Katharine Ashe - How to Marry a Highlander

When he’d lost Miranda, then Marie and the babe, he’d thought he could never again feel that pain. Apparently he could, all from losing a soft, strong, sweet, lush-lipped, vibrant, caring, meddlesome Englishwoman who after seven long, dark years had made him feel again.

Sorcha found him packing his traveling case. She set her fists on her hips.

“What’re ye doing?”

“Taking ye home where yer needed. Can ye be ready to leave come morn?”

Her eyes widened. “Did Teresa convince ye, then?”

“Convince me?”

“That ye mustn’t force me to marry, o’ course.”

He turned fully to her, his heartbeats suddenly hard. “Sorcha, did ye understand the terms o’ the wager?”

“Aye. But Duncan, I didna see hou ye could deceive her so. Ye’ve said for years ye’ll niver marry again.”

“Did ye tell her that?”

“Aye.” Her forthright gaze bored into him. “It was high time somebody did.”

Harrows Court Crossing was the same as Teresa had left it. Mrs. Biddycock’s parlor boasted the same company—except Mr. Waldon, who was still in town —and conversation was the same old gossip.

It required less than half an hour for her to realize that the upright Reverend Elijah Waldon had lied. Mrs. Biddycock’s cousin had not written from London about her. He had apparently traveled there expressly out of impatience to return her to their cozy fold. Nobody knew of her concourse with the Eads clan or anything about what she had been doing in town.

So she told them. If honesty were to be her new policy she must begin immediately.

No one believed her.

“Six matches for six Scottish ladies in three short weeks!” Mrs. Biddycock clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve never heard the like! Oh, Miss Finch-

Freeworth, how we’ve missed your tales.”

“My favorite part is your proposal of marriage to the penniless earl,” one of the other ladies chortled. “Do tell us that part again, dear, but this time make him a duke. I simply adore dukes.” She laughed merrily. Others joined in.

“But he was an earl. Is an earl,” Teresa insisted. “And I did make a wager with him. I am telling you the truth.”

“Miss Finch-Freeworth, you are priceless,” another lady giggled.

Teresa left. In a muddle she walked down the high street and almost passed the big roan stallion tied before the blacksmith’s shop without noticing it.

She halted, her heart careening, and stared at the horse.

The door of the blacksmith’s opened and the Earl of Eads walked out. He came directly to her. She hadn’t time even to untie her tongue before he went to his knee in the dusty street and placed his palm across the drape of plaid over his heart.

“Miss Teresa Finch-Freeworth o’ Brennon Manor.” His voice was deep and musical. “Would ye do me the honor o’ marrying me?”

She blinked. “Has Sorcha gotten betrothed?”

The neat whisker shadow around his mouth creased into a smile and he shook his head. “Teresa, luve, say ye’ll marry me.”

“I told you, I—”

“I luve ye, woman. Nou promise me yer hand an make an honest man o’ me.” His blue eyes pleaded. “I beg o’ ye.”

She stepped forward, he came to his feet, and she placed her hand on his chest.

“You are real,” she said stupidly. “You are not an invention of my overly active imagination. And you’ve just asked me to marry you. I did not fantasize it.” The butterflies were doing cartwheels in her stomach, accompanied now by waltzing sparrows around the region of her heart. She shook her head.

“Sorcha said you would never marry again.”

“Sorcha didna have the whole story.” With a smile he enclosed her hand in both of his and drew it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, then her wrist. “I need ye, Teresa. Ye make me laugh when I’ve no laughed in years. Ye march to the beat o’ yer own drum an I canna get enough o’ ye. I want ye wi’ me day an nicht. I’m determined to have ye.”

Before she realized what he was about, he cinched her around the waist and knees and swept her up into his arms.

“My lord! What are you doing?” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Put me down this instant.”

“I’ll make a deal wi’ ye, luve. Ye promise to wed me an I’ll put ye down. But keep me waiting an I’ll kiss ye here.”

“Hm. Which to choose? They’re both tempting.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “Perhaps—” He kissed her. She melted into him.

“Teresa,” he said deeply. “Give me yer hand.”

“Why didn’t you say this in London?”

He let her feet slide to the ground and took her hands in his. “Ye told me ye wouldna have me,” he said soberly.

“You believed me?”

