Much Ado About Marriage (3 page)

“Not if you tell me what I seek.”

After a moment, she nodded. “Fine, then. ’Tis only fair. MacLean is returning to marry.”

Damn it, his sources hadn’t mentioned a marriage. “Who is he marrying?”

She smiled, and he knew her answer before she even spoke.

“Me, Sassenach.” Her lilting voice taunted. “He comes to marry me.”

And with a rattle of stolen candelabras and a mischievous smile, she turned and fled, disappearing into the woods.

Fia hurried through the brush, glancing over her shoulder. The Sassenach would surely follow; he’d been too angry not to, but she had a goodly lead on him, so she was safe.

She crested a low slope and paused behind a thicket for a final glimpse of Duart Castle. The morning sun tossed pale streamers of light across the grassy slope around it. If she were there now, she would be rising to the familiarity of her own comfortable chamber with its red velvet hangings, heavy oak bed and bench, and thick carpets. She would be snug, warm, and safe—not hiding in the damp, cold woods from an irritated Englishman.

But Fia had had her fill of comfort and safety. She wanted excitement, the thrill of the uncertain, and the chance to prove herself without her cousin’s overbearing “assistance.”

She almost laughed out loud. She couldn’t imagine a more fortuitous beginning for her adventure. And what an adventure it was, too! At this very moment, tucked into a leather pouch and tied to the back of her horse deep in the
woods, were her treasures—the plays she had painstakingly written over the past six years.

Fia patted her sack of silver, a bubble of excitement humming through her. Already she’d met with such good fortune. Soon she’d be in London and, if fortune continued to smile, she’d be a playwright. All she had to do was escape before Duncan returned.

Her smile faded and she turned into the woods ahead. The sad truth was that Duncan had indeed decided to marry her. “Aye,” she muttered with distaste, “he’s decided to marry you to the first qualified man as stumbles through the castle gates.”

Her cousin had spent the last two years searching for a man he deemed worthy of her hand. Fortunately, Duncan’s idea of a deserving husband was a man of proud birth, possessing great wealth and capable of wielding both sword and pen.

With such a lengthy list of qualifications, Fia had felt sure that she would never be shackled.

But lately the political situation had changed, and Duncan had grown dark and quiet. The Scottish throne was at risk as Queen Mary made error after error, aligning herself with men believed to have murdered her husband.

No one liked the thought of such men holding the strings to the throne, which they would, once they held the capricious Mary under their complete power. The whispers had grown, and some of the clans were openly aligning themselves against their own queen. The rumblings of war had grown to a near-deafening level and some of the more powerful clans were only waiting to see where Clan MacLean stood before they declared. No one had more resources or trained men than Duncan, and few lairds were as well regarded.

But Duncan remained stubbornly mute on his position.

Lately more and more men arrived under cover of night, demanding and pleading that he take a stand.

Fia didn’t know where Duncan’s thoughts rested, since he refused to discuss it even with her, which hurt her feelings mightily. But her cousin was a wily leader of their clan, and whatever was holding his tongue, ’twas for the good of them all.

Still, lately she’d caught him eying her with a considering gaze, and twice he’d said plainly that she would be safer elsewhere than Duart Castle.

Fia feared she knew the reason why; Duncan wished her away from Duart should there be war. And if that were the case, he might become far less exacting in selecting her a husband.

She grimaced.
Who needs a husband? Unless the man can sponsor my plays, I would be no better off than I am now
. She hurried deeper into the woods, the woody scent of the forest tickling her nose. She knew the path well and didn’t hesitate, pausing only once to pluck ripe berries from a nearby bush and pop the sweet morsels into her mouth.

Her plan was to go down the path to the shore, where maid Mary and her husband would be waiting with the skiff. Then to the mainland, and on to London.

Ah, London!
She shivered with excitement, her resolve firming even more. To take control of her own fortune, that was where she must go. Queen Elizabeth was a strong patron of the arts, especially the theater. Any playwright worth her salt would head to the queen’s court, where opportunity awaited.

It was a pity she hadn’t thought to question the Sassenach about the English court. As pompous and arrogant as he
seemed, ’twas possible he’d visited it. She grimaced at her lost opportunity—though she knew from the Sassenach’s kiss, she knew that there’d be a cost to such questioning.

