ESCAPE TO LOVE

By

Carolyn Hinchy-Wertman

© copyright January 2006, Carolyn Hinchy-Wertman

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006

ISBN 1-58608-814-9

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

CHAPTER ONE

Near Newcastle, England 1643

Above, a full silver moon illuminated the night from a starless sky, speckled by scattered dark clouds, as its gray beams stretched over the barren land in ghostly fashion. On a narrow path that twisted through the damp leaves and thick trunks of trees, Celine Hollingsworth fled. Thorn-like branches grabbed the strands of her hair as it billowed behind her. They tore at the bloodied nightgown against her battered body. Rocks sliced at the soft flesh of her feet, tore the skin, and left her blood on the leaves as a marker of her passage. White-hot pain seared her with every step, every movement.

She cared little where the path led, only that each step brought her closer to freedom, and further from the nightmare that held her captive for nearly two years.

The echo of horses’ hooves somewhere in the night held her to her place, listening intently as fear set her body to trembling. She slid in the thick sludge as she struggled to maintain her balance. The wind entwined her gown to her body, and pressed her hair to her face. Its might slowed her progress. She staggered, and fell to her knees.

Again the clamor of hooves resounded somewhere in the night. The wind seemed to distort the sounds. One instant Celine was convinced they came from deep in the woods, the next from close by. Confused, she darted with abandon along the road.

Low dense clouds moved before the moon, casting the earth into a shroud of darkness. For a moment she stood frozen, unsure where the trees began and the roadway ended. The thunderous din at her back sent an icy chill along her spine.

The clouds parted for an instant, as she twisted about, and a scream rose in her throat. From the darkness came a monster ... with giant bat-like wings flapping in the wild wind. Hidden in a voluminous cowled hood, features were engulfed in shadow. Haunting eyes impaled her, gripping her with tendrils of fear as the beast bore down upon her. Fear saturated her as she gazed at the massive form unable to determine whether real or imagined. She was certain fire spewed from its nostrils. Again her distress escaped her lungs in a ragged whimper, however, was silenced before it could be released.

Sinewy bulk crashed against her. Her body pulsated in pain. Bones snapped along her ribs, and the air rushed from her lungs. She tried to duck; to curl into a tight ball as the beast drove its might against her forehead. Torturous agony surged through her brain. Consciousness left her long before her body sprawled in the thick mire.

* * * *

Astride his mount, Michael Aberdeen hunkered lower in the folds of his cloak. He closed his eyes against the bite of the wind. For a moment he reined his steed, and ceded to the strength of the gale, too tired to fight it. Thus, he braced against the wrath of God. A frown furrowed his lips as he struggled to raise his hand to keep the hood of his cloak from flailing behind him.

Were there an inn he would have sought it out, grateful for its warmth and shelter. Yet he knew he would find no reprieve from the night until he reached his destination. His dark cape lashed on the currents of the wind. Hidden in the deep hood, he was certain his appearance mirrored his sinister mood. The night alone would have soured him. The mission he found himself on left a bitter taste in his mouth long before he braved the forces of the wind. Each mile closer his destination only increased the scowl on his face, and the anger seething within him.

If not for his father he would never have ventured out on such a night. Already three days late due to a storm at sea, he found himself with little choice. His bride awaited, and no further excuses to the elder lord would keep him from his destiny. If not for the promise of the lands to be had with this imminent marriage, he would have fought being tied down. He had no love for the woman betrothed to him; in fact, he had only laid eyes on her a half dozen times many years passed. Still he was not naive. Unions of love were rare. What mattered were the things his future wife brought as a dowry, a sizable acreage of land bordering the Aberdeen estates. It was the bride price, and a minor sacrifice to ensure her wed to a man with a name that met with her family’s standards.

For Michael, marriage came at a time when he loathed the thought of settling down. He made no protests. It would have done little good. The marriage was agreed upon when he was no more than a child, his intended an infant at her mother’s breast. Over the years, many gifts were exchanged to seal the bargain. There would be no change of plans now.

