet, curled up on the ends of the blanket. More content than
she had been in a long time, Sophie straightened and looked out the
window, where huge white flakes of snow drifted from the yellow
gray sky.

The sight of snow never ceased to amaze her, but she
was grateful to be safely lodged in a warm house away from the damp
flakes this time and surrounded by people she cared about and who
cared for her in return. She wondered, however, what was to become
of her once Ian healed completely. He hadn’t brought up the subject
of marriage, and she didn’t wish to rush into nuptials anyway. But
she couldn’t stay with Lady Auliffe forever. It wasn’t right or
proper, her being a maidservant treated as an equal by a member of
the English nobility.

Not once in the past three weeks had Mary Auliffe
brought up the disparity between their social ranks, and she was
grateful for the older woman’s kind broadmindedness.

Just as Lady Auliffe lifted the china tea pot, she
was interrupted by William, who appeared in the doorway and coughed
discreetly.

“Yes?” Mary Auliffe said, turning to glance at
him.

“You have a visitor, madam.”

“At this hour?” Lady Auliffe put down the pot.
“Who?”

“A Mrs. Lindner.”

“I can’t say I recognize the name.” Mary Auliffe
waved him off. “Show her in.”

She raised the pot again and had time to pour three
cups, before a short dark-haired woman bustled into the room.

At the woman’s appearance, Sophie slowly turned from
her stance by the window and her heart caught in her chest. She
hadn’t recognized the name of the woman either, but she certainly
recognized the disdainful turn of her mouth.

The visitor’s glance devoured the contents of the
room and then landed on Sophie. The woman’s expression turned more
disdainful than ever as she raked Sophie with her unforgettably
cruel stare.

Mr. Puckett rose to his feet, and Ian began to
struggle upward, but Sophie placed a hand upon his shoulder and
encouraged him to remain seated. She wouldn’t allow Ian to
needlessly strain himself on behalf of hard-hearted, ill-natured
Agnes Preston.

“Mrs. Lindner,” Lady Auliffe greeted. “Do come
in.”

“Thank you, your ladyship.” She swept across the
floor, her nose in the air, her body as compact as a frigate in
full sail. She had obviously dressed for the occasion, in a dark
blue gown heavily trimmed in black satin ribbon, complete with
black lace gloves and a blue bonnet.

“Do have a seat. We were just having tea.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it took much longer
to get here than I—”

“No trouble.” Lady Auliffe bestowed a small smile on
her. “Come, sit down next to me on the settee.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Mary handed a delicate cup and saucer to her guest.
“Now, do tell us to what do we owe the pleasure?”