The Scot
And she had made this her choice, the first of many choices that would lead to her success. She planned to be the very first totally independent wife in Britain. She would set a fine example for others.
What better place to begin her work than in the outer provinces where she could more easily prove her theory on a small scale? Once those women in the Highlands realized their power to order their own lives, others would notice. Yes, it should progress as a word-of-mouth campaign. Much more effective than trying to convey her message to hundreds at once in some meeting hall.
She looked up at her new husband, the man who would provide her with the opportunity. Amazing how unmalleable he looked at the moment, but looks could be so deceiving. No doubt she was the very picture of wifely submission in his eyes.
He leaned forward and quickly brushed his lips across her brow before she had a chance to avoid it. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Susanna smiled in spite of herself. “You’re quite welcome,” she responded automatically. One did have to observe the amenities on these occasions and he had been rather sweet and agreeable about the whole affair.
She settled back to enjoy the brief ride back to the hotel, satisfied that she had acquitted herself quite well, neatly avoided disaster and secured a way to live life to the fullest as she saw fit. This gentle bear of a man and the ring he had put on her finger would provide the validity a single woman would never possess when encouraging women to struggle against universal male domination.
I wish you could have stood your ground, too, Mother. You were simply born too soon to be a part of this. Susanna sent the silent message heavenward where she imagined Anya Childers looking down on her with pride.
James watched the play of emotions on his wife’s face with interest. Her thoughts must be skittering hither and yon like a handful of birdshot dropped on the floor.
He wished he could get inside that head of hers. Just as well he couldn’t, he supposed. Some of those thoughts might not be so flattering to himself. He’d have to fix that in due time, but not tonight.
“We shall see you to the Royal Arms, Suz, then James and I must leave,” her father was saying as if he’d read James’s mind. “It is almost dark now and we should take to the road as scheduled.”
“Aye,” James agreed. Though he would like to stay and sup with Susanna, he had to fulfill his obligation to help Eastonby. The man was his father by marriage now and James’s responsibility as surely as were the wife beside him and the good folk of Galioch and Drevers.
Susanna’s soft, slender fingers grasped his arm, pulling the wool fabric of his sleeve taut. She looked from the earl to him and back again. “Why can’t you simply take a ship, or go by train?”
“Because I have business inland on the way home. And thwarting these fellows would only delay the inevitable.”
“Please, both of you, I want you to promise—”
“Be calm, lass.” James assured her, patting the small cold hand that wore the wedding ring. “We’ll be going armed to the teeth and I confess I’m a fair shot.”
“As am I,” Eastonby bragged, his chest expanding beneath his satin striped waistcoat.
The earl fished a fancy gold watch from one of the pockets, snapped open the front and glanced down at it. “Just now half past six, my dear. Your husband should be returning to you well before nine.”
James noted the instant of panic that flashed in her eyes. “When—when will you be back in Scotland?” she asked her father. Did she know how very like a brave, wee bairn she sounded? The poor lass feared abandonment to a stranger in a place strange to her.
“He’ll be returnin’ soon, aye, sir?” James asked.
“In a month or less, I expect,” the earl said with a smile. “But I shall wait until spring to visit you in the Highlands.”
Susanna’s face fell, but James noted with pride how rapidly she managed to recover and hide her disappointment and apprehension.
“Well, then. We shall be happy to welcome you whenever you find the time,” she said politely.
“Dinna worry, lass,” James told her gently, wishing he could alleviate her fears. “We’ll keep you so busy, there’ll be no time to greet for home.”
She blinked and stared up at him as if he were Auld Clootie in disguise.
James sighed. He’d have to convince her she hadn’t wound up with the devil himself and was headed for hell. Considering his eagerness to have her and the state of the properties where they’d be going to live, he might have a wee bit of a struggle with that.