With great reluctance, he kicked at the horse’s flanks, and goaded him into a sprint. They fought the tempest, both with heads down and shoulders drawn forward. At last the road turned, and granted a reprieve for a short time as the wind moved to their backs. Though not eager to be on his way, he spurred the ebony mount beneath him and sent the steed into a full gallop over the dark road.

Leaves danced before horse and rider, scattered in thick clusters as their wet surfaces clung together. Haunting moonbeams skimmed along the road, through the spiny branches of the trees, and over the dark shadows. Horse and rider all but flew atop the muddied surface. Thick clumps of mire scattered into the night behind them. The wind pressed Michael’s cape to his body, molded it to him, and then changed direction to flay it into the darkness behind him.

For a moment thick clouds moved before the moon and snuffed out its light. Swallowed by the gloom, he did not slow in his pace, for the road was familiar, having been ridden many times in his youth. Several seconds elapsed before a slender ray of silver filtered through the trees. It illuminated the span of road just in front of the steed.

Too late Michael glimpsed the wraith-like figure that wove along the path only a hair’s breath from where his mount’s hooves thundered. He reined, but could not stop the impact. In his chest, his heart somersaulted as a scream rent the air from the one beneath the heavy charger. A vain attempt was made to sidestep, though it mattered little. Michael felt his stomach lurch as the body impacted with his steed. He twisted about to spy the form of his victim, now rolling against the sodden surface of the road. His leg over the horse’s back before the animal had come to a complete stop; he staggered through the mire to the still figure.

Michael’s knees buckled. His breath lodged in his throat. Nausea threatened. His fingers shook as he gripped the thin cloth twisted about the huddled form. With tender care he rolled the body. Wild tangles of hair obscured his view of his victim’s face. Trembling fingers brushed at the mass. Beneath the muddied tresses appeared the bloodstained visage of a young woman.

What was left of her gown gave her little in the way of modesty. The coarse material had rent from her back, leaving her exposed to the waist. The front, stained crimson, and entwined with bits of leaves and bark sagged low over her bosom. Michael felt his stomach lurch once more as he gazed at the bloodied material. Frantic, he searched her for the wounds that warranted such blood loss. Though scratched and battered, he could find no injury severe enough to justify the crimson fluid against her. Only a long gash on her lower arm hinted as the culprit. But that wound had been wrapped in dirty cloth, and was caked with dried blood. Nor did it seem extensive enough to have caused such a massive flow of blood. Only a fresh gash to her forehead, and the darkening bruises to her shoulders signified the impact with his mount.

With a careful hand Michael reached to the woman’s throat. The slow beat of her heart, though faint, fluttered beneath his fingers. Relief flooded him and a ragged breath escaped his lips. At least she was alive. “I’m sorry....” he whispered. “I never saw you until my mount was upon you.” In response her head lolled to the side. Again he sought a pulse. Still it beat.

Michael dragged his hand over the length of his face, and then rested back on his haunches. The weather alone should have been an omen this night was ill fated. Had he protested this journey, just until the storm passed, none of this would have happened. Yet ... no one disobeyed Michael’s father. The storm was an inconvenience ... not an excuse. He knew better than delay this meeting. Not even a lengthy stay in India gave him argument against his father’s demand he return home to face his fate.

At last he rose, and pulled the woman into his arms with gentle care. She moaned in agony, the sound tearing at him. Even in her unconsciousness her pain was evident. Michael leaned close, his lips just above her ear. “I have to get you help. There is no way to avoid the pain.” His eyes searched her face, and he shook his head. “Greenhearst Manor is not far.” He spoke more for the sound of his voice, it being the only familiar thing to calm him. He knew the woman did not hear, or comprehend his words.

