The Scot. Lyn StoneЧитать онлайн книгу.
brandy, fully appreciating the way it slid down his throat like liquid fire. Tamer than his whisky, even when aged to perfection, but the taste was just as fine. “You’ll be leaving directly after the ceremony?” he asked.
The earl nodded. “Yes. I regret I cannot stay longer and join you for a wedding supper. You and Susanna are welcome to stay here in these apartments until you leave Edinburgh, of course.”
“I’ll be coming with you far as Solly’s Copse,” James announced, then polished off the brandy and set down the glass with a thunk.
Eastonby looked surprised. “Thank you for the thought, but that should not be necessary. I can handle matters.”
“You’re family,” James said simply, “or you will be by tonight. I’ll ride along.” When the earl would have protested again, James continued. “I’ve been thinking, if you hire a number of guards to ride with you, this assassin will stay his hand until he catches you unawares later on. If I go, concealed in your carriage, he and his man will carry through with their plan. We’ll have ’em, then and there.”
“By jove, you’re right! I never thought of that. But what of Susanna? She won’t take kindly to her new husband haring off on guard duty while she languishes at the wedding supper alone.”
“Nonsense!” the lady in question piped up as she reentered the room. “Pour me a jot of that, would you?” she instructed her father. “This beloved of mine must do what he feels is necessary to save your skin, Father. Will this dress do?” She twirled around.
“Don’t be impertinent, Suz,” the earl growled, deliberately and firmly stoppering the brandy decanter.
“Me?” Her wide-eyed look of innocence tickled James. She was a sly minx. “Why, I am the very soul of pertinence. Tell him, darling.”
Susanna had been peppering every address to him with endearments, likely trying to stoke her father’s guilt for giving her away. One could hardly blame her for it. “She’s right, sir,” James said dutifully. “Pertinent in this instance anyway. I must go with you. Otherwise, we’d both be wonderin’ for weeks whether you’d made it home to London alive.” He turned his attention to her. “And that blue gown is right becomin’ to you, Suz. Matches your bonny blue eyes.”
“Do not call me Suz,” she hissed with a brief glare at her father, probably for making James aware of the nickname. “I despise it.” With a jerk, she straightened a sleeve that didn’t need it, then tugged up her gloves.
He just smiled. Suz suited her to the letter, short, sweet and soft. Her lips as she said it, pursed just right as if beckoning his kiss. He might never call her anything else.
Reason was not the thing to put this woman to rights, he decided. Nay, he would need to use affection. No doubt with the right words in the right places, he could turn her up sweet within a fortnight, just in time for their homecoming.
Susanna wished for her mother. In the three years since Anya Childers had died, Susanna had harbored an anger that very nearly obliterated all of the happy memories she had of her. Today’s events had forced them out of hiding.
Now, at the moment of pledging her future to a stranger, Susanna imagined her mother beaming happily about it. Strange, when the vicissitudes of marriage had been the very thing that caused her death. Repeated attempts to produce a son in order to please her husband had drained the life right out of her. Two miscarriages and a stillbirth. She might have survived that had it not been for all of the other obligations forced upon her as countess of Eastonby.
A woman’s lot, her mother would have said in that soft voice of hers, smiling even then as if she accepted and didn’t mind what fate had decreed for her. Susanna had promised herself at the funeral that such a destiny would never be hers. And yet, here she was, bound to answer I will before a clergyman who might be the one to speak over her own dead body in a few years.
One thing for certain, wherever she went, Susanna meant to continue her crusade to encourage women to speak up and be heard, to take care of themselves and take charge of their lives. She was not giving in, not giving up. This marriage could be used to her benefit. No woman worth her salt sat around waiting for things to happen to her. She made them happen.
“…love, honor and obey…”
The minister’s words broke through her thoughts like a sharp stick thrust into a beehive. She gritted her teeth to keep her fury from flying out and stinging everyone there. They were all men, of course—her father, the Scot, the reverend and another stranger who just happened to be present when a witness was needed—and would shoo away her attacks as merely bothersome.
A large hand encased her own and she allowed it. His was exceedingly warm and hers felt cold in the absence of her gloves. If men could use women for comfort, why not the other way around? Susanna knew the justification made no sense in this instance, but the whole day seemed to have taken on a strangeness that defied logic anyway.
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur—even the placing of the ring on her finger.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder….” The voice droned on.
Asunder? God, she felt asunder at the moment. Her heart nearly stopped, then thudded so fast she thought she might faint when two large, very warm hands rose to grasp her neck. For an instant, she feared he would choke her for her rebellious thoughts.
The Scot’s long fingers invaded the curls at her nape. His palms covered the pulsing veins at the sides of her neck. His thumbs caressed her chin. And his mouth drew nearer and nearer.
Susanna blinked her eyes shut just as his lips fastened on hers. Her mouth must have been open. She should have closed it. This was highly improper, his open mouth upon hers, his tongue touching hers. Good heavens, she could taste him! And he was tasting her, as if she were a comfit he wished to savor and not eat up too quickly.
Horrified at how her curiosity prompted her to linger over such a thing, Susanna pushed away, staring up at him to see if he would insist on a resumption of the kiss. She didn’t wish he would. She didn’t!
Obviously, he didn’t either, she noted as he released her and dropped his hands to his sides. “Well then, wife, we’ve been wed and blessed. You look right fashed.”
“Fashed?” she mumbled, unable to get her mind around the word.
Her father quickly embraced her, eliminating the need for her to reply to the Scot. “So, my little girl is married! I wish you all that is happy, sweetheart. I am certain you shall have it.”
Susanna managed to thank him, if not sincerely, at least politely. She had made up her mind earlier not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had upset her by throwing her to the wolves. The leader of a pack of them, in fact.
She could deal with the Scotsman, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she been quite confident of that after he had made his promises to her? This was her choice. He was her choice.
When Susanna looked at him around her father’s shoulder, she fully expected to see gloating superiority or some evidence of expression that he had tricked her into agreeing to this. Instead, he appeared almost deferential, as if pleasing her was his one goal in life.
She was not fool enough to believe that was so, but bit by bit, her courage and confidence returned. It only seemed to flag when the Scot touched her. Or pinned her with that steady gaze of his. “I will become used to it,” she told herself aloud.
“Of course you will!” her father assured her. “I fear you haven’t had too much in the way of happiness these past few years, but now—”
“That’s not what I meant,” she declared, pulling out of his arms and turning away. But she dared not explain what she did mean. “Are we going back to the hotel immediately? I’m famished.”
“Of course,” the Scot said, taking her by the arm, encouraging her to lean on him. She surrendered to it for now. Her knees were not