Chapter Three
Susanna wished she could beg her father not to return to London this evening. They’d had their differences, of course. Well, that was an understatement of gigantic proportions, she admitted. They’d had confrontations that stopped just short of violence, if the truth were known. But she loved him and would feel like dying herself if anything tragic happened to him. Pride stood in the way of her cautioning him fervently, however. His pride as well as her own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite allow him to go, knowing the danger involved, and say nothing. The carriage had stopped in front of their hotel and the Scot had climbed out to help her down. Before leaving her seat, she cleared her throat and spoke to her father. “You will take care on your journey, I trust.”
He smiled brightly. “Of course. And your husband will ensure nothing untoward happens, so you mustn’t worry.”
She searched his face in the light of the coach lamp, hoping for something besides the surface expression he wore. Some softening in his noble, imposing manner. Some sincere wish that she survive this marriage and some small indication that he would miss her. When she didn’t find that, she sighed impatiently and busied herself with arranging her skirts for a decorous exit.
The Scot—Garrow or James, she must remember to call him one or the other—stood waiting, his large hand offered to assist her. She took it, placed her foot upon the steps he’d let down and alighted.
“Suz, darling, we are in rather a rush to be off,” her father called, having slid over to the nearest side of the coach, his head out the window. “Won’t you be taking sweet leave of your husband before we go?”
Sweet leave? She shot him a glare over her shoulder. He wanted sweet leave did he? She experienced the wicked urge to shock her father to the marrow of his bones. Well, thanks to the Scot, she now knew how. A kiss to seal a union in a church was appropriate and perfectly acceptable, however…
She turned abruptly to face her new spouse, grasped his wrinkled cravat in one hand, stood on her toes and pulled his face down to meet hers. With her other hand, she clutched the back of his neck and planted her mouth on his.
As forcefully as she could, she ground her lips against his, opening her own, insinuating her tongue into his mouth as he had done to her. Yes, this should do it, a wild and passionate kiss under the bright street lamps directly in front of the Royal Arms Hotel. Scandalizing enough, surely!
Suddenly the Scot’s arms clasped her to him so firmly her feet left the street. Before she knew it, he’d wrested away every jot of power she exerted and took complete control of the kiss. Angling his head, he all but devoured her whole, stealing breath and thought and freedom of movement. She didn’t care. Oh, my.
On and on it went, her body plastered so tightly against his, the stays of her corset bit into her ribs and her breasts ached from the pressure of his stone-hewn chest. She breathed through her nose and the wild heathery scent of his skin filled her. His groan of pleasure vibrated through her body as if it had come from her. She returned it without thinking. Her head swam in dizzying circles, lights flashed behind her eyes. Fainting had never felt this good before.
Then his lips were parting from hers. No, she wanted to cry. Not yet. She wasn’t finished. Still holding to his neckcloth after his grip on her loosened, Susanna drew him back, kissing him more gently this time, testing, tasting, playing tongue to tongue, subtly changing position the better to feel, to gather in the sensations she craved like air.
Where his hands gripped her sides, her stays dug into her like steel rods, that pain the only thing saving her from total immersion into mind-drugging euphoria. It was then she began to notice the almost desperate flexing of those strong agile fingers, the almost audible thunder of his heartbeat against her hand that was buried in his shirt-front. A heady thrill of power overtook her. She did this to him, obviously affecting his composure as much or more than he did hers. What a marvelous revelation of newfound capabilities. What a wonder!
Susanna smiled against his mouth, abruptly let him go and pushed away. When she lifted her lashes to look up at him, he appeared quite stunned. His hands unclenched from her waist and retreated. Her own body pulsed with feeling, sang with desire, but she tamped it down as best she could.
She took a deep breath, then tossed the gaping earl a triumphant nod. “There. All done. Do have a pleasant trip, Father.”
Again she glanced up at the Scot and quickly smoothed out the fabric she’d so recently clutched in her fist. “And you, dear heart, may ride as far south as you care to. Farewell, then.”
Swinging the beaded reticule that hung from her wrist, Susanna lifted her skirts daintily with her free hand and marched briskly inside the hotel past the slack-jawed doorman.
James watched a groom bring a saddled mount for the return trip to the city and attach its long lead rope to the back of the coach. The delay proved fortunate since James had to wait a wee while before he could comfortably climb back into the coach.
