Megan Frampton Read Online Free Page A

marquess who habituates low places where a woman might be sold.”
    He flung his head back to laugh, then winced as it slammed against the wall. “Ouch.” He rubbed his head. “Excellent point.”
    He rolled over her to get off the bed. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react; all she could do was absorb the feeling of his body on hers for a moment—hard, warm, heavy.
    She didn’t think about how good it felt. Did she?
    “We’re where—Alnwick?”
    She nodded. He didn’t even know where he was?
    “If I let you go—” He glanced at Mary’s face and twisted his lips in thought. “The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul,” he said quietly. It surprised her, his knowledge of John Calvin. Mary’s father quoted him frequently in his sermons, but she hardly expected it from someone like this marquess.
    Of course, given that she’d just met him, she didn’t know why she had an opinion about what he might or might not know.
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “Alnwick is about thirty miles from Scotland. We’ll go there, get married, and head to London.”
    London! He would take her to London! And … “Wait! Married?” she asked.
    “Married.” It sounded like a death sentence. “You’re clearly a lady, and I am supposed to be a gentleman,” he said, a cynical look on his face. “Marriage is what is required when a man and a woman have spent the night alone together.”
    Mary got off the bed, too, and turned away from his handsome face and high-handed manner. For a second, her heart had lifted. Could her problems be so easily solved?
    But her father’s gentle voice of admonishment spoke in her head. It wasn’t right. “Marriage is not possible, my lord.”
    “Why not? Are you married already?” He sounded bored. “Will your husband be hammering on the door, demanding satisfaction?”
    “No, of course not,” Mary replied. She twisted her hands together in her skirt. “You, my lord, are a lord. Obviously,” she added, when she heard him chuckle.
    “And I …” Her mind raced at the thought of it. Why couldn’t she marry him? And leave him as soon as she reached London?
    “You shouldn’t be marrying me.” She had to say it, for her own conscience, even though it might mean her ruin. In so many ways. Vicar’s daughters were odd that way, she thought ruefully to herself.
    He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. “Listen, Mary Smith. You have been compromised. I can do something about that. And I will. I will hear no further arguments.” He looked out the window. “I’ll order up some water so you can bathe. Meet me downstairs in half an hour, we’ll have breakfast, then be on our way. I’ll go out and see about hiring a carriage.”
    He grabbed his coat from the peg on the wall and walked out, slamming the door behind him before Mary could do more than utter a faint “Oh.”
    Mary sat down on the bed, putting her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand.
    He was insane. Men didn’t marry women they’d just met, let alone bought. But if she could swap the devil she knew—her half brother—for the devil she didn’t know, she would reckon it a good bargain, even if the unknown devil was insane. She’d be leaving soon enough anyway.
    With the protection of his name, she could get to London, find her mother, and then disappear, leaving him and his insanity to live out their days in companionable bliss.
    Perfect.
    Of course, marriage meant more than saying a few words and sharing a name. Her chest tightened at the thought—she was honest enough with herself to know that the idea of marital duties both terrified and intrigued her. As
he
did.
    Besides, there would be time enough to talk to him about
that
on the thirty-miledrive to Scotland.
    Where she’d marry an insane marquess with nightmares and beautiful green eyes.
    ***
    Alasdair stood in the hallway, looking in bemusement at the door he’d just closed. He’d made up his mind the night