Close to two miles further down the road, the glow of candlelight in the windows of Greenhearst Manor was a welcome sight. Though relieved to see the gray stone fortress, a lump formed in the pit of his stomach. He did not look forward to this meeting. Now, as he glanced at the limp figure in his arms, he knew it would be even more strained than he anticipated. Somehow he doubted his betrothed would welcome him with open arms, now three days late, and another woman in his embrace. He sucked in a deep breath. Slow in his dismount Michael gazed up at the imposing edifice. In days passed a stronghold, it lacked warmth. One wing, lost to a fire many years passed, remained ruins, having never been repaired. Its cold façade should have been a warning. Reluctant to enter, Michael braced against the savage wind. Only the moans of discomfort from the woman in his arms forced him to move forward. At the stoop, he peered down at her for several seconds. “Explaining my tardiness will be hard enough. I’m afraid you will be an entirely unbelievable story.”

For a moment he raked his gaze over her attire, or lack there of. A weary sigh escaped his lips, and he lowered her to the ground before slipping his cape from his shoulders. Wrapping the warm material about her, he swept her back into his arms. One more long, slow breath, and he tugged the pull-cord beside the door, and listened with pursed lips to the chimes that rang within the manor.

* * * *

Marguerite Haverston bolted from her chair at the sound, startled from a lengthy session of chewing at her lower lip. It was only the stern frown from her mother that held her to her place. Nervous, she smoothed her gown, trying in vein to seem calm and in control. An eternity elapsed before she nodded to the liveried butler. “Alistair, we have a visitor.”

Marguerite pursed her lips in nervous agitation. Her body trembled and she twisted her fingers in the skirt of her gown to keep her hands from shaking. Several years separated her last encounter with Michael Aberdeen, and she wanted to assure herself their first meeting since her childhood was perfect. Yet, he was late. Every dress in her wardrobe adorned her body at least twice. Each was discarded for another. At last she settled for a gown of deep plum, which she hoped would capture his attention and imagination. The bodice was cut low, revealing a goodly amount of her bosom. Her mother noted the display with chagrin, though she said nothing aloud. Marguerite scoffed at her disapproval. Whether the betrothal was binding or not, she wanted Michael to be captivated the instant he set eyes upon her.

Waiting for the frail old butler to answer the door, Marguerite perused her image in the silvered glass of the tall mirror that dominated the wall opposite the portal. Beauty was one of her most treasured gifts. At ten and seven she possessed more maturity in her body than most girls her age. Her hair was dark, cascading over pale shoulders in thick ringlets that bounced with each movement she made. Equally sooty lashes fringed eyes like pools of black onyx.

For a moment she lifted her chin, and peered at her reflection for any imperfection. Much to her content she found none. Hers was a timeless beauty, kept by countless hours before the mirror. Giving a quick flick of her head, she watched her curls sway and bounce in the silvered glass. Her cheeks were high, accenting full sensuous lips and a slender slightly aristocratic nose. Pale skin, pampered by many hours of sleep, and little manual labor, glowed in the soft candlelight. Full breasts threatened to overflow the bodice of her gown, and shapely hips, accented her narrow waist. Wasn’t she always the topic of conversation at every event? Many envied her beauty. Marguerite dared admit only to herself she had knowledge of such things as a result of careful eavesdropping.

* * * *

Not sparing the time to announce himself, Michael pushed passed the butler and bore his burden to a nearby chaise, a path of mud left in his wake. He cared little that the butler followed with arms akimbo. “How dare you enter here?” The annoyance in his voice was evidence of his outrage. His fingers encircled Michael’s sleeve.

In no mood for the man’s foolish games, Michael jerked from the servant’s grasp and turned his back on him as he placed his bundle on the long couch. “Send for the barber surgeon. This girl was trampled by my mount, and needs be tended to before she succumbs to her wounds.”

The older man snorted as he pulled at the hem of his waistcoat and straightened it over his round belly. His balding head glowed red with his rising anger. “This is not the local inn, sir!” He said. “You have no right to barge in here as if you belong.”

