Page 4 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Damn you, Verity,he thought as each blow landed harder than the last and until the remaining men cowered back in fear.
They were clearly no match for his skill, let alone his resolve. He was in no mood to rabblerouse.
The fight was over almost as soon as it began, and there was not a scratch on Anselm’s face.
The innkeeper laid groaning amidst his scattered regulars who looked on with stunned faces in the now silent room. Anselm loomed over them all, breathing calmly and spitefully. Even his coat remained unrumpled.
“Now that we have that unpleasant business behind us, gentlemen,” he said in a flat and even tone. “About the young woman. Where is she? Can any of you tell me?”
A man on the floor coughed and spat a stream of putrid tobacco juice onto Anselm’s perfectly polished boots. He groaned and shook the spit from his shoe in disgust.
“Daenae ken nothin’, English bastard,” the innkeeper moaned. “Piss off.”
Anselm was no closer to finding Verity, and one thing was for sure—these men would be of no help.
Disappointment heavy on his shoulders, Anselm walked into the cool, early spring air.
The stroll down the alley to the carriage was a welcome contrast to the heat of the foul inn and the odor of its regulars.
He entered the carriage and sat down on the velvet cushions before resting his head back on the seat.
He tapped the partition for the driver to take off and as the horses started moving, he looked up.
And stilled.
A young woman sat across from him.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. There she was, small and delicate, yet every inch of her stirred something deep inside him. She wore a wedding gown, made of swirling white silk, that highlighted her curvaceous figure. Its grand design took away Anselm’s breath completely.
Her slim waist and the gentle swell of her bust drew his gaze like a magnet. Dark chocolate hair spilled in soft waves around her face, making those impossibly blue eyes shine all the brighter. They were wide and vulnerable, but there was something in them that held him.
“Is it traditional in Strathcairn for brides to hide in strangers’ carriages?” he quipped, a wry twist to his lips as his eyes involuntarily found her generous chest which was accentuated by a delicate lace ruffle. “Some sort of odd ritual to bring good luck?”
“Please, take me anywhere but here, sir. I beg ye with all me heart,” she pleaded. Her voice was as soft as her sapphire eyes.
“And why should I do that?” Anselm asked as he raised a curious brow. “I have urgent business of my own. I am not running a rescue service for runaway brides.”
“Please,” was all she said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. “I beg ye, sir.”
While he could sense that she was guarded and in need of help, he had no time for distractions. His priority was Verity, regardless of the trouble this young woman had found herself in… which he also could not help but think about.
How could someone let this creature out of their sight even for a minute?
He tapped on the partition with his knuckles. “Turn the carriage around. We are taking this woman back to… wherever she came from.”
“I have a name. I am… Marion. Lady Marion,” she said quietly. “Please, don’t take me back. Take me anywhere else, but not back.”
A flicker of desperation crossed her face, as if she would burst if he did not help her. Something about the urgency in her striking cerulean eyes pulled at him. Anselm felt almost as if a string tethered them.
She was undeniably beautiful. Perhaps even more than beautiful. Yes, as he looked deep into her sparkling eyes there was no doubt she was a goddess. Even in her disheveled state. Yet, any involvement, even with a woman as unique as this, would be a complication he could not afford.
“Feumaidh mi cuideachadh,” she muttered to herself.
“I do not understand your words, my lady,” he said as his mind floated to the thought of his sister somewhere out there alone. “So, if you need something you must speak English. I have no time for riddles.”
“I should have gone to Verity…” she trailed off. “I ken that would have been the smartest choice, but there was no time to think.”
Anselm froze. Every muscle in his body tightened so that he thought his tendons might snap in half. He prayed his mind was not playing tricks on him.
