Page 9 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Gilton’s smile widened. A thin, predatory curve tugged at his lips as he puffed out his chest.
The three of them, Gilton and Lord and Lady Harlowe, seemed to form a silent tribunal as they all towered over Lady Marion while she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
“My dear Marion, you will be very happy in our marriage. I assure you.” He placed a hand on her elbow. His touch lingered as Anselm watched the subtle digging of his fingers into her skin. “It is time.”
The threat was real. Anselm could not and would not leave her here.
“Get back in the carriage,” Anselm ordered in a low voice.
Lady Marion blinked. Her blue eyes went wide as saucers, as if she had not heard him correctly. Instead of moving, she stood there, again like a doe in front of a hunter.
“Get back in the carriage, Lady Marion. Now,” he repeated, a bit louder this time. His voice was just as firm as the others looked at him curiously.
She did not hesitate a second time. With a rustle of lace and silk, she was off. She turned and ran down the steps, scrambling towards Anselm’s waiting coach without a backward glance.
“With all due respect, what in the blazes is this, Your Grace? My niece is set to marry Lord Gilton,” Harlowe huffed.
“No, Lord Harlowe. Your niece is coming with me.”
“Are you kidnapping her?” Harlowe blustered. It was clear he was dumbfounded and confused. “I have spent good money for this wedding and a wedding will be taking place now!”
Gilton took a step forward then, clearly intending to follow Marion. Anselm moved quickly and blocked the path with his burly body.
“You will have to go through me to get to her, Gilton.”
“This is an outrage!” Lady Harlowe shrieked as she clasped onto her husband’s elbow. “You cannot simply take our niece, Your Grace! My lord husband forbids it!”
“I can,” Anselm countered. His gaze grew hot as he fixed it on Lord Gilton. “And I will. Given the circumstances, I can see that she needs me. She is in danger, but I will not allow the threat to continue. She is coming with me and will remain in my care until a more suitable arrangement is made. Who lets a woman go through with a marriage when there are threats against her very life?”
With those final words, Gilton and Lord and Lady Harlowe froze in shock. There was nothing left for them to say. It would be up to them to conjure up a tale for the guests and figure out what to do with the food and arrangements that had been made for the occasion.
Anselm did not care. His mind was already spinning to the next steps in the plan he was forming as he went along.
“Your Grace—” Gilton started.
“As for you, Gilton—” Anselm cut him off with a growl. “You’d better think before coming near her again.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away from the scene so that he might hastily join Marion in the carriage. He slammed the door shut and barked an order at his driver with a rough tap on the partition.
“Let us be done with this cursed place! And quickly!”
The carriage lurched forward. It rattled away from the church and left the sputtering, enraged figures of Lady Marion’s family and her intended husband in the dust.
Chapter Four
“Yer Grace… Thank ye. For what ye did back there. At the church… I daenae ken what to say,” Marion whispered. She broke the silence between them as they sat in the carriage.
“You should have told me about those notes immediately,” the Duke corrected as his gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
“I… I dinnae ken if ye would believe me,” Marion answered as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I thought ye might dismiss me as hysterical, like me uncle.”
“You had a good reason to flee that wedding. All I gathered about you was that you were another naïve woman trying to avoid the inevitable,” he countered as he kept his gaze averted out the window.
“Well, ye are rather good at ruinin’ weddin’s. I was very impressed by yer skill. Was it yer first time?” she retorted.
“If I am good at ruining them, you are rather adept at fleeing them,” the Duke snapped back dryly.
“Well, when the prospect was so enchantin’, how can ye blame me? Likely demise or dishonorable flight?”