Seething, Michael faced the domestic and towered over him. “Be damned! She might die!” He leaned close enough to glimpse the sweat that beaded on the butler’s face. “Send for the surgeon at once.” The elder man scampered several feet away, his fear etched in his features as he glanced to Michael’s balled fists.

Though he had given little more than a glance to the room, now Michael scoped it as he sought a familiar face. His future mother-in-law remained to her chair, her lips drawn and tight, and her eyes revealing no recognition. His gaze moved to the dark-haired beauty closer him, and Michael perused her for an instant. Though matured since last they met, he knew her to be his betrothed.

The anger that snapped in her large eyes assured him he would find her no more welcoming than the butler. “How dare you enter here?” Michael noted she maintained a careful distance. “I demand you remove yourself, and....” she peered in disgust passed him to the girl on the chaise. “...Your little strumpet, from these premises at once.”

Giving her his undivided attention, he folded his arms behind his back and assessed her for several seconds. No longer the child he remembered from his youth, he had to admit she was quite lovely. Yet, in no mood for her antics, he graced her with the same icy glower he bestowed on the butler. “You would turn your back on this girl....” Without taking his eyes off Marguerite he indicated the limp figure on the couch with his spread hand. “...Knowing full well she might die?”

The defiance in her squared shoulders was his answer. “Her kind ... can be better treated in a part of the city equipped to take care of her.” Her jaw was ridged as she added; “We can do nothing for either of you. Now I demand you leave here at once.”

It was her mother’s glower, and lips flattened to a thin line, which forced Marguerite to bestow a heated look at her. “Have you something you wish to say, mother?”

Sylvia Haverston, Countess of Durham, blanched. Her hands trembled as she rose from her chair and faced Michael. “We expected you some days ago, milord, and feared you met with an unfortunate accident.” Sinking into a deep curtsey, she gave him a tight smile. “’Twould seem we were not far from the truth.” She caught the eye of the butler. “Send for the surgeon at once.”

The old servant eyed his mistress with furrowed brows. Yet, he brooked no argument, and gave a slight bow before tossing his cloak over his thin shoulders and departing the front hall.

Mortification paled Marguerite’s visage. Her lips parted, yet no sound emitted forth. Her breathing came in rapid exhalations that threatened to spill her bosom from the low cut of her gown. Slipping into a deep curtsey, she gave Michael a feeble smile. “Milord ... please accept my deepest apologies....” She rose and forced her gaze to meet his. Toying with the lace draped over her hands at the edge of her sleeves, she murmured. “You have changed ... in my mind, I still remember a boy on the verge of manhood....” Her tongue flicked over her lips, moistening them. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin a notch, and assessed him in silent contemplation.

Had he not had more pressing things on his mind, Michael would have commented on her perusal. The soft moans of the woman on the couch behind him reminded him this was neither the time nor place for such things. Stooping beside the chaise, Michael spoke in tender tones to the woman. “You must be still. You are badly hurt, and judging from the bruises along your side, I think you might have broken some ribs.” Michael brushed a muddied tress of auburn hair from the young woman’s face. “The surgeon will be here soon. Rest.”

Her eyes flew open. Her breath was ragged from her lips. Peering at him with panicked green orbs, she reached for, and curled her fingers through the material of his shirt. A croak escaped her lips. Words, uttered in soft whispers, slipped against Michael’s cheek. “He will kill me....”

Leaning closer, Michael shook his head. “I did not hear....” Yet, already her fingers were slipping from his shirt. Again, she drifted into unconsciousness.

Rising, Michael scanned the room in exasperation. He raked muddied fingers through his wind-blown hair. “Where in blazes is that doctor?” Shouting to no one in particular he vented his frustrations. At last, unable to sit idly by, he crossed to Marguerite with bold forceful steps. “A basin of water, please.” His voice was ragged with emotion. “And perhaps a cloth to lie against her brow.”