He ought to turn that cheeky lassie over his knee and give her bonny backside a sound drubbing at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the uppermost wish in his heart at the moment.
There wasn’t the slightest hope that she’d give any encore performances of that kiss in private. If he thought there was a chance at all, he’d not be riding out with her da right now. The assassins down the road would have to bloody well wait a while.
She’d be a willful handful, that one, James thought, his eyes now trained on the third floor window where he hoped she would appear. Exasperated with himself for mooning like an untried lad with the first steelie beneath his kilt, James shook his head, scoffed and tore his gaze from the hotel back to the coach.
When he did manage to reenter the conveyance, he immediately noticed the earl’s consternation. It might be politic to ease the father’s mind about the daughter’s future welfare after the shocking display the lass had provided out there in the street, but James wasn’t inclined to discuss it now. Not in his present condition. That aside, he wasn’t altogether sure he could promise anything with regard to Susanna.
“You won’t beat her, will you?” the earl asked. “Even when you think she deserves it?”
James hesitated. He’d given her his word on that already and he doubted it would make a difference anyway. “Nay, I’ll not and that’s the end of it.”
But he thought to himself she could have used a swat or two when she was a bairn. Might have made life easier for her later on. And for him now that she was his. His. Well, he wouldn’t be dwelling on that until he could do something about it.
He changed the subject. “We’d best be making some sort of plan. The weapons? I have none, save a blade.” He patted the scabbard strapped just above his ankle. No self-respecting Scot felt dressed without his sghian dhub, though the knife was of little use against a firearm.
The earl fumbled around beneath the seat, opening a compartment with a small hinged door. He withdrew two pistols and handed one, butt first, to James. “Here. These should do. Webley revolvers. Five shots each. Coachman’s loaded them for us. You say you can shoot?”
James examined the newfangled gun, unlike any he’d ever seen or used. “I’ve a good eye and my aim’s true enough, but you must show me how to work the thing.”
They spent the next quarter hour discussing the assembly and operation of the repeating percussion revolver. Fascinated, James wished they had time to stop and get in a few practice shots before he was required to defend the earl’s life with this. The only pistol he’d ever fired was his father’s old brass flintlock, which he had not even thought to bring with him.
“You will keep one of these as a gift, of course,” the earl told him. “When you oust that steward of mine from Drevers, you might have need of it.”
James agreed, cocking and releasing the hammer, getting used to the feel of the weapon and sighting out the window, though he could see little for a target other than the silhouettes of trees in the distance. The moon was on the rise, full and soon to be bright enough to cast shadows, he figured.
Several miles before they reached Solly’s Copse where they expected the attack to occur, James doused the inside lamps. “So our eyes will adjust,” he explained. “No use in making ourselves lighted targets, eh?”
“Quite right. I should have considered that. It’s been some time since my army days, though even then the danger lay right in front of you, out in the open. No need for this sort of thing.”
The earl wasn’t the only one who’d never faced trouble such as this, James thought. Oh, he’d tangled in fistfights more times than he could count, got caught up in a few where blades came into it, but he’d never been obliged to dodge a ball or a bullet. “First time for everything,” he muttered.
They fell silent as they reached the short stretch of road that led through a section of fairly dense woods. The trees had been cut back enough to allow two coaches to pass one another if need be, but many of the towering oaks had spread their branches in a canopy that blocked out much of the moonlight. The coachman slowed the team to a near walk because of the lack of visibility.
James felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with a prickling sensation. He could smell the danger closing in, feel it in his bones. Ears attuned to every sound, he cursed the noise made by sixteen clopping hooves on the road. If only he could have ridden up top, but there was no room to hide there among the baggage. Two men in the driver’s box would signal they were expecting trouble.
The only advantage he and Eastonby had tonight would be surprise when the attackers realized they had two armed men well prepared to defend themselves inside the coach rather than a complacent, unarmed noble and his defenseless daughter.
