Chapter One
Looking down at her hands, covered in her husband’s blood, Marian Fletcher Blackley, Duchess of Endsmere, felt surprisingly calm. She’d known for the last five years this was the way it would end.
With blood on someone’s hands.
She’d expected it to be the other way around. Many times during the duke’s rages she’d thought he would kill her. There were times, after being kicked repeatedly, she’d almost wished he had killed her so the pain would end. So her torment as his wife would be over, and she would no longer have to live in constant fear.
But tonight, something deep inside her—an intense will to survive—had taken over. He was angrier with her than she’d ever seen, and she’d known it would happen tonight. He was going to kill her. She had seen it in his eyes. He wouldn’t have been able to control himself and she would have died.
When he’d raised his fists, she’d reached out in defense. Her protection had come in the form of the fireplace poker. Her palm had grasped it unerringly and her first strike along his temple had downed him.
It would be unladylike to mention the second, third, and fifth strikes that had ended her fear and pain from this man indefinitely.
Lucy, her lady’s maid, knocked frantically at the door, having heard Marian’s screams. “Your Grace, are you all right? Do you need me to call a doctor?”
Lucy knew all, having had to dress Marian’s injuries in the past. It was no surprise that tonight Lucy expected to need to piece Marian together once again. Only it wasn’t Marian who was injured. In fact, for once, Marian didn’t have a mark on her.
The duke, however, was clearly dead.
Opening the door, Lucy gasped. “Oh, Your Grace! What has he done? I will fetch Dr. Simmons. He cannot expect me to tend—” Lucy’s rambling stopped abruptly when Marian allowed the door to open wider so the maid could see the carnage spread out on the rug.
“’Tis not my blood this time.” Even Marian’s voice was calm.
Surely this wasn’t normal. She should have swooned or launched into hysterics by now. But all she felt was peace with what she’d done. What she’d been forced to do to save herself.
Marian’s gown was covered in blood, as were the rug and a good part of her bedchamber.
“I see.” Lucy swallowed, her voice just as calm as Marian’s. “Well, he’s dead,” she announced after checking the body. “Now what?”
The fear and panic that had previously been kept at bay swarmed in now, chilling her bones. Marian’s hands trembled as she tossed the poker to the side.
“I— I don’t know. I guess we call for the magistrate.”
Lucy shook her head. “You’ve not a mark on you, and with your Scottish accent they’ll see you’re hanged for killing a peer of the realm.”
Marian tried to swallow and found it impossible. “What should I do?”
“You must leave. We’ll get you changed out of that dress and I’ll burn it. You must leave London immediately before word gets out. I can go with you.”
“You can’t come with me. Your daughter is expecting any day. You’re needed here.” Plus, Marian would never implicate her maid in her crimes.
At five and thirty Lucy was ten years older than Marian, and the only friend the duke had allowed. Mainly because he was unaware of their friendship.
“Where will you go?” Lucy asked.
“I won’t tell you. That way you can answer honestly when you’re questioned.”
Lucy grasped her arm to stop her as she moved toward her wardrobe. “You cannot go to your family home in Scotland. They will surely track you there and bring you back to hang. You need to stay clear of your clan lands. It’s certain death.”
Marian nodded in agreement, though that had been her plan. Her father had passed a few years ago. Her older brother would take her in and keep her safe. But she would be bringing trouble to her brother’s home. She could only imagine what he would do to keep her safe. She would be putting him in danger by going there.
She needed to find another place of refuge. Somewhere she wouldn’t be expected to go.
Thoughts of her younger sister came to mind, but she pushed them away. Her relationship with Kenna had always been strained. Her father and stepmother had been a constant wedge between them, saying things to make sure Kenna felt like she had less worth because, to their standards, she wasn’t as pretty as Marian.
After their mother died, Marian had been raised for one purpose only, and that was to be wed to an English nobleman. Every moment of her youth had been spent primping and practicing for her debut at London court. Her Scottish tongue had been twisted until she was able to form her words with the correct English flair.
She’d done everything that was expected of her. Forgone the fun her younger sister and brother seemed to have running wild in the Highlands with nothing but mischief on their minds.
Yet, despite being the well-trained, obedient daughter, she’d been tricked into this nightmare of a life with a man who’d despised her very existence.
A man she’d killed.
The thought fired her into action.
If she wanted to live she needed to flee London, and the only place she knew was Scotland. She’d head for the border and figure out the rest if she made it that far.
Now that she was free of the horror her marriage had been, she wanted to find a safe place to live where no man would ever have control over her again.
…
Cameron MacKinlay heaved another large rock into the cart, making the horse snort and shy. Letting out a breath, he frowned at the blisters across his palms and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Damn, Lachlan.” Cam shook his head and picked up the shovel to loosen the next rock so it could be loaded.
Despite the cursing, it was his own fault he was loading rocks. If he’d not refused to follow his laird’s orders, he would be back at Dunardry Castle sitting down at the midday meal. Instead, he had hard bannocks and ale to look forward to.
Still, he’d rather face hard labor and poor fare than be forced into marriage merely to satisfy a clan alliance. Aye, it was done all the time in the Highlands. In fact, Lachlan himself had married his wife, Kenna, because of such a thing. But Cam didn’t want to marry.
War chiefs did not always come home to their families after battle. He knew it well enough. When he was nine, his own father—the war chief of Clan MacKinlay at the time—had not come home.
His father had been a good man, but duty called for him to take risks. He’d been a war chief first and foremost, a husband and father second. As his position demanded.