Chapter One #2
Such was the make of their days until they had finally crossed Scotland’s border.
Aaran pointed out the slight changes in the topography to Lady Annalise.
“There are more mountains and, naturally, seashores, and the most beautiful lakes God ever designed,” he said as the carriage turned towards his southern estate near Dumfries.
Last evening, Beaufort had argued that he and Lady Annalise could simply marry in Gretna Green, but the lady had insisted otherwise.
“Though I appreciate your urgent desire to reach your grandmother’s estate, I would prefer our marriage to be blessed by a proper cleric.
I do not want my brother or Lady Marksman to think we have something to hide, my lord.
I have given up a proper London Season and placed my absolute trust in you, Navan.
I want what my mother never had, a marriage blessed by the Church. ”
Beaufort was, naturally, unable to deny his bride-to-be’s wish, and so they turned north and west of Gretna towards Aaran’s southernmost estate.
By midday, they were within ten miles of their destination when Mr. Jamison pulled up on the reins, and Aaran instinctively reached for the gun he kept in a side pocket of the bench seat.
He smiled when Lady Annalise also claimed a pistol.
“What do you see, Jamison?” Aaran asked through the trap.
“Appears to be a broken-down coach, my lord,” Jamison responded. “Can only see the driver, but he seems to be speaking to another.”
Aaran reached for the door latch and let it swing wide, and then he dropped the steps.
He instructed the lady, “Beaufort has yet to catch up with us. Stay in the coach until either Beaufort or I seek you out.” He grinned at her.
“If mischief occurs, Jamison has instructions to deliver you to my estate. However, if you choose to defend yourself, remember, though I am not as handsome as Beaufort, I have assisted in your escape from Marksman.”
“Just be careful, my lord,” she cautioned. “I have not so many that I call friend, as to lose one now. Moreover, a bride should not be dressed in mourning for her wedding day.”
“I will do my best, my dear.” Aaran climbed down gingerly, all his senses on alert. “If something ill happens, Mr. Jamison, you are to deliver the lady to my estate. Such is your only order.”
His coachman frowned in disapproval, but Jamison said, “Aye, my lord.”
Aaran approached the disabled carriage as far as the first of his horses. He placed a steadying hand on the lead’s nose, before he called out. “Those in the coach, do you require assistance?” He did not move any closer in case someone had set a trap or meant mischief.
A coachman, wearing the colors of a man Aaran despised, stepped from behind where the coach sloped sharply to the right. “Regards, sir,” the coachman called back. “It appears we’ve broken an axle.”
Aaran relaxed a fraction, but he knew the man circling the coach on the other side would not welcome Aaran’s assistance.
“Lord Graham,” Lord Iain Cunningham said as he approached Aaran. “I imagined you had already returned to Midlothian.”
“I had urgent affairs on my Dumfries estate to settle before moving farther inland,” Aaran responded, though he still kept his distance.
He no longer feared an attack by a highwayman, but such did not mean he wished to extend a hand to Lord Cunningham, who had never once treated Aaran with any form of respect.
More often than not, Cunningham spoke against many of Aaran’s proposals in the House of Lords, but Cunningham, who should be representing Scotland, often permitted their fellow Scots to suffer rather than combine forces with Aaran.
The sound of an approaching coach could be heard, and Aaran turned just as Beaufort’s carriage came to a halt behind his. He waited for Beaufort to join them before he offered an explanation to Cunningham. Beaufort stopped to speak briefly to Lady Annalise before coming to stand at Aaran’s side.
Attempting to sound casual, Aaran said, “You recognize Lord Cunningham, do you not, Beaufort?”
Beaufort nodded to Cunningham. “Good day, my lord. What have we here?”
Cunningham responded civilly to Beaufort. “My coachman says we have a broken axle.”
“We could see you to my southern estate,” Graham offered, though reluctantly, knowing Duncan would encourage him to be the better man. “Then, we could send someone back to assist your man.”
“I suppose such must be our choice,” Cunningham was saying, but Graham’s eyes were on a strikingly beautiful young woman who had stepped down from the Cunningham coach and was striding towards them. In Aaran’s opinion, she was the most beautiful creature his eyes had ever beheld.
Her hair—rich with special red tones buried deep in the ancestry of Scotland—was thick and wavy and twisted into a loose chignon on the back of her head.
She came to stand before them, her stance emphasizing very feminine curves, though the gown she wore was too juvenile to showcase the woman beneath it.
A little hum of awareness announced its presence by sending a shot of desire to his manhood.
Her skin was flawless—not the pasty white many in England thought spoke of perfection, but rather it was touched with a hint of sunshine.
She spoke before Aaran could form a response to Cunningham’s lackluster agreement to accept their assistance. “We are fortunate His Lordship was the one to discover us, Papa.”