The Bridegroom Read online

  “The duke sent you to watch over her?” Clay confirmed, feeling a flush of anger spread upward from his throat.

  “Aye, milorrrd. He couldna be surrre ye didna wish the lass ill. I suspected Terrrrence when the skiff sank, but I didna see him do it. I’m only sorrrry I didna say somethin’ before the lass was hurrrt.”

  “Do you know where Terrence is now?” Clay asked.

  “Aye. That’s why I came huntin’ ye, milorrrd. He’s in the barrrn, saddling a horrrse.”

  “Find Pegg,” Clay ordered as he headed for the stairs. “And bring him with you to the barn.”

  Clay did not know why he had not suspected sooner. Why he had not seen the truth when it was right under his nose. He had been searching for Cedric Ambleside ever since his return, had known the man must be somewhere nearby. And he was.

  The scarred man was the same height as Cedric Ambleside. Had the same hazel eyes, though one rarely looked past the scars on his face to see them. What was left of his hair had gone completely gray, and where he had been soft before from sitting behind a desk, now he was muscular and wiry. But once Clay was willing to consider the possibility, it seemed horrifyingly obvious: Terrence was Cedric Ambleside.

  When Clay arrived in the barn, his certainty faded. The scarred man did not look like a murderer. He looked like a humble servant. Which was probably why he had remained undetected for so long, Clay realized, once the burns—and how had he gotten them?—had disfigured him enough to disguise his true identity.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Ambleside.”

  The scarred man froze. And Clay realized he had his man.

  “How did you get burned?” Clay asked.

  Mr. Ambleside continued saddling the horse, buckling the cinch and laying the stirrup back down over it. “I was hiding in the attic of a tavern—after being shot and left for dead by Blackthorne—and it burned down.”

  “The duke shot you?” Clay exclaimed.

  “Fortunately, the bullet hit my watch instead of my heart,” Mr. Ambleside said. “As you see, I have been quite disguised for the past twelve years.”

  “And continuing to cause mayhem wherever you go,” Clay accused.

  Mr. Ambleside ceded him the matter with a tip of his head. “However, I believe I have accomplished what I set out to do here. Blackthorne will never stop hounding you now, and while his attention is focused on you, it is diverted from me. It is time to take my leave.”

  Clay shook his head. “Not this time.”

  Mr. Ambleside pulled a pistol from the bag that was tied to the saddle and pointed it at Clay. “My argument was never with you,” he said. “You were only a means to harm my half brother, the Duke of Blackthorne.”

  “You and Blackthorne are brothers?” Clay asked incredulously.

  “I am the bastard son who was kept hidden and never acknowledged,” Mr. Ambleside said. “I should have had half of everything Blackthorne owns in Scotland. That is the law here. The bastard inherits equally with the legitimate son. But my father made certain my existence was never acknowledged. And my brother has done nothing to remedy the situation.”

  “He made you his steward,” Clay said. “He put you in charge of his estates in Scotland. You had control of everything. You lived comfortably and well.”

  “I deserved more,” Mr. Ambleside said.

  “So you tried to murder your half brother and steal away his land,” Clay said. “And involved me in your plot.”

  Mr. Ambleside shrugged. “You were young and gullible. A convenient tool. My plan would have worked, if those fools had killed Blackthorne before they threw him off his ship and into the sea.”

  “Your murdering days are over,” Clay said.

  “I am the only one holding a pistol,” Mr. Ambleside pointed out.

  “Look again,” Clay said.

  Mr. Ambleside’s eyes darted from side to side. Pegg stood at one door to the barn with a pistol. MacTavish stood at the other with a shotgun. Mr. Ambleside aimed his pistol at Clay’s heart and said, “Tell them to leave, or I will shoot you where you stand.”

  Clay realized Ambleside had nothing to lose. He was a dead man whether he tried to leave and got shot, or gave up his gun and got hung. That made him dangerous.

