The Laird's Troubled Bride: The Anvil Brides Trilogy, #1

By Erin Grace

What if your life was a lie?

When Isabelle Barclay is left widowed and alone she discovers a horrifying truth, and just how precarious life in the 1850's can be. Surrounded by sycophantic friends who fear her and treacherous men intent on having her, she is faced with a dismal future. Rescued by an unlikely ally with her own secret past, she escapes to find solace in the beautiful but wild Scottish Highlands.

What she didn't expect was an evil man's revenge, a treasured friendship found and falling for a Scottish Laird who is determined never to love. A stormy, passionate affair and a midnight duel will change Isabelle's life forever.

Once revealed, will the secrets that brought them together help them find love or will the truth tear them apart?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Grace
• Release date: Jun 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393443186

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, 1855

Richard Barclay was dead.

Exhausted and unwell, Isabelle Barclay stood before the enormous door of Lady Rutherford’s stately townhouse. Small, neatly clipped shrubs lined the front walkway, and the bright green door looked freshly painted, its polished silver knocker sparkling in the daylight. Clean, clear windows displayed pretty lace curtains and rich, gold tasselled drapery.

Unsteady on her feet, she winced and inhaled a deep breath.

She wanted to be ill.

Itchy in her secondhand, black bombazine mourning gown, she struggled not to scratch at the tight neckline which constricted her breathing. She shouldn’t complain though, as her maid, Mrs Hobbs, had kindly bought the gown in a hurry from a local merchant, and at a very reasonable price. Though, if she wasn’t mistaken, she could smell traces of camphor now and then. She straightened her skirts and shuddered to think where the dress had come from. Worse still was the fact that she now needed it. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she sighed.

Lord, she was a mess.

At the insistence of Mrs Hobbs, she’d swallowed all manner of vile antidotes, yet the dreadful headache still lingered. Rubbing her temples to alleviate the pain, she grimaced and tried to clear her cloudy thoughts. Even thinking hurt after the last few whirlwind days.

How men could go out and get cup-shot night after night was beyond her comprehension.

She would never touch Madeira again.

With a shaky hand, she reached out and knocked on the door before dabbing her forehead with a small handkerchief. What she wouldn’t give to go back to bed.

With a deep sigh, she tried in vain to piece together her situation—nothing. Instead, despair drifted into her mind like a heavy fog.

Her husband of less than twenty-four hours was dead.

Her stomach knotted and she considered returning home. Yes, she should go. She turned on her heel as the door creaked open.

Good morning, madam. Her Ladyship is expecting you. May I take your coat and gloves?

A tall, well-dressed butler smiled at her and stepped aside. Such a kind man, with a gentle face. She’d met Bradford on only a few occasions but felt she could have known him for years.

She smiled softly and worked the worn kid gloves from her fingers. Thank you, Bradford.

A pleasure, madam. He carefully placed her coat over his arm and bowed slightly. I shall inform Lady Rutherford of your arrival.

As if she were someone of great importance, he ushered her into the cream and olive-green hall. A smile curled one corner of her mouth as she breathed in the sweet perfume of honeysuckle and rose. Just standing in her ladyship’s home lifted her spirits. From the moment they’d met only weeks before, whilst shopping, the kind lady had made her feel like an old friend.

With the elegant ease of a man who took pride in his work, Bradford strode over to the drawing room and opened the carved panel door. Mrs Isabelle Barclay, madam.

He stepped back as she passed him and entered the sunny, lemon-coloured room.

She curtseyed before her beaming hostess and smiled. Lady Rutherford. Thank you for your kind invitation. I hope I’m not late. She’d near slept past her teatime appointment, her head heavy from the effects of drinking the night before.

Not at all, my dear. Please. Please, do sit down. Lady Rutherford drew a small breath and toyed with a delicate lace handkerchief. Firstly, my dear, I do apologize for having to leave so soon from the wake yesterday. I had to oversee some final preparations, you understand.

Please, don’t apologize. It was a comfort just having you there. Indeed, most of the well-wishers had been strangers to her, all claiming an association with her late husband as they’d entered her house, drank her brandy, smoked cigars, and for the most part ignored her entirely. Only a few of the ladies had attempted any kind of conversation, and even then it was to make her position clear. She was now alone. With a small sigh, she took one of the finger sandwiches from the tiered tray next to her. Your kindness has been most unexpected since my arrival to town, but very much appreciated. You must be leaving rather soon, I take it?

