He shrugged. “It’s cold out in case you did not notice.”
She took a small sip and hissed out a breath at the potent drink. Goodness. It tasted awful. She held it out for him to reclaim. “So you thought you’d pickle yourself, is that it?”
He chuckled as he took it and leaned back against a nearby tree, crossing his boots at the ankles. “Not much of a drinker, I take it.”
“My father never drank and Mr. Beard only imbibed at the tavern, once a week or so.” He always returned home intoxicated on those nights, stumbling about through the house until he found his bed. The following morning she would have to rise extra early and do his chores before her own. The cows couldn’t wait to be milked until he managed to drag himself from bed.
“And what of your lover? Did he imbibe at the tavern, too? Or was that when he visited you? On the nights your husband was away?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes. You do. The bastard that promised to show up and buy you in that auction . . . is that when he visited you?”
Why did he sound so angry? She was the one who was wronged.
Heat flushed her face. Suddenly the food she’d just ate felt like rocks in her stomach. “I never dishonored my vows.”
True, she’d kissed Yardley, but when he’d pressed for more, promising they’d soon be man and wife, she had resisted. Not because she doubted his promise but because it had not felt right.
Even though she and Mr. Beard were not husband and wife in the truest sense, she’d taken vows of fidelity. Vows that had been transferred to this man before her now. Not that he wanted her fidelity. Because he didn’t want her.
He took another swig of whisky. “Such loyalty. It’s a shame you’re such a poor judge of character and didn’t settle your sights on a more reliable man.”
She hissed out a breath, stung. It was almost as though he was trying to hurt her feelings.
He continued, “Then you wouldn’t be stuck here with me freezing off your arse.”
“Are you trying to be cruel?”
“No. It comes rather easily. No effort required.” He took another drink. “Especially after a whisky or two. Perhaps you’ve come to expect too much of me?”
“Perhaps you are right,” she charged, her voice rising an octave. “I am a poor judge of character. And I do expect too much of you. You’re a drunk. And a boor . . .” She sniffed and glanced around, wondering how much longer until they reached Kilmarkie House. Certainly they could not be too far from it. She looked at him again, her anger welling up inside her.
He chuckled and took another drink. “Lady, it’s worse than that . . . I’m a duke. That essentially guarantees I’m an insensitive sod.”
She stilled. “What?”
“An insensitive—”
“No, no. Not that! The other thing you said.”
“Oh. I’m a duke?”
“But your name . . . you said you were Marcus Weatherton.”
“That’s not untrue.” He shrugged. “I’m both. By title, however, I’m the Duke of Autenberry.”
She shook her head, believing his outrageous words for it all now made sense. Everything about him proclaimed this to be truth. His airs. His absolute refusal to consider her his wife. A duke did not marry the likes of her. If she’d thought him far removed from her before, he might as well live on the moon now. He was gone from her. Not that she had ever had him.
And yet an inconsolable sadness swept over her, hollowing out her insides and leaving a stinging ache in her chest.
She suspected he wanted that. He wanted her to know the truth so that the divide between them was out there in the open. Fully visible. Not simply in his awareness, but hers, too. A great mountain that she would never climb. A commoner could not dare ascend such heights.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Before she started developing feelings for him . . . before she began hoping that they could be something. Yes. It was true. She had hoped despite his rejections. She had felt . . . feelings. Emotions. Desire. She’d hoped because when he kissed her and touched her she thought he must feel something that went beyond obligation.
Now she knew. Now that their journey was coming to a close, he’d admitted who he was. What he was. The gulf that yawned between them was inaccessible.
A horse neighed softly somewhere just beyond the copse and it wasn’t Bucky or her mule. No, they stared blandly, not making a sound.
“Marcus?”
He cut a hand swiftly through the air, silencing her, his gaze suddenly hard and intent.
She held her tongue and waited, angling her head, hoping it was nothing. Merely a rider passing through the woods. Nothing to fear.
Except she was wrong.
Several horsemen emerged from the trees, moving like wraiths, silent as the wind itself. Surrounding them. Flanking them.
“Wot ’ave we ’ere?” one of the riders asked, looking between Alyse and Marcus. “A bit of domestic strife?”
She eyed the newcomers. Highlanders. Unquestionably. They wore full tartan. It was almost as though they stepped out of the pages of a book. Vestiges of an era before Culloden.
Marcus was beside her, his hand tight around her arm. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re simply travelers passing through.”
“Travelers,” a dark-eyed Highlander at the center of them proclaimed. He was maybe the youngest of the pack, no older than herself, but he held himself with an air of authority. “Nice bit of horseflesh ye have there, Englishman.” He nodded to where Bucky munched on grass.
Alyse glanced at Marcus’s gelding worriedly. Fearing they were about to lose Bucky, she blurted, “He’s not for sale.”
The Highlander turned his attention on her. “Oh, I’m no’ interested in buying the beast. I’d love nothing more than relieving so fine a creature from an Englishman. Actually it’s my duty as a Scotsman tae do so.”
Marcus’s arm tensed under her fingers. She tightened her grip. “It’s not worth it.” Not worth his life. Marcus looked down at her with glittering eyes.
“Listen tae your wife,” the Highlander advised.
“I’m not his wife,” she automatically replied.
“Are ye no’?” The man looked back and forth between them, his gaze bright with interest.
“She is not,” Marcus said slowly, for the first time appearing almost reluctant to agree to that fact. His gaze prowled her features, almost as though memorizing, as though loath to look away for any reason at all.
“Nay? Then what is she tae ye?”
Alyse held her breath and forced herself not to look at Marcus even as she wondered what the answer to that question would be. She told herself it shouldn’t matter. His answer didn’t amount to anything. Not when they were nothing to each other. He could say anything, however marginalizing of their relationship, and it shouldn’t matter.
Marcus didn’t answer immediately and as the silence stretched she felt compelled to fill it, to answer for him, “I’m his housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper? Och . . . is that what they’re calling it these days?” All the men laughed at the younger man’s quip.
Her face caught fire.
Marcus cursed and surged against her grip, ready to lunge at the other man.
She clung tighter to him and snapped at the Scotsman, “Mind your tongue.”
The group of Scotsmen ooohed at her harsh reprimand.
The dark-eyed Scot stared at her as though she were suddenly something fascinating. A trickle of unease ran down her spine. “You’re right. My apologies. I was verra rude.” The leader grinned then, appearing as mischievous as a lad—a handsome one at that. “The fact that ye are no’ married to this Sassenach is something tae recommend ye, lass.”
Marcus growled and attempted to step forward again. She struggled to pull him back before he clashed with the Highlander. That couldn’t end well. They were outnumbered and the group of Scots was armed to the teeth.
“Lass,” the Highlander tsked. “Ye keep verra poor company. I heard ye two squabbling through the trees. In fact, that’s what caught our notice and we decided to investigate. You see these are my woods, and I canna have any lass being mistreated in my domain.”