He didn’t walk like Fitzwilliam.
He drew closer, and closer still. By the time he stopped in front of her, Juliana was so agitated she was sure he could hear her heart thundering in her chest.
He said something to her—something about assisting her—but she could only stare wordlessly up at him, a gasp frozen in her throat.
He wasn’t Fitzwilliam.
He had Fitzwilliam’s brow, his nose, his sculpted cheekbones, but this man was too rough, his features too aggressive, his manner too stern to be mistaken for Fitzwilliam, who was all smooth, polished charm.
He was speaking to her still, but Juliana didn’t try to make sense of his words. She was staring at his hard lips.
His mouth is all wrong.
It was too wide, with a hint of ferocity in the lower lip. His voice was deeper, too, and though not unkind it was raw somehow, as if he were accustomed to barking commands, and had done so a few times too often.
Dear God, who was this man? She might have been looking at Fitzwilliam’s mirror image, but through a cracked glass that distorted the reflection.
He was still talking, saying something about running away, and a missing bridegroom, and Gretna Green…
Gretna Green. The vowels lengthened in his mouth, and his tongue wrapped around the r’s in a distinct Scottish burr. That lilt in his deep, smoky voice made her shiver, as if musical notes were darting down her spine.
He was Scottish. A Scotsman who looked just like Fitzwilliam.
What was happening? She’d never laid eyes on this man before. Fitzwilliam hadn’t ever breathed a word about having family in Scotland, but it was beyond comprehension two men could be mirror images of each other without being related.
Indeed, they looked so much alike, it was impossible not to think they were…
Brothers.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I don’t…it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, dazed.
“He told you he loved you to get you to come with him to Gretna Green, didn’t he, lass? But now he’s gone and left you, hasn’t he?”
Questions were tumbling through Juliana’s mind, knocking everything about and leaving wreckage in their wake, but for some reason, this caught her attention. It penetrated the haze of shock, and a suspicion began to take hold.
Missing bridegroom…left her…Gretna Green…
Oh, no. This Scottish version of Fitzwilliam thought she was a runaway bride!
Well, how absurd. That is, she was aware she wasn’t looking her best at the moment. Her hair was a nest of tangles, her riding habit was creased and dusty, and even the fresh air couldn’t disguise theunpleasant aroma hanging over her like a noxious cloud. Even so, it was ungentlemanly in him to make such an assumption, no matter if shewasat Gretna Green.
Juliana drew herself up and fixed him with the most dignified look a lady with vomit on her boots could manage. “Left me? No! I’m not a—” she began, but then clapped her mouth shut before she could do something stupendously foolish.
Like tell him the truth.
Perhaps I am a runaway bride, after all.
Fitzwilliam had a brother. By the looks of it, a twin brother. A twin brother who must know where he was, and who even now was likely on his way to Inverness, and from there, to Castle Kinross.
She could ask him to take her along with him. That would be the simplest approach, but instinct held her back. Fitzwilliam’s brother or not, Juliana didn’t know or trust this man, and she hadn’t the least intention of putting herself under his protection. She’d come too far to risk making a mistake now.
Still, this giant Scot was a precious gift, and he’d just fallen right into her lap. She intended to seize it—him—before he could slip through her fingers. She cast a frantic gaze around the inn yard, praying like she’d never prayed before that she’d find…yes! Thank goodness. There was Stokes, just coming out of the stables. “There’s my husband now.”
She bit her lip as Stokes inched his way across the inn yard. Oh, dear. He didn’t look much like an eager bridegroom. He was hobbling along as if his gout were bothering him again, and even from this distance it was plain to see he was old enough to be her father.
“Him?” The man’s tone was incredulous, but at this point Juliana didn’t care if he found her pretend marriage scandalous. She only cared heleaveso she and Stokes could follow him straight to Castle Kinross.
“Yes, indeed. He’s, ah…that is, we’re husband and wife.”
