Read Online The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) by Lauren Royal, Devon Royal - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Royal, Devon Royal
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hair swinging. “You’ll have to invent these lies more quickly if you expect them to sound believable.”
“Scarborough,” she gritted out.
“The Earl of Scarborough?” A sparkle came into his eyes, as though he were entertained by the thought of someone related to her being invited anywhere by an earl.
Just like the innkeeper downstairs.
Did she look that provincial? Her clothes were in decent condition. Her father had been a baronet.
“I’m surprised at you, Emerald.” His mocking voice interrupted her musings. “You’ve a reputation for being the cunning sort. Surely you can come up with a better story than that. It must be the knock on the head.”
Exasperated, she slammed her hand against the mattress, wincing when it jarred her. “Bile yer heid!”
“Pardon?” He raised a single, amused brow. “Are you suggesting I boil my head?”
Clenching her teeth, she looked away. Her plaid was tossed over a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor. Alarm shot through her. “Did you undress me as well, then?” She thrust her hands under the bedclothes to see what else he might have taken off of her.
That brow went up again. “I reckon you’ll find you’re still decent. What do you take me for?”
“An Englishman.” Her clothing was all in place, although the laces on her shirt had been loosened. She gave them a vicious tug, then looked down and gasped. “There’s blood on my shirt.” She felt for the source, though it didn’t really hurt much.
“You were cut. Nothing serious.”
Slackening the laces, she peeked beneath. He was right. The meadow rue she’d picked would heal it in no time.
“That’s why your shirt was unlaced,” he continued. “I…checked.”
When she looked up, his face was red. A proper gentleman he was, then, but he was still an Englishman. And he was staring at her. Caithren bit her lip and felt for her good-luck charm.
Her hands closed on air.
“Where’s my amulet?” she squeaked in a panic. She struggled up on her elbows again and felt the dizziness rush back.
“I have it right here.” He reached to the bedside table, lifted the amulet, and dangled it over her head by its chain. The emerald swung in a hypnotizing pattern. “I’m hardly the type who’d steal from an unconscious maiden.”
“Well, I don’t know you, do I?” She snatched it to her chest.
His mouth tightened with annoyance. “But you know Geoffrey Gothard, don’t you?”
Crivvens, the man was bullheaded. She shot him a peevish look and slipped the chain back over her head, feeling better when the amulet was settled in place. She wrapped a hand around it.
That Geoffrey he was talking about, she remembered who he was now—the murdering cur she’d overheard at Scarborough’s and met again on the inn’s staircase. That terrible, horrible man and his scum of a brother.
Englishmen.
She shivered and tugged up on the thin quilt. Well, at least this Englishman was looking out for her, even if she didn’t care for him badgering her with questions. And though he was plainly cross, he’d yet to raise his voice to her.
“Thank you for your help,” she said softly by way of apology. She tried to smile.
His eyes softened in response. All at once he seemed very close to her, though he had not moved. And he was staring at her mouth, the same way that bampot Duncan had stared right before he tried to kiss her at the village dance.
Was this strange man going to kiss her, then?
Nay, she was daft! She must have truly knocked herself silly. What would a mustached, pretty-haired, bullheaded Englishman want with a girl like her? Besides, he was still cross with her: his mouth remained pressed into that thin, tight line.
She couldn’t help noticing it spoiled the dimple.
“Why are you so cross?” she heard herself asking.
“I had a job to do, Emerald,” he said with a sigh that, if she didn’t know better, she might take to be apologetic. “And you got in the way. No fault of
“Scarborough,” she gritted out.
“The Earl of Scarborough?” A sparkle came into his eyes, as though he were entertained by the thought of someone related to her being invited anywhere by an earl.
Just like the innkeeper downstairs.
Did she look that provincial? Her clothes were in decent condition. Her father had been a baronet.
“I’m surprised at you, Emerald.” His mocking voice interrupted her musings. “You’ve a reputation for being the cunning sort. Surely you can come up with a better story than that. It must be the knock on the head.”
Exasperated, she slammed her hand against the mattress, wincing when it jarred her. “Bile yer heid!”
“Pardon?” He raised a single, amused brow. “Are you suggesting I boil my head?”
Clenching her teeth, she looked away. Her plaid was tossed over a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor. Alarm shot through her. “Did you undress me as well, then?” She thrust her hands under the bedclothes to see what else he might have taken off of her.
That brow went up again. “I reckon you’ll find you’re still decent. What do you take me for?”
“An Englishman.” Her clothing was all in place, although the laces on her shirt had been loosened. She gave them a vicious tug, then looked down and gasped. “There’s blood on my shirt.” She felt for the source, though it didn’t really hurt much.
“You were cut. Nothing serious.”
Slackening the laces, she peeked beneath. He was right. The meadow rue she’d picked would heal it in no time.
“That’s why your shirt was unlaced,” he continued. “I…checked.”
When she looked up, his face was red. A proper gentleman he was, then, but he was still an Englishman. And he was staring at her. Caithren bit her lip and felt for her good-luck charm.
Her hands closed on air.
“Where’s my amulet?” she squeaked in a panic. She struggled up on her elbows again and felt the dizziness rush back.
“I have it right here.” He reached to the bedside table, lifted the amulet, and dangled it over her head by its chain. The emerald swung in a hypnotizing pattern. “I’m hardly the type who’d steal from an unconscious maiden.”
“Well, I don’t know you, do I?” She snatched it to her chest.
His mouth tightened with annoyance. “But you know Geoffrey Gothard, don’t you?”
Crivvens, the man was bullheaded. She shot him a peevish look and slipped the chain back over her head, feeling better when the amulet was settled in place. She wrapped a hand around it.
That Geoffrey he was talking about, she remembered who he was now—the murdering cur she’d overheard at Scarborough’s and met again on the inn’s staircase. That terrible, horrible man and his scum of a brother.
Englishmen.
She shivered and tugged up on the thin quilt. Well, at least this Englishman was looking out for her, even if she didn’t care for him badgering her with questions. And though he was plainly cross, he’d yet to raise his voice to her.
“Thank you for your help,” she said softly by way of apology. She tried to smile.
His eyes softened in response. All at once he seemed very close to her, though he had not moved. And he was staring at her mouth, the same way that bampot Duncan had stared right before he tried to kiss her at the village dance.
Was this strange man going to kiss her, then?
Nay, she was daft! She must have truly knocked herself silly. What would a mustached, pretty-haired, bullheaded Englishman want with a girl like her? Besides, he was still cross with her: his mouth remained pressed into that thin, tight line.
She couldn’t help noticing it spoiled the dimple.
“Why are you so cross?” she heard herself asking.
“I had a job to do, Emerald,” he said with a sigh that, if she didn’t know better, she might take to be apologetic. “And you got in the way. No fault of
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