Page 2 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Two

“ I am looking for a young woman,” Anselm explained. His voice cut through the low murmur of conversation as he approached the old innkeeper. “She is about nineteen years of age, with dark hair and green eyes. Very fond of books.”

He was sure to keep Verity’s name, and any other particulars, to himself. There was no need to advertise his sister’s flight to every nosy Scot as he went about his desperate search to find her.

I am sure it would be the talk of the village to hear about the Duke’s wily sister and her mad dash in the Highlands.

The gossips would have a field day as word would no doubt follow them all the way down to London.

The reek of stale ale and unwashed bodies assaulted him as he anticipated a response that did not come. The innkeeper was preoccupied with wiping down the old wooden table in front of him, and clearly in no rush to assist him.

“Have you seen this woman around here?” Anselm pressed while placing his hand on the table and hoping to gain the innkeeper’s attention. “Did you hear me?” he asked sharply, raising his voice louder in case the man was losing his sense of hearing.

The innkeeper grunted then and looked up at him with a smirk on his face. The old man’s eyes were the color of muddy water and red with fatigue. He took a long moment to assess Anselm before answering.

“And what business would a fine English gent like yerself have with a young lassie like that? Has yer lady run off with another man? Maybe the bonnie lass ran off lookin’ for a real Scotsman.

Cannae say I’d blame her, no’ wi’ folk like yerself about,” he said laughing to himself as he began polishing again.

“As you have so cleverly gathered, I have come a long way,” Anselm persisted, ignoring the man’s insolence. “And I have been tracking this woman for some time. You would do well to answer my questions.”

A ripple of distrust went through the room in the form of hushed whispers and pointed looks in Anselm’s direction.

The patrons, who all had the ease of regulars, seemed to notice him and were sizing him up.

Heads turned and voices went quiet as church mice as men sipped their stouts and watched this interaction intently.

“Well, there is nay one like that here,” the innkeeper snapped.

“I have nay interest in yer trackin’, English, and I daenae care how far ye have come.

In fact, I daenae care what fancy title ye have neither, so ye can forget about throwin’ that around, too.

” He tossed his rag onto the counter and looked at Anselm.

The innkeeper’s unimpressed expression was as cool as stone.

Anselm reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of sovereigns then placed them on the counter in resignation.

“Perhaps that will refresh your memory,” Anselm offered, hoping the universal language of compensation would work to his advantage.

He detested bribes, especially for such a small ask, but he was desperate to gather what information he could and move on.

The innkeeper’s eyes flickered to the gold, then back to Anselm, then back to the gold again. His muddy eyes went hard. He swept the coins off the counter, sending them skittering across the floor with a single sweep of his grubby hand.

“Keep yer filthy English money. It ain’t no good here.”

“Aye, tell that to yer king, English!” A dirty, toothless man yelled from across the room.

His loud, jeering laugh echoed through the bar as others began to join in chorus.

“Aye, that is right!” One man yelled while slamming his glass on a table. “Get out of here!”

“What was that?” Anselm’s voice dropped so that there was a dangerous edge to it as he turned to face the rowdy crowd.

The innkeeper leaned forward. With his massive forearms braced on the table, he drew Anselm’s attention back to him.

“Me friend over there said that we daenae take kindly to yer sort pushing yer weight around. Now, get out!” He barked.

Before Anselm could respond, a group of rough patrons rose to their feet and looked at him.

They strode toward him, with menace in their eyes, which were also hazy from drinking.

They quickly surrounded him. Their faces were grim and fists clenched tight.

The innkeeper came from behind the table and joined them, tapping the dirty rag against his hand like a battle drum.

“Last chance, English,” the innkeeper warned, as he crossed his arms defiantly over his pot belly. “We daenae like to fight in this place, but if we have to we will. Ye will surely regret it.”

Anselm glared back at them with a grim smile playing on his lips. He moved first and landed a swift, unexpected jab to the innkeeper’s large gut.

“Urgh!” A gasping choke erupted from him as he doubled over in pain that filled Anselm with immense satisfaction.

Suddenly, the man with the missing teeth found himself sailing over a table and landing with a crash on the hard ground.

A younger, more wiry man charged at Anselm.

It was nothing for Anselm to block the swing that came in his direction before sending the man sprawling across the floor like a cricket ball.

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.

“What did you say?” he demanded in a low and desperate tone.

“W-What? Nothin’, sir. I was merely talkin’ to meself.”

“Repeat your words. Now.”

She looked startled and stared at him, then repeated, “I should have gone to Verity.”

“Who is Verity to you? How do you know her?” he asked, leaning forward and only inches away from her.

“I… I…daenae… I daenae even know who ye are, sir. How can I answer that question if I daenae ken who ye are?”

“I am Anselm Drummond, Duke of Greystead. You will do well to speak plainly..”

She swallowed hard and her eyes locked onto his for a brief moment before darting away. Her breath caught, and he saw the faintest tremor in her hands as she seemed to weigh whether she dared speak or stay silent.

“She is a friend of mine,” she answered tentatively. “A lady. She fled London to live her life here in Scotland.”

She clearly knew nothing of the deeper truth and for that, Anselm was grateful.

Finally, he had a lead. Something to go on.

“Tell me where she is now.” His voice was sharp as steel as he pressed her for more information. “Immediately. Or I deliver you straight back to whatever disaster you are fleeing. Those are your options. Take it or leave it.”

Her shoulders slumped and she looked at him curiously. She crossed her arms under her chest in frustration, only accentuating the perfect bosom that drew Anselm’s gaze like a moth to a flame.

“She is staying with Lady Inverhall,” she confessed with a sigh.

“Where is Lady Inverhall’s house exactly?” Anselm nodded as he acknowledged that the name was a welcome lead in his search. “Give me the address. Now.”

Again, she hesitated, but he pressed.

“You must tell me where this house is,” he said. His patience grew thin as a crepe when pitted against the prospect of finally finding his sister. “I must find her.”

Reluctantly, she gave him directions to the home. Anselm, in turn, relayed them to the driver who took off in the new direction with a jolt.

“You are coming with me,” he informed her. His emerald eyes held hers. “And if you are lying, Lady Marion, you will regret it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Yer Grace,” she said quietly.