A shout to halt rang out. One of the horses screamed and the coach stopped, rocking with the motion of the restless, stamping team. Someone had grabbed the leaders. If there were only the two men, at least one was busy.
“Now!” James rasped. He flung open the door and leaped out, rolling directly into the cover of the trees as a shot zinged past his ear.
He glanced up and saw that the coachman had ducked down out of sight below the seat as instructed. The earl was at the back of the coach, attempting to get around to the far side.
Suddenly the night erupted with the sound, smell and flashes of rapid gunfire. A figure dashed for the door to the coach and yanked it open. James aimed and fired. The man yelled, cursed and grabbed his right shoulder, even as he whirled and shot repeatedly into the trees where James crouched. One bullet whizzed by his head and thunked into a tree trunk just behind him. Another dinged against his boot.
Flat on the ground now, James aimed again, this time for the man’s leg. If they could take him alive, they might find out who was behind this. Just as he pulled the trigger, something stung his hand. He watched the man grasp his chest and crumple to the ground. “Damn.” Something had fouled his aim. He flexed his hand.
Then he scrambled up, left his cover and raced around the coach to find the earl. He was on one knee beside the rear wheel drawing a bead on a shadow tearing off through the trees. The shot obviously missed the mark. James threw up his pistol and simply pointed it, firing three times in rapid succession. The body crashed into the brush and lay still.
Suddenly a horse broke through the trees behind them, the rider twisted in the saddle, shooting as he rode away. James braced his gun hand with the other, took steady aim and fired, only to hear an empty click.
The earl was busy reloading, cursing the dark and his own clumsiness while the rider disappeared in the distance. Hoofbeats faded and the night fell still.
“’Tis over now, sir,” James told him and handed the earl his pistol. “But you might as well take your time and reload ’em both.”
He felt curiously light-headed and needed to sit down, but he didn’t think he could make it back inside the coach. Suddenly his legs buckled beneath him and he had no choice in the matter.
“James? What’s wrong, son?”
He lay on his back in the dirt, resting. The earl’s voice sounded far away, which was odd, he thought. Only a moment ago, he’d been nearby. And the moon was gone now. Dark as pitch, the sky.
His hands and face felt wet. Warm as it was, a bit of rain would be good. Clear the air of stench and smoke. Then pain hit from all directions at once. Not rain, he realized suddenly. It was blood. His. Blood in his eyes and on his hands.
“I’m shot!” he exclaimed with a short laugh of utter disbelief. “Th’ bloody bastards got me.”
Chapter Four
Susanna snuggled deep beneath the downy soft covers and reveled in the touch of the man who held her. His hand was pale and graceful, skimming over her body like a whisper-thin scarf, leaving pleasure in its path. “Mmm,” she crooned and arched into his gentle caresses.
She frowned when he suddenly grasped her shoulder too firmly and shook it relentlessly.
“Please, wake, my lady! I’m sent to fetch you! Hurry!”
Susanna’s eyes flew open and she bolted upright in the bed, staring in surprise at a young, unfamiliar, red-faced maid instead of the fashionably pale lover of her dream.
“It—it’s the earl come back,” the maid stammered. “He—he says tell you come quick!”
Father had returned? Something must have gone horribly wrong. Susanna threw back the covers, slipped out of bed and raced into the sitting room. But he wasn’t there.
The maid rushed past her, pointing to the other bedroom. “In there, my lady. He’s been shot! Twice!”
“Mercy, no!” Susanna cried and broke into a run. Just inside his doorway, she ran smack into him. He appeared whole and unbloodied as far as she could tell. She ran her hands over his chest. “Oh, Father! Thank goodness! The girl told me—”
He held her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Suz, James is wounded. He saved my life. Now we must do all we can to save his.”
She jerked her gaze from her father to the huge tester bed with its ornately carved posts and snowy linens. On it lay the Scot, hands clasped on his chest, stretched out like a corpse.
The back of one hand bore a small bloody gouge. Dark red stained his trousers well above his knee and a copious amount of blood, now dried, marred his high wide brow and the left side of his face. His eyes were closed and he lay motionless except for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.