Indeed. Tomorrow, in fact.

Oh. Disappointed, she took a small bite of the soft cucumber sandwich, though she hardly felt like eating. I shall miss our teatimes together.

Hardly. A glint of mischief lit the woman’s eyes. You’re coming with me, my dear.

Coming with you? She choked on a mouthful of sandwich, breadcrumbs spattering over her black skirt. How embarrassing. Patting her chest with one hand, she coughed into the other in an effort to clear her throat. I do beg your pardon. I don’t understand. Where are we going?

Are you all right, madam? Bradford appeared beside her with an exquisite white bone china tea set decorated in brilliant red roses. He placed the set down and commenced pouring from the teapot into two matching teacups.

Thank you, yes. She coughed a little, and accepted the cup and saucer held out to her.

Lady Rutherford stirred her tea. I am sorry, my dear, but I hadn’t expected such a remarkable reaction. I really am frightful, aren’t I? I’m afraid delicacy is not one of my strongest attributes. She gently tapped the teaspoon on the edge of the cup, then placed it on the saucer. You see, after I spoke with you yesterday, it occurred to me you have no other family in London, correct?

Hoping to wash down the last of the sandwich, she swallowed a mouthful of tea. Well, yes, but I…

And, as I had already planned this journey to Scotland for some time, I thought how wonderful it would be to have a companion other than my maid, Agnes. Lady Rutherford sipped her tea, then sighed. The poor dear. I really am too much for her to handle now, but I could never let her go.

Leave London? Could it be possible? Her teacup trembled lightly against the saucer. She must be dreaming. Or, perhaps her headache was worse than she’d first thought and now she was imagining things?

I would not wish to be a burden to you. She placed her saucer upon the table, moistened her lips, then searched her friend’s curious gaze. Are you certain you wish me to come with you?

Of course, I am certain, my dear. Unless you have made other plans?

She shook her slowly. No…no, I haven’t. I mean, I haven’t made any plans.

The woman gave her a broad smile as Bradford refilled their cups.

Excellent. Then it is settled. Now, let us drink up and toast to our coming adventure.

Drink? Oh, her head pounded. Tea perhaps, but she would never touch alcohol again.

Following Lady Rutherford’s lead, she raised her cup, then took a long sip of the fragrant, hot brew as the enormity of the situation began to dawn upon her.

Lady Rutherford was going to rescue her from this place and the prospect of being frozen out of society. Visiting acquaintances at Richard’s funeral had promised their support, but she’d seen through their façades. In fact, she barely knew any of them.

There would be no more social invitations for her from ladies her age. Not that she could blame them. No new bride would want an available young widow in her midst, and she refused to become the subject of constant speculation. No. In truth, there wasn’t much about London she would miss.

Then a problem occurred to her. A cold trickle ran through her veins and the smile eased away from her lips.

Money. She didn’t have any. At least, not very much.

After her husband’s funeral expenses, she had little left to get by. In fact, she’d already wondered how to let her servants know she could no longer pay them. And, then there was the matter of finding employment and somewhere to stay.

Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her situation. No. Travelling anywhere would be out of the question.

Her eyes misted, but she forced a smile. Thank you, Lady Rutherford. Your offer is generosity itself. However, upon further consideration…

You will, of course, be doing me a great service, my dear. So, I have taken the liberty of making the necessary arrangements for you. Lady Rutherford gently lifted her cup from its saucer and glanced at her. A knowing look glimmered in the woman’s eye. I naturally understand you would want to fund the trip yourself, but I would be pleased if you’d allow me to take care of the details in return for your assistance.

Stunned, she tried to digest the words. What could she say? The decision had clearly been made.

She swallowed and nodded, unsure if she would laugh or cry. I don’t know what to say. The invitation had been the last thing she’d expected, but in her heart, she knew if she didn’t leave now, there might never be another chance. A timid smile creased her lips and her heart danced, beating out a rhythm that set every nerve alight with anticipation. For now, only words would do. Thank you.

Lady Rutherford let out small sigh. The soft deep lines around the woman’s mouth relaxed and her eyes brightened, glistening just a little. Excellent, my dear. She rang a little silver bell beside her, and Bradford appeared at the doorway. Come, Bradford. We have much to do.

