Page 8 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

“Will you marry me?” she asked, her voice trembling with hope.

Rory looked down at her, and she read sympathy in their blue depths and a sort of steely determination. He took a deep breath.

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

Grace gasped as her emotions threatened to swamp her. She told herself she would not cry, she would not. Not in front of him anyway. Her throat had closed, and before she could force out the words to respond, she heard Fitt open the door. Her father stood there. Only he wasn’t her father. He had never behaved like a father to her, and she could not remember a time when she hadn’t felt afraid of him.

Not physically. He had never physically hurt Grace, but emotionally and mentally he was always thinking up new ways to make her life a misery. She went out of her way not to draw attention to herself in case he discovered some new way to torture her.

And all for something that had never been her fault.

And after Bolton it had gotten so much worse.

Now Ormsby strolled into the room, his stick thin legs and arms making her think of a praying mantis—before it bit your head off. “MacKenzie, have you finished listening to my lying daughter? I do hope you—”

“I will marry Grace.”

For once the earl seemed at a loss for words. Grace felt a shaky smile twitching at her lips but held it back as her father’s gaze slid from her to Rory and back again. “Good,” he said at last, as if he had expected nothing less. “I am glad I didn’t have to resort to other measures.”

Rory cocked an eyebrow. “Other measures? What would they be then?” he inquired with deceptive politeness, but his eyes were glittering dangerously.

“Oh, there are always other measures,” Ormsby said with a wave of his hand.

Grace was startled to hear Rory laugh. “If you say so.”

There was a moment when the earl seemed to consider whether or not to respond to that before he decided not to. Perhaps now that he had gotten his way he wasn’t willing to risk a challenge. Instead, he rubbed his hands together, reminding Grace even more of a mantis. “We will hold the wedding here in a week’s time. We can’t dilly dally.” His lip curled. “Buckingham’s seed might be growing as we speak. I have the special license ready, I just need to remove Ramsgate’s name and insert yours. It will not matter to Grace, will it, my dear? She is not fussy when it comes to her suitors.”

His words made Grace feel ill, but she remained silent. It was always best to ignore his jibes.

Rory spoke up in a calm, firm voice. As if he was the one in charge and not her father. “We will marry at my aunt’s house,” he said.

Ormsby considered this as if he was looking for loopholes and then shrugged. “As you wish. Frankly, I don’t care where you marry, as long as you do. Now Grace, come with me!”

He turned and headed for the door, which Fitt was holding open, and Grace hurried after him. She knew it did not do to keep the earl waiting. But as she moved to pass Rory, he caught her arm and stopped her.

“I wish to have a word in private with my wife-to-be,” he said.

The earl turned with a frown. “You have already had a word. Wasn’t that enough? I hope you are not thinking of reneging, MacKenzie.”

“Not at all. It is a simple enough request. I’m sure you can spare her for a few more minutes.”

A beat and then Ormsby shrugged. He set off again, calling back over his shoulder, “A very brief word. Grace, I will see you in my study in five minutes.”

The door closed and she was alone with him—the man who had agreed to marry her. Lord Rory MacKenzie, a Scottish duke’s son, who was unlike any gentleman she had ever met.

He was still holding her arm, and now his fingers slid down to her hand, his own large and exceptionally warm for such a cold room. She reminded herself with trepidation that she was placing a great deal of trust in this stranger. Once they were wed, he would own her. She would be his wife and his property. He could do whatever he liked with her. The thought made her shiver.

He must have felt it because he let go of her hand and took a step back, giving them both some space.

“There is no need to be afraid of me,” he said. “I want you to know that this will be a marriage in name only. You dinna need to fear me, Grace. I have no appetite for an unwilling bride. We will marry and you will take my name, and after that your father will no longer have any power over you. We can live separate lives. No arguments over the breakfast table about where either of us spent the night.”

Numbly, she listened to him. Did he really mean what he was saying? Was he going to save her from Ormsby and then ignore her for the rest of their lives? And would the marriage be legal if it was not consummated? None of this seemed real but she was not about to quibble, so she gave a jerky nod of agreement.

“That is all I wanted to say,” he went on. “Apart from assuring you that there is no need to fear me. I willna hurt you.” He smiled. “I have a sister who I love very much, and I’m sure she would tell you I am a reckless fool, and perhaps she is right, but she would also tell you I am not a cruel man, and nor am I a violent one.”

She nodded again. The shock was wearing off, and she was beginning to believe that what he was saying was the truth. She was going to marry him and he would set her free, like an animal in a trap, he would release her.

“I have a dowry,” she offered. “It was left to me by my mother and it is not much, but it would be enough for me to live on if I am frugal. If you will allow me to keep it?” she added, and hated the tentative sound of the question.