Joanna Maitland: Bride of the Solway

“The Laird of Galloway should be dead and damned to all eternity,” Cassie raged. “He would be well served in hellfire. For he is the very devil—”

“Miss Elliott. Hush! I think I hear horses!”

She ignored him. “And if he burns, it will—”

Ross had two choices. Silence her by brute force, or…He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

was born and educated in Scotland, though she has spent most of her adult life in England or abroad. She has been a systems analyst, an accountant, a civil servant and director of a charity. Now that her two children have left home, she and her husband have moved from Hampshire to the Welsh Marches, where she is reveling in the more rugged country and the wealth of medieval locations. When she is not writing, or climbing through ruined castles, she devotes her time to trying to tame her new house and garden, both of which are determined to resist any suggestion of order. Readers are invited to visit Joanna’s Web site at www.joannamaitland.com.

Bride of the Solway features characters you will have met in My Lady Angel.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

London—Wednesday, 22nd June, 1815

R oss gritted his teeth and started for the door. Once through it, he might just have a chance of breathing again.

‘Captain Graham.’ Julie’s beloved voice was full of concern.

Ross turned back to her, slowly, trying to school his features into mere friendliness.

‘Pray do not leave us, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘There is so much still to discover. And so much to thank you for.’

He shook his head at her, forcing a smile. He found he could not speak.

‘And you must have so much to say to your friends here.’ She nodded in the direction of their hostess and her escort, talking together in the far corner of the room, sharing thoughts so intimate that they had brought a slight blush to the lady’s cheek. There stood a man whose love was returned, Ross thought. A fortunate man.

‘Most of all, my dear friend,’ Julie continued rather earnestly, ‘I should like you to know Pierre, to have him esteem you as I do.’

She was looking past Ross as she spoke, her eyes searching the room before fixing on a point beyond Ross’s shoulder. He knew, without turning, that her eye had lighted on her lover. The sudden softening of her glance and the glow of her complexion betrayed the depth of her feelings for the man.

Another shaft of pain stabbed deep into Ross’s gut.

Swallowing hard, he steeled himself to act the part of the gentleman and friend, the part he had been forced to play for months now. Yesterday, he had had hopes of winning her. No longer. All that was left was pride.

He bowed slightly to her. ‘Mademoiselle, I am at your service, as ever.’

‘Y ou harlot!’

His insult was the last straw. Cassandra Elliott launched herself at her half-brother in yet another attempt to retrieve the remains of her letters. But James was too big and too strong. He fended her off with one long arm, using the other to push the torn fragments of paper into the depths of the fire. Cassandra could do nothing but watch, while they twisted and blackened in the flames. ‘You are hateful,’ she spat, with a sob that was part fury, part frustration. ‘You have no right—’

‘I have every right! Now, you will tell me his name.’

Cassandra shook her head vehemently. ‘Never! You can—’

James pushed Cassandra roughly on to the oak settle. ‘I am the head of this family, and I will not have you bring disgrace upon us by your wanton behaviour.’

‘My wanton behaviour? I have done nothing but receive a few harmless love poems. Nothing more. But you, Jamie Elliott—’

‘I am—’

‘You are the one who spends every other night in the whorehouse. When you are not lifting the skirts of our own maids, that is. It is not I who bring disgrace on the Elliott name. You—’ ‘You forget yourself, sister. I am a man, and the laird, besides. I—’

‘You are a—’

‘Enough! Hold your tongue!’

He towered over her, menacing, his brows drawn together in a black frown, his fists clenched.

Cassandra tried not to cower away from him. She must not give him the satisfaction of knowing she was afraid. If only she were not so alone.

‘No one but you would dare to question my actions. I will have no more of it. You are only a lassie. You will do as you are told. And if you don’t…’

He bent down so that his face was within an inch of hers. She could feel his fury like the waves of heat from a roaring fire.

‘You’ll not be forgetting what happened to your mother, will you now?’

His voice had suddenly sunk to a snarling undertone, far more terrifying than all his bellowing. At the mention of her mother, Cassandra’s heart began to race. Now she was surely lost.

‘I can put you in the Bedlam just as easily as Father did your mother. There’s no man here will gainsay me. They all know what a mad, headstrong lassie you are—have always been. I have only to say that you’ve been playing the harlot, following in your mother’s footsteps, and every man among them—aye, and the women, too—will help me carry you through the Bedlam door.’

She reached a hand out to him. ‘You would not—’

‘Do not put me to the test, lassie. Remember, I am my father’s son.’ Snatching up the single candle, James strode to the door and left the little parlour, without once looking back.

Cassandra heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. She did not need to try the door. She was imprisoned—again—and it would be a long time before James relented and permitted her release. If she were truly unlucky, he would not even allow her food and drink.

She looked around the room in the feeble glow of the dying fire. She must have some light. She could not bear the thought of being shut up alone, in the dark, in this bare and hostile chamber. She knelt before the hearth to light a spill from the embers but, as she touched the flame to the tallow dip, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor behind the chair leg. It was the last remaining evidence that anyone in the world truly cared for Cassandra Elliott.

She pulled the fragment from under the chair and smoothed it once, then again and again, as if willing it to be whole again. At least one person did care. Just one. But he could not help her.

Impatiently, she brushed away a tear. It was anger. Only anger. She was not so weak that her half brother could make her cry. She was not!

She caressed the paper yet again. There was so little left. It was barely an inch wide and held only a few disjointed words, part of three lines of Alasdair’s bad poetry. She had smiled when she first read it, recognising the evidence of the boy’s calf-love. He might be only fifteen, but he idolised her. He saw himself as a knight, winning her love by deeds of great daring. But if James Elliott once discovered the lad’s identity, the daring would be thrashed out of him. She would never betray his name, no matter how much James threatened.