  MacTavish signaled Clay that he planned to fire the shotgun into the air. In that instant, Clay leapt forward, tackling Ambleside, fighting him for his pistol. The two men rolled on the ground, as Clay tried to keep the gun aimed away from his face.

  Ambleside’s finger was locked in the trigger, and Clay knew he was waiting for the chance to pull it. They were rolling around so much, there was no way Pegg or MacTavish could shoot without taking the chance of hitting Clay.

  “I might have forgiven you for what you did to me,” Clay said through gritted teeth, as he turned the gun from his chest toward Ambleside’s heart. “But never for what you did to my wife.”

  The pistol fired.

  Clay saw the shock in Ambleside’s eyes and realized the older man had accidentally pulled the trigger. The ball had hit him in the heart—he could see Ambleside’s watch had not saved him this time—and the light died quickly from his eyes. He was dead within moments.

  Clay raised himself from the villain’s body and stood on shaky legs staring down at Cedric Ambleside. He was such a small man to have caused so much harm.

  Pegg kicked Ambleside’s ribs, as though to assure himself the man would not rise up again. MacTavish spit on him.

  “Good rrriddance,” the Scotsman said.

  Clay realized suddenly that it was still light outside. It felt like he had been gone from the house for hours. In reality, the confrontation with Ambleside—for which he had waited twelve years of his life—had taken only a few minutes. “Will you two take care of him?” he said. “I need to find out how my wife is faring.”

  Clay waited barely long enough to see Pegg’s nod before he was gone. He ran most of the way to the house and bounded up the first few stairs before he stopped, paralyzed by fear.

  Please let her be all right, he prayed.

  When had God ever answered his prayers?

  Clay forced himself to walk the rest of the way up the stairs and down the hall to Reggie’s bedroom door. It was still closed.

  When at least another half hour had passed, Mrs. Stephens opened the door and stepped outside, closing it behind her. “The doctor would like to speak with you now, milord. I will be bringing a tray to her ladyship. Will you be wanting to eat supper downstairs this evening?”

  “I will dine with my wife in her room,” Clay replied. “Please have something sent up for both of us.”

  “Very well, milord,” Mrs. Stephens said.

  Clay was not sure what to expect when he entered Reggie’s bedroom. But he was astonished to see her sitting up, wide awake, several pillows stacked behind her. Her hair was neatly combed and had been caught up in a knot of curls at her crown. She was wearing a simple white cotton nightdress, and her arm was angled in front of her, resting in a cloth sling.

  What he found most difficult to credit was the smile on her face.

  “Dr. Wren has been telling me that I need only stay in bed for a couple of days, my lord,” she said brightly.

  He took the few steps that brought him to her side and said, “You are certainly looking … better.” Better was definitely the right choice of word. To say, “You are looking well,” would not have been correct. She was no longer as pale as milk, but her right cheek had been scraped raw by the fall, and there were several small cuts on her forehead, nose, and chin.

  He was sorry Ambleside was dead. He wished the villain were alive, so he could kill him again.

  “It turns out Terrence was Mr. Ambleside,” he told her.

  “Good Lord! How did you discover him?”

  “MacTavish saw him tip the ladder out from under you. When I confronted him, he admitted the truth.”

  She smiled wanly. “See. It helps to hire a gatekeeper to keep an eye on things.”

&nb
sp; “Your gatekeeper was sent here by the Laird of Clan MacKinnon with orders to keep an eye on you.”

  Reggie started to laugh, but gasped instead and grabbed her ribs with her good hand. “Please don’t make me laugh. But it is a wonderful joke.”

  He could see she was in a great deal of pain, though it was equally plain she was going to some effort to make it seem like less than it was. But the tightness of her mouth and the careful way she held her body gave her away.

  “May I speak with you privately for a moment, my lord?” Dr. Wren said.

  “Excuse us, please, Reggie. I will return as soon as I have seen the doctor on his way.”

  “Promise me you won’t allow him to sentence me to stay in bed any longer than he already has,” Reggie said.

