Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott

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

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

       Scotland—April 1822

      The Day of Judgement had arrived, bringing Preston Worth with it. There was only one reason he was here. He had come for her. At last. Beatrice had known it the moment she’d seen him ride into the yard of the Maddox farmhouse. After months of anticipation and planning, the dreaded reckoning was here.

      Beatrice closed her eyes, trying to find her calm centre, trying to fight the rising terror at the core of her, but to little effect. Months of knowing and planning were not the bulwarks of support she’d hoped they’d be. She fisted clammy hands in the folds of her skirt, desperate to find balance, desperate to hold back the swamping panic that swept her in stomach-clenching nausea, in the race of her heartbeat and the whir of her mind. From the window, she saw Preston swing off the horse and approach the house in purposeful strides. All coherent thought splintered into useless shards of what had once been whole logic.

      She knew only two things in the precious seconds of freedom that remained. The first: she had to act now! Every panicked instinct she possessed screamed the same conclusion: grab the baby and run! Her freedom would end the moment he entered the farmhouse. The second was that her parents had outdone themselves this time. They’d sent her friend to be the horseman of her apocalypse. Therein lay the conundrum: she needn’t fear her friend, the one-time hero of her youth, the saviour of her Seasons when no one else would sign her dance card. She need only fear his message. How did one fight someone who wasn’t the enemy? But fight Preston she must. This was Armageddon, the end of her world as she preferred it, if she lost the battle that was to come.

      She would not lose. She was Beatrice Penrose. She didn’t know how to lose, even in the face of great adversity. She’d born a child out of wedlock and survived. What greater adversity for a young woman was there than that? There were low murmurs of voices at the door, Mistress Maddox and Preston exchanging greetings and introductions. Beatrice unclenched her fists and smoothed her skirts where her hands had wrinkled them. She drew a deep breath, giving panic one last shove. She could allow herself to tremble all she liked on the inside. She just couldn’t show it, couldn’t let Preston see how much his visit terrified her.

      At the sound of boots at the parlour door, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin with a final admonition: she was Beatrice Penrose, she would survive this, too. She had time for one last breath before the axe fell, his words chopping short her freedom. ‘Hello, Beatrice. I’ve come to fetch you home.’

      She turned from the window to meet her fate—no, not her fate, her future. Fate was something you accepted. The future was something you carved for yourself, something you alone decided. That meant taking charge of this conversation right now. The future was here, standing before her; tall and dark-haired with a sharp hazel gaze, Preston, the friend of her youth as she’d always known him and yet there was a difference about him today that transcended the dusty boots and windblown hair, something she couldn’t put her finger on, not yet. Her mind was still too scattered. She desperately wished she could get her nerves under control.

      Beatrice gestured to the chairs set before the cold fire. ‘Please, come and sit. You should have sent word you were coming.’ At least she’d found her voice even if it sounded reedy.

      ‘And ruin the surprise?’ Preston took the far chair. She took the seat closest to the cradle where her son slept oblivious. Her foot picked up the rocking rhythm it had abandoned a few minutes ago for the window, this time out of a need to quiet her nerves more than putting the babe to sleep. ‘You must tell me all the news from Little Westbury. How are Evie and her new husband? He sounds like a paragon from her letters. I can’t believe I missed her wedding.’ She was talking too fast, rambling, and she couldn’t stop. ‘I want all the details and I’ll want to hear about May and Liam, too. They must be married by now.’ So much for hiding her nerves, but perhaps she could buy some time until she had her control back. At the moment, these questions were the shield behind which she could gather stronger resources.

      Whether he recognised the delaying efforts for what they were or not, Preston obliged her. He was too much of a gentleman, too much of a friend, not to. She’d grown up with him. He’d filled the role of being an older brother to all of May’s friends who had only sisters or, like her, no one, when they were younger. He politely regaled her with tales of Evie’s wedding and the new house her prince had bought in the valley. He told her of Liam’s coming knighthood ceremony and of May’s elegant January wedding at St Martin-in-the-Fields. An hour ticked by and Bea began to hope that he might forget, that she’d succeeded in driving him off course. ‘And May’s dress? You haven’t told me yet what she wore,’ Beatrice pressed him when the conversation began to lag.

      But Preston was finished. He had not forgotten. ‘I won’t say another word. There won’t be anything left for Evie and May to tell you when you get home. They will be so glad to see you.’

      His words brought the conversation full circle. The delaying action was over despite her efforts to steer it away from the one topic she didn’t want to discuss.