The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [25]
“MacDuff, despite his nickname, prefers the English side of his family. My father and his mother were brother and sister. His mother married an Englishman from York, a very wealthy ironmonger. Both of us were educated in England, but he went more deeply into it than I did. I used to think he would cut all ties with Scotland if he weren’t tied to it so closely, at least that’s what he always said. But now I believe he’s changed his mind, because during the past few years he’s lived most of the time in Edinburgh.”
“You’re tired, Colin. I want to hear all about this, but later, my dear.”
“You’re a nag.”
He sounded sour, which pleased her. He was mending.
“No, not a nag. One rides a nag,” she said, patting the covers at his shoulders.
He stared at her. “Your sexual innuendos aren’t at all the thing for a virgin.”
He realized she had no idea what he was talking about and snorted at her. “Just go away, Joan.”
“All right. Forgive me, Colin. You’re tired and must rest.”
She turned at the door. “Would you like to marry me the day after tomorrow?”
“Perhaps if I can walk tomorrow I shall be able to ride the day after tomorrow.”
She cocked her head to one side in question, and when he just continued to look sour, she smiled and left him.
Colin lay back and closed his eyes. He was worried, very worried, and so angry he wanted to spit. MacDuff had come to tell him that the MacPhersons were moving on Kinross lands. They’d heard about his financial ruin, knew he was out of Scotland, and had thus taken advantage. They were, according to MacDuff, freely raiding Kinross land and sheep. They were vultures, normally incompetent and content to whine about all their misfortunes—all brought on by themselves. They’d even killed several crofters who’d tried to save their homes from pillage. His people were doing what they could, but there was no leader there for them. Colin had never felt more helpless in his entire life. Here he was, lying in this lovely damned bed in this beautiful house, weak as a day-old foal, and useless to himself and to his family and his people.
Marrying Joan Sherbrooke was the most important thing he could accomplish. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had rabbit teeth, so long as her guineas were shining and numerous. Nothing mattered except smashing the cowardly MacPhersons and saving Vere Castle and all the other Kinross properties. He had to move quickly. He tried to rise, gritted his teeth at the wash of pain through his thigh, and fell back again. Colin’s head began to pound. The next time Joan asked him to wed her, he’d ask that the preacher be brought in the next five minutes.
Douglas Sherbrooke very carefully folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope.
He began to pace the length of the library, then stopped, pulled the letter from the envelope, and read it through again. The big block letters were in black ink and carefully printed. He read:
Lord Northcliffe,
Colin Kinross murdered his wife. He will wed your sister and then do away with her. Doubt it not. He is ruthless and would do anything to get what he wants. The only thing he wants now is money.
It was the sort of thing that Douglas hated. An anonymous accusation that left one furious and disbelieving because it was anonymous, but still planted a seed of doubt despite what one felt about the one being accused. The letter had been delivered just an hour before by a small urchin, who simply told Drinnen that a cove bid ’im to deliver this letter to the lordship o’ this fancy ’ouse.
Drinnen hadn’t asked the lad to describe the cove. A pity. He assumed it had been a man. He paced again, now crumpling the letter in his hand.
Colin was mending rapidly. Sinjun was already dancing about, wanting to marry him by the end of the week. Jesus, it was already Tuesday.
What to do?
He knew deep in his gut that Sinjun wouldn’t care if the wretched letter accused Colin of murdering an entire regiment. She wouldn’t believe it. She would never believe it. She’d go to war with her entire family before she