  From the sudden flush on the doctor’s cheeks, Clay realized that that was precisely what Dr. Wren must have intended. Clay shot Reggie a grin and said, “No matter what the doctor says, you will stay in that bed until I am convinced you are well enough to leave it.”

  “But, you cannot—”

  That was as much as Clay heard of her protest before he and the doctor were outside in the hall with the bedroom door closed behind them.

  “Now, doctor. What is it you did not wish to say in front of my wife.”

  “Lady Carlisle is in very good condition, considering the height from which she fell, my lord. But I am concerned that there may be some damage inside. Several of the bruises, especially those low on her back, are quite severe. You will need to watch through the night and make certain they do not become any larger.”

  “And if they do?”

  The doctor looked grave. “It will mean she is still bleeding inside and needs the assistance of a surgeon. Unfortunately, the local surgeon has gone to visit his mother in Glasgow. Even if you sent someone for him this very moment, he could not return in time to save your wife.”

  Clay felt his throat tighten. “Are you saying my wife may die?”

  “If the bleeding continues unchecked, it is a possibility.”

  “Is there nothing anyone can do?”

  “I am very sorry, my lord,” the doctor said. “I have done all I can.”

  “When will I know for sure if she is bleeding inside?” Clay asked.

  “If she survives the night, you may take it as a sign that she will ultimately recover,” the doctor replied.

  “My wife is with child,” Clay said.

  “There was no bleeding to indicate she is in danger of losing the child. If your wife lives, I see nothing to suggest the child will not be born healthy and whole.”

  “What can I do? What should I do?”

  “Keep her calm and warm,” the doctor said. He hesitated, met Carlisle’s dark gaze and added, “But if there is anything you would like to say to her, I would say it now.”

  Chapter 21

  Clay loved his wife. And hated her father. Should he contact Blackthorne and let him know his daughter might die? If he did nothing, he would have his revenge. Blackthorne would lose his child without ever having the chance to bid her farewell, just as Clay had lost his wife and son.

  But when he thought of denying Reggie the solace of her father in what might be the last hours of her life, Clay felt a stab of pain that was as real as a knife piercing flesh.

  “Can you get the door for me, milord?” Mrs. Stephens asked. The housekeeper had returned with two maids, each carrying a tray piled high with what Clay could see were Reggie’s favorite foods. Mrs. Stephens carried a third tray that contained a teapot, two chipped china cups, and unmatched saucers.

  Clay followed the three of them into Reggie’s bedroom. Mrs. Stephens supervised the arrangement of a tray on short legs that fit over Reggie’s lap, then asked, “Where would you like me to put your tray, milord?”

  “On the foot of the bed, Mrs. Stephens,” Clay replied.

  One of the maids collected the chair that sat at Reggie’s dressing table and carried it over to set it next to his tray, then both maids curtsied and left the room.

  “Shall I pour, milord?” Mrs. Stephens asked, standing beside the tea tray she had placed on the dressing table.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Stephens. I can manage.”

  A moment later they were alone in Reggie’s room.

  Clay watched as Reggie looked at each delicacy that had been provided and rejected them one by one. He had been worried before, but Reggie with no appetite was reason for concern. “Is nothing to your taste?”

  “You must know they are all my favorite dishes,” she said with a sigh. “I am simply more tired than hungry, my lord.”

  “You must eat something for the baby’s sake.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I can. Did the doctor say the baby is all right?”

  “He said the baby will be fine.”

  “I am so glad,” she said with a smile. “So very glad. I want so much to have your child, for us to be a family.”

  And then her joy dimmed, and he knew she was remembering everything that had led up to her accident. As he was remembering himself. He had told her that he would come and take the child from her when it was born. And then he had abandoned her, as he had promised himself he would.

  “Why did you come back here today, after I left you at the glen?” he asked.

  “I had not finished the task I had set for myself,” she said. “The windows …”

  He glanced at her bedroom window, which allowed no starlight, no moonlight—and tomorrow would allow no sunlight—to stream into the room.

