Page 68 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“Why?” The word was soft, urging her into speech once more.
“Lord Moreton,” she whispered, and Adrian stiffened, as though sensing she was finally confiding in him. “I don’t know the truth of precisely what happened, but…”
She shifted, almost afraid to confess everything, although Moreton would never be able to hear her here.
“He was the second son,” she said. “I never really knew him, not before he came to Scotland, but I overheard his conversation—the way he was speaking with a group of men. They weren’t gentlemen, they were…” She reached for the right words. “I don’t know. Highwaymen? Bandits? His older brother died a few weeks prior, leaving Moreton as the heir. He became the marquess.”
Adrian’s hand had stopped on her spine. “You suspect foul play?”
“I don’t just suspect.” Her lips felt too cold. “I know. He paid these men to rob his brother’s carriage and leave him for dead. I suppose they wanted more money than he initially paid them. Initially, I pretended like nothing had happened. It was too dangerous. Until… a lady—she overheard something, too.”
Isobel closed her eyes, though nothing could stop the image of the scene playing out in front of her. The way Moreton had pinned the girl to the wall, telling her to keep quiet.
“I should never have intervened,” she said, her voice shaking. “But when I saw him hurt her, when I saw himthreatenher, I—I lost my mind. I got between them, slapped Moreton, and gave her time to escape.”
Adrian’s arms tightened convulsively around her. “Heavens, Isobel,” he said, but there was an odd tenderness underneath the words, sharp as they sounded. “Did you not think about the danger to you?”
“I thought of nothing but the look on her face. She was so afraid.” Isobel shook her head, closing her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I thought that would be the end of it, for all he was so angry, but a few weeks later, she died. Pollyanna MacLeod, her name was. Everyone says she fell ill, but the coincidence—it can’t be a coincidence.”
Every muscle in Adrian’s body felt tight underneath her. “You believe he had her killed,” he said shortly.
“What else would you think? She must have overheard the truth about him, like I had. He killed hisown brother, Adrian. A man like that would hardly baulk at murdering a young lady who knew the truth.”
Adrian cursed low under his breath. “And so, you left Scotland.”
“When I heard the news—I knew. And so did me maither. We knew that I would be next. And so, they arranged for me to leave immediately. I hardly had time to pack—and even then, just the barest essentials. Me maither wrote a letter to yours, explaining some parts of the situation. That I was in trouble and needed a place to stay. And she took me in.”
“And yet you never thought to tell me that your life was in danger?”
“I didn’t know if I could trust ye,” she said indignantly. “I fled for my life and upon arriving here, ye attempted to toss me out into the night. What if ye believed Moreton over me? If ye applied to him for the truth, then Moreton would know I was here—and he would have some tale prepared for me, no doubt.”
“Fool,” Adrian cursed, and then he was kissing her again, hard and fast, his hand tangled in her hair, his mouth demanding. “I would never have listened to a man such as that over you. You have occupied my thoughts ever since you arrived, and if you had told me the truth—heavens, Isobel, I am not some sort of monster.”
She placed her hands on his cheeks, sensing she had hurt him.
“I didn’t know then,” she said softly. “But I know now.”
He kissed her again, but more gently this time. “I won’t letanythinghappen to you,” he promised, the words vicious. “And if he tries to hurt you, he will have me to answer to. I don’t usually throw my weight around, but by God I am a duke and you are now a duchess—and I will use every resource open to me to see he comes to justice.”
Her bottom lip trembled, the force of her emotion almost bowling her over. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he twisted, turning her body so she half lay on him, as though it was not enough that they were close—they had to be touching.
She didn’t mind. The tears she had been holding back almost the entire time she had been in London returned with a vengeance, and she buried her head in his shoulder—his scarred, broken shoulder from a childhood that had tried to beat the feeling from him.
“Don’t cry,” he said gruffly, holding her closer still. “Please, sweet. Don’t cry.”
“I cannae help it,” she sobbed.
“Shh.” He ran his hand across her tangled hair, smoothing it against her. “Shh.”
Slowly, she quietened, her emotion having blown itself out. She raised her head.
“I don’t know why I was crying,” she said to him. “I wasn’t sad, I just…” She’d been dealing with her fear for so long, unsure even when she married if she could confide in her future husband. “I am tired of being scared,” she said instead.
“Do you have any proof?” he asked. “About the men Moreton paid to end his brother’s life?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll find another way. Don’t worry, Isobel. You’re safe with me.”
