Cam turned to face his wife.
Chapter Two
When the danger was gone, the large MacKinlay man let out a breath. Marian slipped her hand from his, shaking loose from a part of her dress that had become twisted around their wrists. Surely this man didn’t plan to allow handfasting law to shackle him to a woman he’d never even met.
A woman who, admittedly, may have launched herself at him indecently to get away from a pack of savage dogs.
Her cheeks burned as she looked up…and up. He was as large as a tree. He’d seemed sturdy under her physical onslaught. Clearly no dandy, as her previous husband had been.
But the last thing she wanted was another husband. Especially one as large and imposing as the giant beside her. He’d said he was a war chief, which meant he was bred for violence and destruction.
She could never be married to someone like that. Despite his warm brown eyes—the color of aged whisky—that seemingly held kindness and patience.
He’d saved her life. She owed him her gratitude, but nothing more.
“Thank you, truly.” She offered him a curtsy, which seemed rather foolish considering her breasts had been in his face earlier and they were now possibly wed. Her cheeks heated again at the memory.
“Did you kill the duke?” His voice rumbled as he watched her. He probably thought he’d be able to spot a lie. He would be wrong. After five years of living with a monster, she’d become adept at hiding all emotion behind a blank expression.
She swallowed, trying to block the images and memories of that night or the weeks since. It had been a trying journey as she’d made her way from London to her sister’s home.
She’d traveled at night so as not to be seen. When she had the opportunity, she’d stolen a horse, which she’d later left at an inn so it could be returned to its owner. She might be a murderer, but she was no horse thief.
The money she’d taken from Blackley House had helped ease her way. It was amazing how much loyalty and silence could be purchased with coin. Up until it had been stolen. But she must have been betrayed at some point if Sir Ridley had tracked her this far north. Or maybe he’d made a pact with the devil.
However, the man standing beside her had protected her, so he deserved the truth. She lifted her chin. “Yes. I killed him.”
Her would-be husband simply nodded and tossed his shovel in the cart. “What happened to your shoes?” He frowned at her feet—bloody, blistered, and covered in filth.
“I took them off to soak my feet in the stream. When the dogs came after me, I didn’t stop to put them back on.”
Another nod, and then he scooped her up. She was working herself up to be indignant about his manhandling when he plopped her up on the seat of the cart. She didn’t think there was enough room for him beside her, but he managed to fit. With his side pressed up against hers, he flicked the reins to get the horse to move.
“We should get you up to Dunardry. Your sister will be pleased to see you, I think.”
“That’s it?” Marian stared at his profile as he turned the horse and steered the cart in the opposite direction. “I tell you I killed my husband, and you’re still willing to take me to your mistress straight away? How do you know I’m truly Kenna’s sister?”
“It wouldn’t make sense to lie about that while telling the truth about murdering someone.”
He had a point. How annoying. “Both things are true,” she said.
She just hoped her sister didn’t hate her. She didn’t know where they stood. It had been years since they’d had any contact at all. Kenna had sent her a letter written in her own hand a few months after Kenna left Fletcher Castle to marry the MacKinlay laird. Marian had beamed with pride for her sister and shared the letter with all who would listen. Then she had written back to tell Kenna about the plans for her beautiful wedding. But she’d never heard from her sister again. Marian had sent many letters after that, with no reply.
Many a day after the post had been brought to her with no word from home, she’d wondered what she’d done to deserve their silence. Maybe they’d thought her too English to associate with. Which would be almost comical since many of the women in London thought her accent too rough. She was a savage from the wilds of Scotland, after all.
Apparently she belonged nowhere.
“What’s your name?” the man sitting next to her asked.
For a moment she considered giving him her alias, but there was no reason for that at this point. He knew she’d murdered the duke, and her sister would doubtless call her Marian.
“I’m Marian Grace Fletcher Blackley, Duchess of Endsmere.” She held out her hand awkwardly since he was holding the reins. He took it in his and squeezed it before pressing a kiss across her fingers. She felt a twinge of excitement at his lips touching her bare skin. She pulled her hand away at the same time he released her.
“So I hadn’t lied when I called ye Mari.”
He could call her whatever he wanted as long as he took her somewhere safe.
“Pardon the correction, Your Grace,” he said after a few moments of silence. “But it would be Marian Grace Fletcher Blackley MacKinlay.” He gave her a wink. “Since we’re wed.”
“Blast and damn,” she muttered and clenched her teeth. It appeared he was planning to hold her to this sham of a marriage.
Did he think to get money from her? She almost laughed at the thought. She had nothing. Even the dress she wore—tattered and dirty as it was—didn’t belong to her.
“And you would be?” she asked, thinking it was time he introduced himself as well.
“Cameron Michael Callum MacKinlay. Call me Cam.”
She shivered at the way his name rolled off his tongue. It was a good Scot name.
“Feel free to be pleased with yourself for besting me on having more names and impressive titles.” He winked, then smiled, and she couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips at his jest. She wasn’t expecting a sense of humor from someone so large and imposing.
“Please, just Marian. I’ve no need for fancy titles.”
“You don’t look much like Lady Kenna, except maybe when you smile,” he said, glancing at her, then turning back to focus on the path in front of them.
She shrugged. “I know. My father used our looks as a wedge between us. The pretty one and the wild one.” She shook her head, once again angry on her sister’s behalf.
“Don’t worry, lass. You’re bonny too,” he said with sympathy in those warm brown eyes. The sun glinted off his brown hair, showing strands of red and gold mixed through the sable.