He’d spared no expense in their mad race north.
They had slept in the coach, even though they had risked the possibility of highwaymen traveling by moonlight. Tom had said he was not particularly concerned about men on the road.
He’d said that those were a feature of years past. That now those men had found other ways of garnishing fortunes, rather than risking their necks on the road to try to stop conveyances.
She supposed if anyone knew, it was him.
But still, even north of Gretna Green, they had rushed on. They had barely jumped out of the coach to be married over the blacksmith’s anvil.
She’d signed her name and realized that she was now the Countess of Glenbroch, wife of Thomas Courtney and she could not have been more thrilled.
For with him, she was free.
With him, she was safe, even if she felt her father breathing down upon her neck from the south.
What would he do when he realized that even in this, she had defied him?
No doubt he would do everything he could to punish them. But she did not care. She would no longer bend to his will. She’d made that decision some days ago and she was still acting upon it, just as Tom was. And Tom, great thinker that he was, was ensuring they were surrounded by powerful friends.
Blackwood had stayed in London to shore up their strength and reputation, and now they were traveling onto one of the greatest estates of Scotland.
Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped at the sight of the castle over the loch. It was one of the most beautiful things she had seen in all her life.
The Duke of Clyde’s immense estate sprawled over the North West Highlands, and she felt her soul soar for a moment as she drank in the purity and beauty of this place.
She had never seen anything like it.
The mountains jutted up from the sea-loch, which was steely gray, reflecting the sun overhead, its waves and ripples winking like diamonds. She could smell the salt in the air from the water. Birds spiraled overhead cawing their sea song, and heather, glorious purple heather, bloomed.
Despite her English roots, she felt at home more than she ever had in London, more than she ever had in her father’s cold estate. There was something about this place that made her feel at peace, even though the last few days had been full of turmoil.
Tom stretched his hand out to her. “Clyde will keep us safe.”
“You can keep us safe,” she pointed out, unable to believe anyone could take better care of her.
He smiled. “Yes, because I am wise enough to seek help. Clyde knows men like your father and has dealt with them. He’s even killed them before, you know.”
She leaned forward and blurted, “Truly? How so?”
“He has a scar across his face,” Tom said quietly, clearly admiring the duke, “and he garnered it in a duel with a man who was as nefarious as your father.”
She swallowed. “Was he very wounded then?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Will it bother you?”
“No,” she said frankly. “Because I would rather a man be disfigured in his face and have a good heart than have a pretty face and be ugly inside.”
“Well said,” Tom replied, looking quite at ease in the Highlands which was a shock given how at home he had seemed in Covent Garden.
“And yet, Tom, you’ve been blessed with both,” she said softly. And it was true. Tom was a beautiful man, both inside and out.
He stared at her for a long moment. “I will take that as the greatest compliment, wife,” he said.
“It is meant as one,” she replied, warming at that title.
Tom reached forward, cupped her face with his hand, and kissed her softly on the mouth. They had had little time for intimacy. The stress had been too much. He had held her in his arms and they had talked for many, many hours, but he had not attempted to make love to her in the coach on their wild ride north.
In some ways, she was grateful.