The tremors in her hands rippled through her body until her knees felt weak. She drew upon every ounce of restraint not to reach out and hug the dear lady—her saviour.

The tear-laden prayers she’d cried out into the darkness last night had been answered. Dare she believe this the second chance she’d begged? No. No, too much to expect so soon, perhaps.

At least now, she had hope.

Chapter 2

Overwhelmed with the prospect of travel, Isabelle stood on the stone step of her dreary townhouse, about to knock, when the front door opened.

Miles, her aging butler, stepped aside as she passed him and walked into the hallway.

Good afternoon, madam. His icy tone and grim face bespoke the possibility he’d argued with Mrs Hobbs that afternoon. Those two were always quarrelling about something.

Good afternoon, Miles. Standing before the hall mirror, she handed him her parasol and wrap. With his puffy face and lumpy nose, he’d always reminded her of a retired boxer—one who wasn’t happy about taking up a life of domestic servitude.

Perhaps he’d like the idea of working for someone else? She could only hope.

While removing her gloves, she paused before the parlour doors and turned to him. Miles, please let Mrs Hobbs know I wish to speak with you both this evening. Despite having little money and no possessions of any real value, she would give the pair what she could. She dreaded the thought of them being without work, but would pen then a glowing reference in the hope they could secure employment quickly. Then, if you would be kind enough to bring my large trunk upstairs to my room—

Madam. Excuse me, but you have a visitor.

His grave expression sent prickles running along her flesh.

Visitor? Odd. She’d experienced the same eerie sensation during Richard’s funeral. She couldn’t quite explain it, but it felt as though she was being watched. I don’t recall any appointments today, and I will not be at home to entertain any stranger claiming an association with my late husband.

Madam. Please. Miles gestured toward a set of doors along the hallway. You are required in the parlour at once.

Required? About to refuse, she examined his countenance.

Determination lined his weathered face in a way she’d never seen before. Clearly, she’d no choice but to face whoever waited in there.

With all the confidence and grace she could muster, she walked toward the butler. Whoever they may be, her guest would have to deal with the fact she was not an easy target for fortune hunters or debt collectors. The simple fact was—she hadn’t a penny.

Standing before the parlour door, she waited to be announced.

Mrs Isabelle Barclay, sir. With evident hesitation, Miles bowed to her as she entered the room, then closed the dark wooden doors behind her.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, a dark presence crawled over her skin. From within the confines of a large wing back chair, rose a distorted though distinctly male figure. She couldn’t quite make out his appearance at first, but he shuffled toward her until he came within full view.

He was hideous.

She winced and took a small step back, only to bump into the parlour doors.

P...please, my dear. Do sit down. I don’t want such a lovely lady standing on my account.

The grotesque figure gave a broad smile, revealing a set of horribly arranged teeth, quite broken and stained yellow from years of conspicuous neglect.

Who was he and what did he want?

Despite every urge to flee, she slowly strode past him and sat, his bloodshot, bulbous eyes fixed on her. He hummed a morbid tune, his pudgy little fingers drumming in time along the edge of the settee.

He was a stubby, ill proportioned creature with no obvious neck to speak of. Sores of various size and condition spotted his deathly pale, rubbery complexion. What remained of his thinning hair appeared oily, unkempt, and an amount of fine shed skin littered the shoulders of his dirty frock coat. He reeked of old tobacco, gin, and the sour rancidness of his lack of personal hygiene that leached right through his clothing, permeating every layer.

She shuddered.

He removed his gaze from her and, standing by the mantel, took hold of a dirty coat lapel with one hand.

Allow me to introduce myself, madam. He licked his dry, cracked lips and wiped them off with the back of his hand. Specks of loose, dried skin floated to the floor. My name is Alfred Grimes.

She looked down into her lap and went through all the names of people she’d recently met. Grimes was not amongst them. Mr Grimes. Forgive me, but I don’t believe, sir, that I have ever been introduced to you. And, as such, did not have any appointment with you today. Furthermore, as you can see, I am in mourning at the moment and do not feel at all proper about sitting in here alone with a stranger.

Grimes stared at her, eyes stained and bloodshot like old cracked beads.

I admire your propriety, madam. However, I am no real stranger to you at all. With a smug air, he paced slowly before the hearth. I am, in fact, your brother in-law.