“I did, till Sorcha told me ye’d spoken. Didna ye believe yerself?”

“Yes. But I didn’t want to. Do you really love me?”

“Aye. I canna live without ye.” He cupped his hands around her face and kissed her tenderly, earnestly. “Dinna make me live without ye, luve.”

She threw her arms around him and he wrapped her in his embrace.

There were more kisses then, of the passionate and celebratory sort. The ladies watching avidly from the parlor window in the house across the street did not seem to mind. One or two might have even thought how wonderful it was for Teresa that she had finally found an activity that seemed to please her even more than telling tales.

To my wonderful readers who asked for Duncan’s story, I do hope you enjoyed it.

To my new readers, it’s lovely to have you along for the fun! Duncan and Teresa’s first encounter at Lady Beaufetheringstone’s ball takes place in my novel How a Lady Weds a Rogue, starring Teresa’s friend Diantha and her handsome Welshman, Wyn Yale. Both Teresa and Duncan play key parts in that story. You can find the first chapters of How a Lady Weds a Rogue and information about all my books on my website: www.KatharineAshe.com.

Copious thank yous for assistance go to Georgie Brophy, Mary Brophy Marcus, and Marquita Valentine, without whom this story would not have come together.

I offer very special thanks to Maya Rodale for her permission to feature in this story a cameo of Regency London’s most dashing newspaper editor. Mr.

Knightly is a central character in her fabulous Writing Girl Series, which includes his story, Seducing Mr. Knightly.

A Fair Somewhere in Cornwall April 1804 Three young sisters of no rank and even less fortune sat in the glow of lamplight before a table draped in black velvet.

Upon that table was a ring fit for Prince Charming.

Veiled in ebony, the soothsayer studied not her clients’ palms or brows or even their eyes, but the ring, a glimmering spot of gold and ruby amidst the shadows of everything else in the tent.

“You are motherless.” The Gypsy’s voice was rich but as English as the girls’.

“We are orphans.” Arabella, the middle sister, leaned forward, tucking a lock of spun copper behind an ear formed as delicate as a seashell. Only twelve years old and already she was a beauty—lips pink as berries, cheeks blooming, eyes sparkling. In appearance she was a maiden of fairy tales, and just as winsome of temper, though any storyteller would be obliged to admit that she was not in the least bit meek.

“Everybody in the village knows we are motherless.” Her elder sister Eleanor’s brow creased beneath a golden braid tucked snugly into a knot.

Bookish as she was, Eleanor’s brow often creased.

“Our ship wrecked, and Papa adopted us from the foundling home so that we would not be sent to the workhouse.” With the simple candor of the young, Ravenna explained the history she did not remember yet had often been told. She was but eight, after all. Restlessly, she shifted her behind on the soft rug, and the fabric of her skirts tangled beneath her slippers. A tiny black canine face peeked out from the muslin folds.

Arabella leaned forward. “Why do you stare at the ring, Grandmother?

What does it tell you?”

“She is not our grandmother,” Ravenna whispered quite loudly to Eleanor, her dark ringlets bouncing. “We don’t know who our grandmother is. We don’t even know who our real mama and papa are.”

“It is a title of respect,” Eleanor whispered back, but her eyes were troubled as she looked between Arabella and the fortune-teller.

“This ring is the key to your destinies,” the woman said, passing her hand over the table, her lashes closing.

Eleanor’s brow scrunched tighter.

Arabella sat forward eagerly. “The key to our true identity? Does it belong to our real father?”

The Gypsy woman swayed from side to side, gently, like barley stalks in a light breeze. Arabella waited with some impatience. She had in fact waited for this answer for nine years. Each additional moment seemed a punishment.

From without, the sounds of the fair came through the tent walls—music, song, laughter, the calls of food sellers, whinnies of horses at the trading corral, bleats of goats for sale. The fair had passed through this remote corner of Cornwall every year since forever, when the Gypsies came to spend the warm seasons on the flank of the local squire’s land not far from the village. Until now, the sisters had never sought a fortune. The reverend always warned against it. A scholar and a churchman, he told them such things were superstition and must not be encouraged. But he gave freely of his charity to the travelers. He was poor, he said, but what little a man had, God demanded that he share with those in even greater need—like the three girls he had saved from destitution five years earlier.