She touched a finger to her lips, marveling at how they still tingled. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind paying such a cost. She’d shared kisses before, but none had sent her heart racing like the Sassenach’s.

Sadly, ’twas a waste of time to think of the Sassenach, for she’d never see him again. She hurried along the path, the damp leaves muffling her booted steps. Yet still, the memory of that kiss slipped into her thoughts.

’Twould be good fortune indeed if the Sassenach were a real lord, and knew Queen Elizabeth, and could ask her directly to—

But no. ’Twouldn’t help her one jot even if he
were
a real English lord. ’Twas easy to see he was too self-involved to bother with a mere playwright like herself. And even if he were not so clutch-hearted, ’twas highly unlikely the man would forgive her for knocking him out of a window
and
stealing his purse. One or the other, perhaps, but not both, and especially not both on the same day.

She sighed wistfully. The handsome thief was probably a very pleasant companion when his head didn’t ache and his coins were still safely tucked in his belt.

“Och, Fia, you’ve gone daft,” she said sternly. “For all you know, there could be a soul as black as the bottom of a kettle beneath that handsome exterior.”

Something flickered at the corner of her vision and she paused and looked about, but nothing moved in the thick woods. A faint twinge of disappointment went through her. The Sassenach hadn’t even attempted to follow; she’d thought he had more spirit than that.

She settled the heavy bag on her other shoulder and glanced at the sky, where a growing brightness crept through the trees. The tide would be rising by now. She continued on, stepping lightly over thick ferns, fallen leaves, and broken tree limbs. Her leather boots made very little noise on the moss-covered path, each step stirring sweet pine scent into the air. A swirl of morning mist crept along the ground and the grove looked as if it had been touched with an ancient magic.

It would have been easy to believe she walked through an enchanted forest. The entire scene would have made a wonderful setting for a play, perhaps one about a fairy queen who’d fallen in love with—

A band of steel clamped about her arm. Fia gasped as she was yanked against a newly familiar broad chest.

A deep voice murmured into her ear, “Where are you off to now, my little thief? Looking for another fool to fleece?”

“Nay, I’ve reached my limit of reiving for the day.”

“I’m surprised a wench like you has any limits.” His warm breath brushed her cheek. “What? No sharp retort? No hidden knife?” The lazy voice was cutting her to shreds.

Desperation whipped her into action. With a lithe twist, Fia shoved her bag into Thomas’s broad chest and whirled to make her escape as she fumbled at her waist for her knife.

She took only three steps before his body crashed into hers, tumbling both of them to the ground. Her knife, knocked from its sheath, came to rest under a bush.

He lay atop her, his breath warm on her cheek, his huge body pressing her into the soft earth.

Fia gasped, struggling for air.

“I daresay you wish for your trusty knife, but alas, I can’t allow you to have it. Not until we’ve reached an understanding.”

“I . . .” She struggled mightily with each word. “I . . . cannot . . . breathe—”

Immediately, he raised himself on his elbows.

She gulped in the cool morning air, the spots before her eyes disappearing.
Ah
,
much better
. The only trouble was that now she was freed from his weight, she was far too aware of his warm body over hers, his thigh pressing between her legs in the most intimate way.

She drew a shuddering breath. “You nearly killed me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Thomas’s hands slid over her throat, pushing aside her hair in what seemed more a caress than a threat.

Her panting increased at the feel of his warm skin on hers. “’Twould be a grievous error to murder me. The women of my family have a tendency to go a-ghosting if they are done away with in a foul manner.”

His gaze locked with hers. “A-ghosting?”

“Aye. I’d be dressed in flowing white and keening at the top of my lungs. ’Tis not a sight you would enjoy.” She couldn’t help but give a wee grin at his expression.

To her surprise, he smiled warmly. “I can do without the keening, comfit, though the thought of you dressed in a flowing white gown is quite another matter.” His gaze boldly lingered on the fullness of her breasts, which pulled the thin fabric of her dress taut. “Especially if your ghostly gown showed off your impressive attributes in a more seductive manner.”