Hesitating for a moment, Marguerite nodded with great reluctance, and disappeared up the stairs. Several minutes passed before she returned with the items requested, and a deep frown upon her beautiful features.

Carefully Michael took the rags and bathed her face, washing away the grime. Once cleaned, revealing the natural pink hue of her skin, he sat back on his haunches and peered at her in wonder. She was lovely. An oval face with high cheeks was accented by the deep auburn of her hair. Tiny freckles dotted the bridge of a slender pert nose. Lashes, a shade darker then her hair, fringed palely lidded eyes. A rosebud mouth curled above the soft angles of her chin and the slender column of her throat. Even the bruises marring her face could not detract from her beauty, and Michael found himself gawking at her.

Marguerite grunted. She made no attempt to hide her displeasure as she bestowed an icy glower upon her betrothed. “Really, milord, must you be so obvious?”

Michael peered at her with raised brows, stunned by her flippantness. Nonetheless, he felt the barbs of her words, and ashamed of his actions, cleared his throat before apologizing. “ ’Tis only that I had not expected her to be so young. Do forgive my inappropriate behavior, Marguerite.” He held her gaze, rather than return his gaze to the woman on the chaise. Starting out his marriage at odds with Marguerite wasn’t going to help anything.

In a strange way he was relieved when the front portal crashed inward, slamming against the wall behind it as the wind swept it from the grasp of the butler, who staggered toward them, his muddied footprints joining Michael’s on the stone floor.

The servant shrugged and sighed with dramatic flair. “Never made it to town, my lady. I rode like a demon possessed, but the horse took lame ... I had to walk him back to the stables.” He gazed at his hands for several seconds.

Michael eyed him with pursed lips. Tiny bits of straw clung to his cloak, and the only mud against him was on the soles of his boots. Had he ridden with the fervor he claimed, he would have been as muddied as Michael. More likely he cowered in the barn until a reasonable amount of time elapsed. Yet, he made no comment. Already he was feeling the discontent of his future mother-in-law, and dared not exacerbate the situation.

Rising from his perch beside the unconscious woman, he searched the great hall in exasperation. “Blast this retched weather!” For a moment he peered into the faces of the three before him. At last, frustrated, he shook his head in resignation. A heavy sigh slipped from his lips. “Then there is nothing left to do. I shall go in search of the man myself.” A few steps shy of the front portal, he halted and glanced over his shoulder at the Ladies Haverston, who gasped with indignant effrontery. “Countess, Marguerite is aught amiss?”

Marguerite chewed at her lip, yet said nothing. Michael watched her features darken with anxiety. For several seconds her mouth opened and closed, yet no words escaped.

Brows raised in challenge, Michael peered from daughter to mother. “Countess?”

Squared shoulders and lifted chin from Sylvia Haverston gave him the answer he sought.

“Milord, surely you would not leave that...” She paused. Swallowing, she cleared her throat before continuing. “Milord, ‘tis only myself and my daughter here.” Glancing to the butler she gave a lame smile. “Alistair is far too old to be expected to be our guard.”

Michael pondered the lack of other staff, yet voiced no query. Even away these many years, he was well aware of the Haverston financial situation. Each time the Earl lost heavily at cards, another servant paid the price, either as the prize, or in the loss of their position.

Exhaling in nervous agitation, Sylvia licked her lips. “You can not drop this filthy girl at my stoop, and leave her.” Her chin raised a notch. “What if she has planned this entire charade to gain entry here?”

Michael slipped his arms behind his back, interlocking the fingers of both hands. It was more to control the anger rising in him than the contemplation it appeared. His voice was calm as he questioned the older woman. “Is it my understanding, madam, you believe she ran into the path of my mount under the guise of gaining entry to your home?”

Sylvia’s nod was curt. “These are bad times, milord. With King Charles and that horrid Cromwell at each other’s throats, and England on the verge of rebellion, there are many willing to take advantage. Who knows what her motives are? Mayhap there are others with her, waiting for the opportunity to gain entrance here.”

