Page 5 of The Rebellious Countess (The Ruined Duchess #2)

She eyed him for hints of the real man underneath the facade he’d worn for her.

He was tense despite the carefree music he made with those beautiful lips, his shoulders were tight, and his gaze jumped from one shadow to the next.

For a moment she could have sworn he spotted her, that his gaze caressed her cheeks the way it had that day in the meadow, but then he turned back toward the cart and pulled a man from the bed, his arms and legs bound.

The man cursed him loudly. The mumbled profanity filled with anger and animosity underneath a gag secured tightly in his mouth.

She recognized the prisoner as one of his crew, and she wondered what the man had done to warrant being tied up.

Neither one of them looked clean, in fact they both appeared to be rather sodden.

She’d never known Ellison to be dirty…

How would you know if the man bathed in mud or water, you fool? You don’t know him. You met him less than a month ago and married him. You married a complete stranger.

Who may want you dead.

Yet she could tell Ellison was uncomfortable.

He had a restlessness about him that wasn’t just from his guarded manner.

His clothing irritated his skin and grated on his nerves.

Literally. He scratched his arm, his neck, his—she blushed when she thought about what his hand surreptitiously adjusted, then he pulled and yanked at his shirt.

His beautiful hair wasn’t beautiful. It was drab and matted, if the image she was seeing by the light from the windows could be believed.

What had he done to those gorgeous curls?

Ellison pulled his prisoner up to the front door of The Happy Hag and Máira ran across the street to get a better look, her head swimming with each step she took.

Her blush-colored wedding slippers were no longer delicate or pretty.

Nor did they do a good job protecting her feet on the cobbled streets.

Like her dress, they were stained, tattered, and ugly.

She looked exactly like the type of woman this filthy version of Ellison would marry.

Yet she wouldn’t have cared about the condition of their clothing, if Ellison loved her.

What a foolish ninny.

He didn’t love her and she needed to get that silly romantic ideal out of her head. Tomorrow was a new day, a new start to her future. She just needed to figure out a path to get home to that new future. Alive.

Ellison looked back once more. His gaze prowling the streets as if he were searching for someone important, someone like…

Stop it. She was being a child thinking of him in that manner. He was a pirate, nothing more.

The noise from the tavern spilled into the streets as Ellison opened the door and dragged his prisoner inside.

When the door closed behind him, it was as if the barrier had silenced everyone within.

Máira scurried to the window, the wind chilling her to the bone as it howled through the night.

She lifted to her toes and peeked inside.

Every face was turned toward the door, watching Ellison and his prisoner.

Hag pushed her way through the crowd, a trail of chatter in her wake as she pointed a handgun in the air, the elbow of her gun arm resting in her other palm.

This woman was more comfortable with a firearm than anyone Máira had ever known.

Her brother-in-law would call her reckless, yet Máira couldn’t help but admire the woman’s defiant skill.

Her auburn curls were alight with torment, or so it seemed to Máira.

Her eyes were narrowed on Ellison. Her angular face, sporting the fine lines of age, remained expressionless.

Máira guessed the woman to be in her forties, but she couldn’t be certain.

She wasn’t quite sure how the woman had earned the name Hag, but it was not because of her looks or her figure.

She was beautiful yet hardened by the life she lived.

Still, there was a timelessness to her beauty that irritated Máira.

It was either that, or the grin forming on Ellison’s face was making her teeth grind. She knew that grin. It was the look Ellison delivered right before he kissed her at their wedding. Máira wanted to cast up her accounts on the spot. Instead, she forced herself to watch and learn.

Ellison said something she couldn’t make out, and all the people in the tavern broke out in laughter. Even Hag’s lip quirked with mirth, but her response brought back sobriety. Quiet reigned once more.

Blast.

In order to hear, she was going to have to step closer to the door or go inside. She chose moving closer.

With a growl of frustration, she opened the door a mere inch, and pain shot through her shoulder.

Even on a good day, when she wasn’t hurting from her arm being twisted behind her back, the door was too heavy to hold open.

She stuck her foot in the opening, gritted her teeth to bear another source of pain, and listened.

They were speaking in French, but after almost a day of wandering through the French village before the murder, the teachings of her tutors kicked in enough to catch parts of their conversation.

“You’re still as beautiful as the day I left.”

“And you’ve started bathing in the shite that spills from your mouth.”

Ellison was the first to laugh. “I do find myself in need of a bath. Perhaps you could allow me to use your chamber to get out of these sodden clothes.”

He spoke French! And not just any French, but the fluent and beautiful French not found in any Scottish drawing rooms. Ellison spoke French as if it were his native language.

She couldn’t see his face, but she recognized the teasing tone he was using.

It did things to a woman’s insides. Hag’s response brought her focus back to the tavern and the drama unfolding inside.

“I find the thought of you in my chamber dressed as you are a bit repulsive, Elias.”

Elias? Who in the world was Elias?

“What happened to your shoes?”

“My boots were stolen by this maggot. He tossed them out.” Ellison nodded toward his crew member and things started to make a bit of sense.

Ellison’s prisoner muttered something excitedly into his gag.

Ellison, however, was not dissuaded by the other man’s interruption. “Perhaps I could bathe first, and we could… talk afterwards.”

Anger burned deep inside her. She was hurt.

Her body was hungry, even if she could not stomach the thought of food.

She was thirsty, and she was dirtier than she’d ever been in her life.

Not to mention her husband was propositioning another woman, a woman who had cold-bloodedly killed a man in front of her.

She had to admit the man Hag killed deserved to die.

He did. She didn’t believe she would have survived much longer if his assault had continued.

It was a sobering thought. Who knows how many times he would have cracked her head against the stone floor as punishment for her defending herself.

Believing he deserved death, however, and seeing the callous disregard for life, were two different things.

Everything she had gone through all boiled down to one event—her marriage to Ellison Collins, and by God, he was hers. Not Hag’s, not any other woman on this continent or England or any other place the Maribelle took him. Ellison belonged to her as long as they both shall live . Period.

She had no doubt about the meaning behind Ellison’s words to Hag or the raspy tone in his voice that she’d loved up until this very minute. Despite her resolve to return to Scotland without a husband, Máira would not allow her husband to sleep with another woman while she was mere feet away.

She stood up straight and pushed her way into the tavern, head held high as if she was a member of court. “No one but your wife will be tending to you tonight, husband .” She ground out the word husband with so much venom, she saw several men back away. Good. They should fear a woman scorned.

Hag’s grin spread across her face, bigger and brighter than ever before. Everyone in the room was captivated by what that smile did—everyone except Ellison. He stared at Máira as if she had three horns and the barbed tail of the devil.

“Elias, I’d say your wife has different plans for your bath this evening.” Hag threw back her head and laughed then retreated to behind the bar. “Drinks are on Elias tonight, gents!” Hag’s announcement caused the entire tavern to break out in a boisterous cheer.

Had she heard her correctly or had she missed something in translation?

“Elias?” She whispered, stunned as she searched his face for the truth and came up empty when he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Her anger disappeared as her heart truly ripped in two. She didn’t care that he wanted to be rid of her, or that he even possibly plotted to kill her. But lying about his name…

That meant he’d lied about his identity on their very first meeting in Dumfries.

His bow and the brush of his lips against her knuckles after he’d recovered her dropped parcels.

It had all been an act. Their entire courtship, their kisses, his proposal, that romantic moment she thought she’d tell their children, had been nothing but a ruse.

A cruel and heartless game she had blindly played to win… and lost.