Fia flushed. She had bought this dress from the village laundress, a gown someone had forgotten and left behind
by the river. Plain and homespun, it was the perfect disguise. She hadn’t expected the garment to fit so snugly.

The heavy purse nestled between her breasts did little to ease the strain on its lacings. The thought of the Sassenach’s gold brought her grin back in full measure. “I’m sure I’d be a pleasing ghostie, dressed in a fashionable sort of way just to tempt your fancy.” She snorted inelegantly and wished he would rise. It was difficult to converse at such a close distance, especially with a man who had such warm brown eyes flecked with amber. “I might wear ghosting white, but ’twill be a thick fabric, and ragged—so you can stop your wishful thinking.”

“Well, then, rags it is. On a wench like you, though, rags might not be so unattractive.” His breath was warm and sweet near her ear, and she shivered.

“Attractive?” She regretted the wistful tone of her voice instantly. “Just what do you mean by ‘a wench like you’?”

A smug smile settled on the Sassenach’s face. “What do you think? And don’t tell me the laird is coming to marry you, for I’ll not believe it. While ’tis possible the MacLean is on the verge of finding himself wed, he would never marry a common maid.”

“Och, you—!”

“I’m just speaking the truth. I think you are angered to be losing your protector, so you stole away with a small fortune in your sack.”

“How wise you are, my Lord Lackwit.” If sarcasm were gold, she would have just made her fortune. “Though I took some silver from MacLean, ’tis more in the line of a loan.”

He chuckled. “And I suppose you were sneaking out at dawn merely for the fun of it.”

“And to keep the servants from knowing which direc
tion I took. I have my own silver, but cannot access it.” She’d have taken silver candlesticks from her own household goods, but they were stored in trunks deep in the castle hold, awaiting her eventual marriage.

“You are a foolishness, but a sweet one.” He ran a finger over the rough fabric that stretched across her breasts. “This, milady thief, is neither silk nor brocade.”

The sensations his wandering touch created were unbearable. Fia bit her lip to keep him from seeing her weakness, but her breasts were not so easily tamed. Her nipples hardened and peaked, as though eager for him to repeat the touch.

His grin widened. He captured one of her hands, running his thumb over her ink-stained fingers. “And this is not the hand of a lady.”

She clenched her fist. “If you wait much longer, Duncan himself will come and tell you exactly who I am. Neither of us would benefit from that.”

“I’d enjoy seeing MacLean’s face when you explain how you came to possess his best candlesticks,” he retorted. “But I suppose you’re right and I shouldn’t tarry.”

“Then leave. I’m not stopping you.”

“Oh, but you are. I came for my gold, little thief. Hand it over and we’ll part ways.” His gaze drifted over her, lingering on her bottom lip.

Fia noticed with rising trepidation and excitement that Thomas’s eyes glimmered with the heat of sun-drenched moors. She couldn’t let this go any farther. As muddled as he made her feel, if he attempted to kiss her or more, she’d not have the strength to refuse him. She’d never seen such a handsome man, and his touch instantly turned her bones to butter.

It had taken every bit of her resolve to halt his kiss in the garden, and she doubted she could do it again. She simply hadn’t had much experience with kissing and such; Duncan had seen to that. Even now she grimaced at the memory of what her cousin had done to the Duke of Argyll’s youngest son when he’d stolen a very brief kiss. But not even the handsome son of the Duke of Argyll had left her aching and breathless the way the Sassenach’s touch did.

She couldn’t allow him to kiss her again, or it would prove her undoing. Still, she wasn’t about to hand over her hard-won gold.

To buy time while she found a solution, she blurted out, “My great-grandmother is a real ghost, you know.” She could tell by the flicker of interest in his eyes that she had his attention, so she quickly pressed on. “My mam flitters across Loch Buie, howling and a-moaning, scaring the people of the village nigh to death. She wears a gray gown, I think. Or perhaps ’tis brown—”

“Cease your prattling, comfit.” His eyes glimmered with humor as he flicked a careless finger over her cheek. “I won’t be distracted from my gold.”

“Och, no. I just thought you might wish to know what the blurry figure is who waits for you when you go to sleep at night. She’s a tenacious ghost, she is, and not for the unwary.”