Drawing in a long slow breath, Michael snorted, “Even your servant could not abide a night such as this. Surely you do not think she, or any other would do so merely to steal your candlesticks?” The acrid tone of his voice was biting. He pointed to the unconscious figure on the chaise. “She has little more than opened her eyes. Do you expect her to make a miraculous recovery the instant I leave?” Venting a ragged sigh, he added, a bit softer in his tone, “Look at her, madam, surely she poses no threat.”

Like her daughter, Lady Haverston was a slight woman, in both stature and weight. Even so, the fire in her eyes assured him she would not be bullied in her own home. Folding her arms over her chest, she dared him to over-ride her authority. “Milord, in truth, I have no idea what she might have planned. I only know, sir, she cannot stay here. With my husband....” again she paused. “With my husband away hunting, I feel it is my duty to ensure the welfare of this house.”

Michael felt temptation rise in his throat. On the tip of his tongue was the challenge of just what the Earl of Durham hunted. For it was well known he had an unquenchable appetite for the ladies. Swallowing back the retort, Michael sighed in exasperation. Angering his future mother-in-law would gain him nothing. Still, he could not believe the woman so callous as to turn away one in such obvious need. He pivoted toward Marguerite, hoping for support. She returned the same defiance as her mother. For a moment he stood gazing between the two, amazed at their lack of compassion. At last he nodded in slight acquiesce, resigned he had no say in who the mistress of the manor allowed into her home.

“Countess,” He bowed. “Lady Marguerite, I must beg your forgiveness.”

Marguerite moved forward, a soft smile curling her lips. “Milord, it relieves me that you understand.” Fair pressing her bosom to his arm, she added. “I will send for the carriage ... and have the girl taken where she can be properly tended to....” She nodded toward the butler, who made a hasty retreat toward the back of the manse.

Michael again folded his arms behind his back and shook his head. “That will not be necessary. I shall take her back to Brier Point, where my personal surgeon can tend her wounds....”

Marguerite gasped. “Milord, she is nothing more than a street urchin, a lowly little guttersnipe!” She peered around Michael to the woman on the chaise. “I could no more allow you to take her back to Brier Point, than let you leave her here.” The storm rising in his eyes made her cringe.

“You can not allow it?” His jaw flexed as his anger rose. “And just what makes you assume you have the right to make such a choice?” He glared at her, his ire rising. “You are not my wife yet, madam! Nor would that title grant you the authority to make such a decision.” His acrid bark elicited a startled gasp from both mother and daughter. Lifting his hand in surrender, he lowered his voice, and attempted to pacify both women. “Countess, Marguerite, I have braved the mightiest of storms to be here this night. My temper and nerves are frayed. I mean neither of you any disrespect.”

Reaching out to him, Marguerite attempted to appease him. “Milord, you misunderstand my intentions. ‘Twas only your safety I feared for. You have no idea who might come looking for her, or what sort of vermin are waiting in the wings for a chance at a purse....” Her fingers brushed his hand. “I only thought of you ... to ensure the little doxy did not sink her claws into your family’s—” she hesitated. “—interests.”

A vein at the side of Michael’s neck pulsed. “You mean my wealth, don’t you Marguerite?” His tone was tinged with rancor.

She shook her head and stammered in response. “Milord, she is a guttersnipe and quite possibly adept at stealing.”

“Madam,” Michael hissed, nearing complete rage, “I was not aware you were acquainted with her prior to our arrival a short time ago.”

With all the aplomb of an accomplished actress, Marguerite gasped and brought her hand to her throat. “I assure you, milord, I have never laid eyes on the urchin before this night!” In disgust she added, “I would not be caught dead with the likes of her.”

His finger danced in midair just beneath her nose, as if a rapier challenging her. “Then what makes you think her some urchin, or street rat? For those are the only words I have heard pass your lips since we arrived.”

