Claiming His Defiant Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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front of the fire. You can be near your friend.’
‘No, I have to push on.’ Liam swallowed the whisky, letting the gulp burn down his throat and warm his belly. The illusion of warmth gave him the strength he needed to resist the offer. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and stay near, but he had promised Preston. He had miles to go before he could rest. The more distance between him and Cabot Roan, the better. ‘You’ve already done so much, but I have one more favour to ask.’
‘Consider it done,’ the farmer interrupted. ‘We’ll watch over your friend as best we can and hope no fever sets in.’ Preston was stitched, but that wasn’t a miracle cure-all.
‘I can pay you. He’ll need food, meat to build back the blood he’s lost.’ Liam reached in his pocket for a bag of coins and pressed it into the farmer’s hand.
‘It’s not necessary.’ The farmer tried to give back the bag.
‘It is, I assure you. You have done a greater good tonight than you realise.’ Liam furrowed his brow. ‘You’ve done so much and I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Taylor. Tom Taylor. And yours?’
Liam grinned. ‘My friends call me Case.’ The farmer nodded sagely, understanding the protection Liam had offered him. Sometimes names could be dangerous. Better that this good family not know too much. Liam did not want them harmed in return for their generosity.
The farmer jerked his head towards the inside. ‘Do you think anyone will come looking for him?’ He’d want to know, would want to protect his family.
‘Maybe.’ Liam wouldn’t lie to them. He hoped not. Preston would need a couple of weeks to recover, a month even to be back to full strength. He glanced inside at Preston’s prone figure. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t wait. Edinburgh was a long way from where he was. He’d need a head start if he was going to reach May in time, assuming Cabot Roan even knew to look there. Liam hoped he didn’t. He wanted to gamble that May’s remote and unexpected location would protect her. Then he could stay until Preston was in the clear.
The farmer looked to the sky. ‘There will be rain tonight. A lot of it. Are you sure you want to go?’
He wasn’t sure at all. He didn’t want to go, but he’d given Preston his word. He had to go to May whether she needed protection or not, never mind she’d be about as pleased to see him as he was pleased to be there.
Liam didn’t bother to go back inside. His resolve was weak enough. The offer of a fire and a hot meal would do him in. He shook the farmer’s hand, thanked him once more and mounted up with a wary eye skyward. Maybe the rain would hold off, he was due some luck. Two miles down the road the clouds broke in a soaking deluge. Whoever said the Irish were lucky definitely hadn’t met Liam Casek.
Village on the Firth of Forth, Scotland—November 1821
‘A penny and nothing more,’ May Worth argued, facing down Farmer Sinclair and his carrots in the market. Farmer Sinclair didn’t want to sell her carrots any more than she wanted to buy them from him, not at that price. ‘Three pennies for a bundle of carrots is highway robbery.’
‘A man’s got to feed his family.’ Sinclair rubbed his stubbly chin with a weathered hand. He gave her a steady look. ‘What do you care if they’re one penny or three, you can afford it either way.’
‘Being of means, as modest as they are,’ May emphasised, ‘doesn’t mean I squander them unnecessarily.’ In the four months she and Bea had been in residence, they’d tried to live frugally in an attempt to call the least amount of attention to themselves as possible. Still, despite their best efforts, there were some like Farmer Sinclair who’d concluded they were ladies of independent means.
Sinclair grumbled, ‘Two and a half. These are fine carrots, the best in the village, and the last fresh you’re likely to get until spring.’ It was hard to argue with that. Sinclair’s produce was always reliable. The carrots were likely worth two and a half this late into autumn, but May didn’t like losing. At anything. Now that she’d engaged in battle she couldn’t back down.
‘Two.’ Sinclair would lord it over her if she gave in too easily and so would Bea when she told her. Bea would laugh and that was worth something. These last few weeks had been hard on Bea. She was in the last month of her pregnancy, large and constantly uncomfortable. She was unable to walk as far as the market these days without her feet swelling. ‘Two. For Beatrice and the baby,’ May added for pathos.
That did the trick. ‘Two,’ Sinclair agreed. ‘Tell Mistress Fields I send my regards.’ He handed her the orange bunch and she tucked them victoriously into her market basket. But it was only a partial win and Sinclair knew it as well as she did. Bea would have got a better price without haggling. Everyone in the village liked Beatrice. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, it was possible to like more than one person at a time. Liking wasn’t exclusive, but they were definitely wary of her.
The carrots were the last of the items on her list. It was time to head home. She didn’t like being away from Beatrice for too long with the baby due soon and she had letters to read—one in particular from her brother that she was eager to read. She knew Bea would be eager for it, too. News from home was sparse these days. The other was from her parents, which she was less eager to read. That one, she would read in private later. Besides, without Bea at the market, her own socialising opportunities were more ‘limited’.
May understood quite plainly she was tolerated because of Bea and she understood why. She was too blunt for some of the ladies and too pretty for some of the wives who worried she’d steal their men. If only they understood she wasn’t interested in men. She’d come here to escape them. So far, that part was working out splendidly. The men hadn’t any more idea what to do with her forthright behaviour than the women did. No one knew what to make of her, no one ever had, except Beatrice and Claire and Evie.
Her friends had never tried to make her fit a mould. They’d simply accepted her as she was, something her own parents had not succeeded in doing. Instead, they’d threatened to marry her off to the local vicar back home if she didn’t find a husband by next spring. She didn’t really think they’d do it, they were just trying so hard to make sure she was betrothed before spring. She highly suspected the second letter in her basket was a long-distance attempt to reintroduce the theme as they had done this past summer.
They’d made countless attempts, some subtle, some less so, during the Season to throw eligible men her direction. She’d thrown them all back and her parents were definitely frustrated. One more Season had passed and she still hadn’t become the dutiful daughter. Here she was, nearly twenty-two, with three Seasons behind her and no suitor in sight, all because of one man.
She’d loved deeply once, although she’d been warned against it. She was too young, he was too ‘dangerous’ in the way unsuitable men are for well-bred girls who are restless and fresh out of the schoolroom. But she had done it anyway and now she was paying. She couldn’t have him. Their harsh parting had seen to that. There could be no going back from the words and betrayal they’d flung at one other. But that didn’t stop her from measuring all others against him and no one could possibly measure up. Her father called it disobedient, outright rebellious. Her mother called it a shame.
Perhaps they were right. Maybe she was rebellious. Maybe she was a shame to the family. There was certainly argument for that. For all outward appearances, she had everything a successful debutante could want: she was pretty, her family was respectable, her father the second son of a viscount, a valued member of Parliament, and she had a dowry that more than adequately reflected all that respectability. What was not to like? She should have been an open-and-shut case, a prime piece of merchandise snatched off the marriage mart after two Seasons.
Although, to her benefit, all that parental frustration had probably been the reason her parents had let her accompany