Chapter 13 #2
She wanted to lean into him. She tried not to but she suddenly felt dizzy. The world swayed and tilted. Her confused mind could not understand why. Then she felt Edward’s strong arms about her, supporting her. He had dismounted and caught her as she fell, all in one smooth movement.
“Hot sweet tea, now man!” Edward barked at Blake.
“Tea be damned. Best brandy is what she needs, begging your pardon,” Blake said before bellowing orders through the door of the inn.
Edward bore Isla inside. She put her arms about his neck, her face nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He smelled of leather, horse and air. It awoke her, drawing heat into her cheeks. At that moment she would have been content to remain in his arms forever.
Too soon, Edward was kneeling, gently placing Isla into a chair by the fire.
“A tragedy is it not?” drawled a voice from across the common room. “Though some tragedies look like justice when viewed from the proper angle.”
Isla became alert quickly. The Marquis of Morlich lounged in a window seat, nursing a foaming tankard.
He was not who she had expected to find here and now.
His presence screamed deliberate manipulation.
Plotting. His coat was too bright for the country and his nose too high in the air.
Edward’s hand fell away from Isla’s arm.
His posture altered, something in him drawing up as if to full naval height. “Morlich.”
“Wexford.” The Marquis tipped his hat the faintest fraction. “Her Grace.” His gaze travelled over Isla with appraisal that had no business in a public place. “Such distress. One would weep, if one believed it entirely undeserved.”
“What do you mean?” Isla demanded, attempting to rise.
Edward’s hand was gentle but firm upon her shoulder, keeping her seated. Morlich smiled, slow and unpleasant.
“The Drummond seat aflame, after so many rumors of … shall we say … creative approaches to securing alliances. Some might call it misfortune. Others might detect the hand of Providence.”
“Our house burning is divine retribution?” Isla said, voice low.
“Who am I to interpret the Almighty?” Morlich said. “But it does seem remarkable, does it not, that after attempting to ensnare one English nobleman, your family’s nest goes up like kindling. One might almost take it for a sermon.”
Blake shifted uneasily. The air felt thick.
“Careful, Morlich,” Edward said, his tone like ice on steel. “You are insulting my wife.”
Morlich stood, took a swig from his tankard, grimaced and carelessly dropped a handful of coins onto the table.
“More than that swill was worth, innkeeper,” he drawled as he left the common room.
On the threshold he stopped, turned.
“I am not insulting, merely observing the curious symmetry of your wife’s fortunes,” Morlich replied. “Besides, she is well used to traps, is she not?”
Something in Isla snapped. She brushed aside Edward’s hand and strode across the common room where Morlich grinned, folding his arms and waiting.
When she reached him, Isla shoved with all her strength against the barrier of his arms. She had intended to simply propel him from the tavern but had not reckoned on the stone doorstep.
Morlich expected ground but his heel found none.
A comical look of alarm swept over his face. His arms flailed and he twisted, trying to look where he was putting his feet. The horse trough beside the door caught the back of his knees and he tumbled into it with a splash. Morlich was briefly submerged.
When he reappeared his immaculately styled hair was plastered around his face. His fine coat was soaked through. A child giggled. Blake muffled a cough. Isla put her hands to her mouth to cover laughter. Her pulse hammered.
I did not intend that but how fitting.
“Consider it baptism,” she said coolly. “Heaven knows you needed some.”
Morlich came up spluttering, eyes blazing. “You Scotch peasant!”
He lunged as if to grab at her skirts but Edward was faster. With a hand to the top of Morlich’s head he pushed, dunking him back into the water. Morlich splashed and spluttered until Edward hauled him out by the lapels.
“Enough,” he said, not needing to raise his voice.
Morlich froze, one hand braced on the trough, water dripping from his chin.
“You forget yourself,” Edward went on, calm and lethal. “You insult my wife in public, you imply God’s approval of tragedy, and now you propose to lay hands on a duchess. No-one would challenge me if I called you out.”
Morlich’s jaw clenched. “You are defending her now. You will regret it when her family ruins you. In my country, Strathmore is a by-word for treachery.”
“Is that your hope or your prophecy?” Edward asked. “Either way, you will keep it to yourself.”
Color burned bright in Morlich’s cheeks, whether from cold or fury.
He glanced at Isla, at the watching villagers, at Blake’s implacable face.
Whatever insults lined up in his mind, he swallowed them, choking slightly.
He hauled himself out of the trough, water cascading, and stalked to his startled horse.
“This is not finished,” he spat, fumbling at the stirrup. “You will regret crossing my family.”
“Perhaps,” Edward said. “But not today.”
Morlich swung into the saddle, nearly slid on the wet leather, righted himself with an oath, and dug his heels in.
His two friends followed, casting Isla glances that mixed alarm and reluctant admiration.
They thundered off down the lane, a ridiculous, sodden procession.
Silence held for a heartbeat, then Blake let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Well,” he said. “That trough’s seen worse, but never better.”
A ripple of relieved laughter moved through the gathered villagers. Isla felt the tension in her chest spill out with it. Then the news in the paper came back to her like a punch.
“Edward.” Her voice frayed. “We must go to London. To Alistair. I have to know what’s happened.”
Edward picked up the discarded newspaper, folded it with neat precision, and handed it back to Blake. “Thank you,” he said. “We will send word if there is news you should know.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Blake took it, tipping his head to Isla. “Prayers for your family, Your Grace. I have that brandy for you now.”
“Thank you,” she managed, “I think my altercation with Lord Morlich has done the job. You are very kind, Mr. Blake.”
Edward swung back into his saddle with the ease of long practice. He looked at her, his gaze steady, not soft but not hard either. She had smiled as she spoke and Mr. Blake was stuttering and blushing. Isla followed suit.
Do you see how I can be of value to you, Edward?
“We will ride back to Wexford now,” he said. “You will pack what you need. I will order the carriage readied. We leave for London at first light.”
“First light?” she echoed. “Why not tonight?”
“Because galloping blind into the dark helps no one,” he said. “If your brother is unharmed, he will need sense more than panic.”
She wanted to argue. She saw the logic. It made her want to scream.
“Very well,” she said.
They turned their horses toward the hall.
Villagers stepped back, hats held respectfully.
As they rode, Isla felt the weight of the road to London stretch ahead, long and uncertain.
Behind her, in another country entirely, she imagined blackened stone and smoke-stained ceilings where her childhood had walked.
Beside her, Edward rode in silence, his profile carved against the lowering sky. He did not reach out to touch her as he had by the inn. He did not speak comfort. And yet his presence on the road felt like a wall between her and the worst the world might fling.
Somewhere behind the neat hedge of propriety, a thought pricked: Glenmore. Morlich’s father. A man who had never concealed his dislike for Scots with half the grace the Dowager managed. A man who believed in retribution and had coin enough to buy it.
Did he have anything to do with the fire in Perthshire?
The question coiled in her mind like smoke. The only way to know was to get to London, confront her brother, and follow the trail from there into whatever burned rooms, or burned reputations, waited. She set her jaw, urged her horse on, and refused to let herself look back.