Susanna crept around her father and went to the bedside. Tentatively, she lifted the unruly waves off his forehead and saw the deep ugly furrow that still seeped. “Oh, Father, it looks awful!”
“That’s not too serious, I think,” he said, now beside her as they observed. “That leg wound could be, however. The doctor’s on his way. We should get the boy undressed and wash away some of this blood.”
Susanna nodded once as she backed away. “I’ll send in someone with a basin of water and cloths. Shall I call up a footman to assist?”
Her father turned and frowned at her. “He’s your husband, Suz. Won’t you help look after him?”
“But I’ve never…I’m really not…” Helpless to continue, she held out her hands and shrugged.
“Stuff and nonsense, Suz. You’re a grown woman and married now, not some miss-ish little do-nothing. Besides,you preach strength and independence for women, so get yourself over here and help me get his clothes off.”
He shouted over his shoulder to the gawking maid. “You, girl! Bring me that ewer of water and the towel, then go wait by the door to show the doctor in when he comes!”
Susanna stood wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.
“Here, Suz,” her father ordered, “you get his shirt off. I’ll take care of the trousers.”
A bit relieved she’d been offered the upper half instead of the lower, Susanna began with trembling fingers to unbutton the wrinkled linen shirt as far as she could. There was no way to remove it other than over his head. Once committed to the task, she had to figure a way. With all the strength she could muster, she grasped the sides of the open placket and ripped the garment straight down the front.
When she parted it to pull it off his arms, she saw that he wore no under vest. Her father wore those. She remembered hemming them for him when she was learning to sew. Perhaps Scots did not fancy them, or else this man could not afford to have them made or buy one.
She tried not to notice the wide expanse of his bare chest, the mat of dark-brown hair that curled between his…well, whatever the male equivalent of those things were called. She had never before seen a man without a shirt.
Exasperated with herself, Susanna scoffed at her misplaced fascination. Gamely, she tugged the sleeves off his massive arms, trying not to dwell on the power that lay within those muscles. There. She had done it.
Gingerly, she reached out to touch him in the place where his heart must be.
Her father issued a sound of dismay and without thinking, Susanna swiveled to see what he’d found.
“Good heavens!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
“Yes, it’s worse than I feared.”
“Worse?” Susanna croaked, wide-eyed.
“The bullet’s still in there.”
“Oh. The wound.” She shook her head to clear it of the shocking sight that had captured her attention. Blinking several times, she trained her gaze on the ragged red bullet hole halfway between the knee and the…other place.
“Check his pulse,” her father ordered.
Susanna gladly turned to their patient’s neck. For a long moment, she was uncertain whether the pounding pulse at her fingertips was his or her own. She had discovered his, she decided, feeling the regularly spaced thumping. Hers was racing much faster and at a much more irregular rate. “Steady,” she managed to say.
“Good. Ah, I hear someone. Must be the doctor.”
A tall, thin man entered carrying a black case in one hand. “Well now, what have we here? Stand away and let me see.”
“He’s been shot twice,” her father told the physician. “Once in the head and once in the leg. The bullet’s still lodged in the thigh, I believe.”
The doctor looked up from the patient. “Two pounds sterling whether he survives this or not. Agreed?”
“He will survive or you’ll have no use for two pounds,” the earl said with a quiet, threatening tone Susanna had never heard him use. “What is your name, sir?”
“McNally,” the skinny physician croaked. His black eyes had widened and his face had paled. “I’m no surgeon,” he explained. “I cannot guarantee—”
“Then take your damned leeches and get the hell out of here,” the earl snapped.
The man left so quickly, Susanna barely had time to wonder what they would do now.
Her father took hold of her elbow, bared as it was by her billowing short-sleeved nightrail. “Suz, I can do this, but I’ll need your assistance. Go ahead and cast up your accounts now if your stomach feels weak. And if you faint once we start in on him, I’ll beat you when you come ’round.”
“Father!” she exclaimed, unable to recognize the man she had known all her years.