  He did not know how to tell her that he loved her. He did not know how to tell her that nothing mattered if she was not a part of his life. His throat felt tight, and his nose stung with the threat of tears.

  “I have ordered new windowpanes,” he said.

  It was a plea for absolution. And a promise for the future.

  She reached out and clasped his hand. “Thank you, Clay. That is the nicest gift you have ever given me.”

  There was an even greater gift he could give.

  “I thought I might invite your father to come visit you here at Castle Carlisle,” he said.

  “Oh, Clay,” she said, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you saying you want everything between the two of you settled now? Tonight?”

  “Yes,” Clay said.

  “Then by all means, summon my father,” Reggie said. “The sooner things are mended between you, the better.”

  “Will you eat something while we wait for him?” he asked.

  Reggie wrinkled her nose at him. “Must I?”

  “I think for your sake—and the baby’s—you must.” Clay broke off a piece of cherry tart and held it to her lips. “It is sweet,” he promised. “Eat.”

  She sucked the cherry from between the flaky crust, then licked the pastry and leftover sauce from his fingers. She shot him an impish look that told him she knew that however aroused she might make him, there was nothing he could do, when she was all over cuts and bruises from her fall.

  Clay left her long enough to explain the situation to MacTavish, making it clear that if Blackthorne wished to be certain he would see his daughter alive, he must come at once.

  He spent the next two hours, while he waited for the duke to arrive, entertaining Reggie. He managed to coax her to eat a few spoonfuls of leek soup, some stewed haddock, and nearly half a bowl of Mother’s Eve pudding, before Mrs. Stephens and the two maids came to take the trays away.

  Reggie was obviously sleepy, but Clay had seen too many sailors, who had fallen from high in the masts and hit their heads, go to sleep and never wake up again. He wanted her to stay awake at least long enough to bid her father good-bye. Even if she did not realize that was what she was doing.

  “Stay awake, Reggie,” he said, adjusting the pillows behind her. “It cannot be long now until your father arrives.”

  “Please, Clay. I must sleep.”


  “You have not kissed me good night,” he said, in a desperate attempt to distract her.

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips.

  He stared at her and laughed.

  She opened her eyes, saw his smirk, and said, “Take it now or lose it forever.”

  She had no idea how prophetic her words might be. Clay braced his arms on either side of her, then leaned down and kissed her softly on the mouth. She was infinitely sweet. The Mother’s Eve pudding, no doubt. He kissed her again and tasted cherries. And again, and tasted sweetness and goodness and all the things she meant to him.

  Clay felt Reggie’s hand in his hair, felt her lips soften as she responded to him. He did not dare to touch her anywhere. There was nowhere she was not scratched or bruised. But he could kiss her lips. So he did.

  Gentle kisses. Nibbling kisses. Long, deep, sensuous kisses. Delicate kisses. Passionate kisses.

  “Clay,” she murmured. “I ache.”

  “I am sorry, love,” he said, willing to abandon even this small pleasure, if he was hurting her.

  But she circled his neck with her arms and pulled him back to her, whispering, “I yearn. I need. I desire.”

  And then she kissed him. Soft, subtle kisses on either side of his mouth. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth and nibbled it with her teeth. She thrust her tongue deep into his mouth.

  “Reggie,” he said in a raw voice. “I ache.”

  “Good,” she whispered in his ear. “I want you always to remember what waits for you here in this bed … as soon as I am well.”

  That was how her father found them.

  Clay stood abruptly and took a step back from the bed. “I assume MacTavish told you what happened.”

  Blackthorne surveyed his daughter and made a tsking sound as he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. “Climbing on a ladder, my girl. That is easily as reprehensible as sliding down knotted sheets.”

  “This is not as bad as it looks,” Reggie said.

  “I am glad to hear that, because it looks awful,” her father replied with a crooked smile.

  “Papa, Clay invited you here tonight to make peace. Will you not greet him? Will you not shake his hand?”