"You knew not telling me was a manipulation."
"How am I to answer?" he snapped. "Had I made a point of telling you, you would have balked. Yet, not telling you is a grievous sin."
Elise eyed him critically. "When did you plan to tell me? Once we arrived in civilization and someone bowed before you?"
"Nay, as I just said, when you signed the wedding certificate you would have known."
"And when would that have been, the moment before we took the wedding vows?"
Marcus looked at Father Whyte. "When, Father?"
"Tomorrow."
Marcus looked back at her. "A far cry from the wedding day."
"But far too long considering the length of our courtship."
"You're being foolish." He grasped her arm.
She shook him off. "How did you expect me to react?"
He wished mightily Father Whyte weren't present. "I had hoped some feeling had developed that would negate these foolish concerns."
"I need to be alone with my foolish concerns." She brushed past him.
Marcus glanced at Father Whyte, who gave him a troubled look, then Marcus shifted his gaze onto Elise as she disappeared out the chapel doors.
Elise closed her bedchamber door, then walked to the couch and sat down. Placing a hand on her belly, she pressed it in an attempt to quiet the twisting, which had begun as a flutter and was now a wrenching unlike anything she had experienced since the last night on the Amelia.
Elise Merriwether would be the name of the woman to marry the Marquess of Ashlund. It was foolish for her to have given her great-aunt's surname, but when she'd come out of her delirium in Josh and Shannon's home, she'd given the first name that came to mind. Would Price connect that Elise Merriwether to her? Her mind raced. Would he see the notice? The announcement would go into the London Sunday Times, probably The Scotsman in Edinburgh, as well. But would the news reach America? She thought of the Boston papers and recalled the news when King George III died and his son took his place. Occasionally, large business ventures were reported, but she couldn't recall any marriage announcements for the nobility.
Elise released a shaky breath. It was unlikely the announcement would make the American papers. She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Looking back, it now seemed ridiculous she hadn't realized there was more to the MacGregor men than mere wealth. She had missed all of the warning signs. How had she been so blind?
"Oh, Marcus," she whispered. "What have you done?"
A duke can protect even a murderess, her mind contended. Her insides gave a vicious twist. He could, she agreed. But could his reputation survive the scandal? And could she live with herself for hurting him?
First thing tomorrow morning, she would go to Cameron and demand to leave.
At the sound of voices in the great hall, Elise paused on the stairs. Who would be roused at this early hour? It wasn't yet dawn.
"I know what ye told me," a young male voice said.
Tavis.
"Aye," came another, deeper voice.
Marcus.
"I'm willing to take my punishment, laird," Tavis said.
Elise didn't breathe.
"I told you not to leave Brahan Seer again," Marcus said. "You are a man—the only man in your household. You're old enough to understand that responsibility."
Elise crept down the remaining four stairs and peeked around the corner. They stood on the far side of the table nearest the postern door, Marcus's hand on Tavis's shoulder, Tavis's gaze downcast. The worry on Marcus's face stirred something deep within her. The day the Campbells attacked, he had been ruthless. But this was a gentleness as kind as his ruthlessness had been cruel.
"The thirst for revenge will eat a man alive," he said. "I swore to deal with your father's murderers, and did. Leave it be." He sighed, the action revealing a great weariness. "If those dogs came for you, even with a warrant from King George, I wouldn't give you up." A tiny smile played at his mouth. "Lad, we aren't as different from the Campbells as we believe. They were as unwilling to hand over their kinsmen as I would be."
Elise couldn't check a surge of hope. He would not give up one of his own—even in the name of justice?
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. "I have no intention of facing your mother with the news that you have followed your father to the grave. Therefore, you go to London."
Tavis gasped.
"Nay," Marcus said. "You will have no more opportunities to go wandering off by yourself." He raised a brow. "You know your sister follows."
"I made sure she did not," the boy protested.
Marcus laughed. "Never underestimate a female, no matter her age."
"Laird," Tavis begged, "I promise—"
"Nay," Marcus said shortly.
"Not London then, but Edinburgh."
Another laugh from Marcus, this one tinged with fondness. "London it will be, lad. Edinburgh is too close for comfort."
"Laird," Tavis said, desperation in his voice.