How to Marry a Highlander

He did not come after her. Nor did he call on her that evening. All along he’d wanted her to go away and she’d finally given him his wish.

The next day after Teresa visited Mr. Knightly at The London Weekly’s office, Diantha insisted she take their traveling carriage home to Brennon Manor. Teresa accepted. It was more comfortable to be in the company of only one’s maid when tears occasionally escaped one’s eyes.

Annie launched into a tale of her latest conquest: the strapping stable hand at the hotel. Teresa gave her only half an ear. Her tastes in stories, she supposed, had changed.

Duncan felt like he’d been run over by a carriage and six. Two days had passed, yet he was still as bemused as the moment she’d broken the heart he’d vowed he would never again lose. He tried to meditate and saw only her troubled eyes before him. He took a hard ride and saw only her sparkling smile. One moment he turned his horse to the north, vowing to have her even if she refused him, and the next he reined in and cursed himself for a fool.

He’d thought she wanted him. She’d given him her body. He never would have taken it if he hadn’t intended to marry her. He’d been walking out the door to go tell her that when Finch-Freeworth arrived, then Knightly on his heels.

But she was a lusty female. She wanted pleasure and she’d gotten it from him. That he’d thought she wanted more only made him a common daftie.

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.

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