Marguerite squared her shoulders. “No proper young woman would be out dressed in her night clothes, milord!” Michael watched her gaze return to the tattered remains of the other woman’s clothing. The cape had fallen open; revealing her shredded gown, and muddied body. “Besides look at her!” He could hear the rancor in her voice, and see it in her eyes. “She is positively retched.”

Obliged to do as Marguerite insisted, Michael gazed at the pale form on the chaise. Though dirty and battered, he could see nothing distasteful about her. In fact, had he the time to argue he would have assured his future wife she was the one lacking. He might have pointed out the widow’s peak, which parted Marguerite’s hair, the slight hook to her nose, and the sallow cheeks that were much in need of a bit of meat, and a less liberal application of rouge. Instead he spoke in a softened tone. “I see only a person in need.” His words were filled with pity. “I care little if her clothing is made of the finest silks, or of sackcloth.” Facing Marguerite he added with a bit more tartness than necessary, “Apparently that is where we differ, madam. I would gladly reach out to help anyone in need, though it is quite clear the same can not be said of you.”

As if he had struck her with a physical slap she stumbled backwards. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. For a moment her lip trembled. Then, Marguerite replied in a curt manner. “Having only set eyes on me a few times in your youth, milord, I find your assessment of me quite appalling!” Her chin raised a notch. “And utterly insulting.”

“Insulting, madam is that you would turn your back on someone simply because the clothing they wear is not up to your standards, or their social status is beneath your own. Have you forgotten my family’s reputation?” At her blank stare, he continued. “We are well known for our charities, Marguerite. I can not remember a time when someone was turned away without food.” His eyes bore into hers. “Are you prepared to go among the less fortunate to provide aid? My mother and her sisters have done so for years.” For a moment he paused. Though his tone was soft, within he struggled to keep his temper in check. “I plan to continue their work ... and as my wife, I will expect the same of you.”

Pursing her lips in contemplation, Marguerite released a heavy sigh. “As your wife, milord, I shall support you in whatever endeavors you choose. But that does not mean I have to join you in them, or like them. Nor do I expect you to like or be involved in many of the choices I make. In marriage there are often disagreements.”

And disappointments ... Michael mused with wry discern. Aloud he answered in a terse manner. “Aye, madam, and we have just had our first. Now if you will excuse me, I shall return to Brier Point before this girl dies in my arms.” His boots echoed against the stone floor as he crossed to the door.

Marguerite followed behind him. “I shall have the stable hand bring the carriage around ... that your journey might be less burdensome.” Her chin lifted in stubborn defiance. “Our marriage date grows close, milord, and there is much we need discuss. Can we expect your return posthaste?”

His frown expressed far more than his words. “That would depend entirely on how rapid her wounds are to mend.” He glanced to the woman in his arms for a second. “Or if I am able to locate her family.” He sighed, weary from this exchange. “In any case, madam, I think it might behoove everyone if we allow tempers to cool before meeting again.”

Marguerite gave a stiff inclination of her head. Michael was certain she was incapable of offering apologies. At last she exhaled a slow breath. “God speed, milord, and may your journey be safe. I shall await your return.” Then she curtsied once more and stepped back to her mother’s side.

Michael inclined his head, understanding. Already he glimpsed a part of his future bride he did not care for. Yet, there was little to be gained by arguing her merits, or lack there of. She needed this marriage far more than he. Even still, he would not challenge his father edict. He would take her as his wife; marry her for the dowry she brought, as his father before him, and his father before him. Marriage was not a place for foolish thoughts of love. Finding such things were most often done in the arms of others, and Michael had no doubt it would be the same for him. Placing his charge to the seat of the carriage, he paused to glance once more at the Ladies Haverston. No clever repartee came to mind, nor was he in the mood for any. At last he hauled his weary body to the coach, and leaned to pull the door closed behind him.

“Ladies.” He found no other words to leave them with, and tapped the side of the conveyance to let the driver know he was ready. He did not bother to look back at Marguerite or her mother as darkness swallowed the carriage.