Chapter 1 #2
"At the church, where he will wait," the Marquess responded, picking at non-existent specks of dust on his immaculate sleeve. "He will stand with me at the altar, and I shall have Green escort you down the aisle."
Daphne swallowed hard. "So, I am not even to have my father escort me to the altar?"
"No, I'm afraid not. You must see that you can't be trusted, my pretty little tiger. But don't worry, Green will support you well enough. He has a good, firm grip, as I'm sure you'll have noticed. Anyway, I am surprised you haven't complained about my being here, in this room, on this morning."
Daphne raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Would it have done any good?"
"Naturally, no, but it is our wedding day. Isn't it bad luck for a groom to see the bride before the wedding?"
She gave a snort of laughter. "Probably. I don't believe bad luck could make our union worse. Perhaps you'll be struck by a piece of falling masonry as you walk out of the door. One can but hope."
He didn't laugh. A glint of malicious anger sprang into the Marquess' eye, and he regarded her silently for a long moment.
The tremulous smile died on her lips. Daphne realized, with an all too familiar sickening lurch, that she was going to marry this man. She would have to. And then he would take her home, she would belong to him. Forever.
Perhaps he saw the fear in her eyes again, because the Marquess beamed, stepping forward to pinch her chin a second time.
"That's my girl. Well, I think we ought to be going, don't you? I know it's a bride's prerogative to be late, but I think in this occasion it would be best to be on time. Green, fetch..."
He was interrupted by a flurry of shouts from outside, and a rattling of horses' hooves on the cobblestoned courtyard. It sounded entirely too angry and violent to be the sound of a wedding carriage. Daphne and the maid hurried to the window, but they could see nothing.
On cue, there were thundering footsteps outside, and a pair of disheveled, breathless footmen burst in.
"Your lordship, your lordship!" one of them gasped, and the Marquess rounded on him, his expression purely devilish. The men shrank back, but whatever had scared them here was bad enough to keep them on their feet. One footman gulped hard and spoke.
"There are a group of armed men on horses, riding around the house, your lordship," the footman said nervously. "Armed men. They seem angry, and they are shouting for you."
"Drunkards?"
"They don't seem so, your lordship. One of them seems to be... well, he seems to be a Scottish warrior."
The Marquess flinched. "Scottish, you say?"
The footman nodded breathlessly. The shouts were echoing up from outside again, drifting in through the open window. Daphne peered out again, but try as she might, she could not see a thing.
"They're wearing tartans of some kind, your lordship," the second footman piped up. "Swinging great big swords around their heads. They're savages, your lordship. They say... they say they're going to kill you."
"Savages, certainly," the Marquess murmured. "Well, I can't possibly imagine who'd want to kill me."
"Ha!"
That was Daphne, of course, who really ought to learn to keep her mouth shut. The Marquess turned on her, eyes narrowed into nasty little slits.
"Shut your mouth," he snarled, all simpering nastiness gone.
The steward shuffled closer, drawing the Marquess into a corner. She could still overhear their conversation, or at least parts of it.
"... you know who it could be?" Green was asking, voice serious.
The Marquess sighed. "Just some peasant fools, if I'm not mistaken. Nothing to worry about."
"Forgive me, your lordship, if I do worry about armed men circling the house. It cannot be a coincidence that they are here today."
The Marquess' expression was absent. Daphne watched him think, her heart sinking. This was one of the things that worried her the most – one of the many, many things, at least – about this marriage.
The Marquess was a violent brute, of course he was, but brutes could be managed. He was not simply a violent man, however. He was a cruel man, and a very, very clever one. A man who liked to watch others squirm, and was very good at making it happen.
What chance did she have of making a life with a man like that?
No good thinking of that now, she thought bleakly. I said all of this to Father, back when I thought I had a choice about all of this. I wonder if he knew, even then, that there was never going to be a choice for us? I wonder what he's feeling now?
She glanced at the window, and not for the first time, imagined leaping out of it. In her imagination, she sprouted feathered wings, and went soaring away into the sky, free, never to worry about the Marquess of Huston again.
But this was the real word, and Daphne did not have wings like a bird. Even if she did, it was four to one that she wouldn't know how to use them correctly for a while, in any case, and would end up face-down in the immaculately pruned lawn.
The Marquess' gaze snapped up, meeting herself squarely. With a sinking feeling, Daphne felt as though he'd read her thoughts, just as clearly as if she'd said them out loud.
"I will go out and deal with these ruffians," the Marquess said smoothly. "You, my darling bride-to-be, will remain here and wait for me. I think perhaps the restraints should be used."
He gestured to the ropes dangling by the bed, and Daphne's too-tight corset finally deprived her of the last bit of breath in her body. To her eternal shame, she fainted.