Her eyes narrowed. Richard never mentioned a brother. Her late husband had told her all of his family passed away long ago and he was alone, a reason he’d given for wanting to marry. Had that been a lie?

I am not wholly surprised. But it is true nonetheless. Grimes’s broad grin became wider, and he took a dirty creased handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped off the flecks of spittle accumulating at the edges of his mouth.

Disgusting.

Rising to her feet, she glared at the miserable wretch. The devil take him, he had to be lying.

How dare you, sir. Clearly, you have heard of my recent misfortune and have come here to try to capitalize on my grief. You may as well know I have nothing of value nor do I have a vast inheritance. Or any inheritance, for that matter. Whatever your scheme, you will not profit from it.

He flinched as though her words slapped him in the face. Now, now, my dear. I do appreciate your scepticism, but I assure you I am telling the truth. He reached up and scratched his head. I concede we didn’t quite look alike and Richard was much younger than me. We were, in point of fact, half-brothers. Same mother, different fathers, you understand. Ah, I see you still don’t believe me. Consider my appearance here today. Why else do you think Miles would have let me in? Surely you don’t believe he would have welcomed a perfect stranger into his mistress’s house, do you?

Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to absorb what he’d said. Though repugnant, he did not appear to be lying. And, in reflection, he seemed to make some awful sense. With great reluctance, she sat on the settee. One would suppose not, sir.

He stumbled over, sat down, then leaned in toward her. There now. You are indeed a lady with a rational mind.

She turned her head away from his foul aroma. Good God. If what you say is true, why wasn’t I told of your connection before? She shifted farther away, his actions far too familiar for her liking.

He moistened his lips and shrugged lightly as if made uncomfortable by her question. Brothers have a habit of arguing on occasion. Richard had obviously thought to punish me by keeping me away from his new family.

I see. What then is the nature of your business here today? I don’t recall your attendance at Richard’s funeral. A cold nameless fear curled within, chilling her to her toes. Perhaps he’d been the one she’d sensed watching her? She glanced toward the doorway, suppressing her growing fear. Surely that would have been a much more appropriate time to have made my acquaintance? However, if you are here to extend your belated condolences, then kindly note they are accepted. I shan’t keep you any longer, sir, you may go.

Startled, she sat back as he pushed himself up off the lounge and started to pace before her, throwing his hands into the air. His once pale face grew dark, anger flared in his eyes.

Madam, I shall not be dismissed! Poor Richard. Yes, poor, dear Richard. A snarl curled one corner of his mouth, sending a lump to her throat. Do not assume for one moment that your beloved husband was a man above reproach.

Frightened by the man’s outburst, she rued the fact that Miles had left her alone with him. Her palms were sweating as she held her hands together to stop them from shaking.

Grimes faced her, and after reaching inside his jacket pocket, produced a large wad of folded papers, which he tossed on the table before her.

There, madam. That’s the legacy of your dear departed husband. He leant over and prodded the pile in her direction. Go on then. Look at them.

Trepidation filled her chest as she picked up the pile of scruffy papers, selected one, and rose from her chair. Fingers trembling, she struck a match, and as the glow from the brass oil lamp filled the room, held the document up to the light.

No. It couldn’t be. Her heart sank as she read the words.

It appears to be a promissory note for fifty pounds. At the bottom of the page, the elegant signature of R. C. Barclay sprawled. She might not have been married long, but she knew her late husband’s hand. Very well, sir. Just how many of these notes are there?

Grimes walked toward her, dancing his hand along the mantel.

The princely sum of three thousand pounds, madam. A dreadful look of satisfaction crept across his face.

She raised her hand to her mouth and gasped. So much? She was indebted to him and had little doubt he intended to collect. Why else would he have come? What to do? Bastard. He obviously wanted his money, but she had none to give.

His foul door penetrated her shocked senses, and she turned. Grimes’s stubby hand had crept farther along the mantel and now rested beside her shoulder. One of his fingers toyed with the fine black trim on her dress.

Her eyes widened.

No. Not money. He wanted her.

A surge of heated fury burned her cheeks and she glared at the devil, shuddering inside as his greedy gaze seemed to inch around every curve and devour every little detail of her frame.

He flashed a treacherous smile. "Of course, my dear, I would never dream of asking you to repay such