Free The Marquess's Scottish Bride: A Sweet & Clean Historical Romance (The Chase Brides Book 2) by Lauren Royal, Devon Royal Page B

wheezy sound set her heart to pounding. Was she hearing muffled footsteps?
    Spooked, she froze in her tracks.
    It’s the wind, she told herself. The wind whistling through the old kirk. Cameron always said she had too active an imagination. But her fingers flew to her amulet as her body tensed, ready to run.
    A louder footstep sounded behind her, and a hand clamped on her shoulder. Whirling, she shrieked.
    “Whoa, there.” Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the man looked puzzled and apologetic. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
    The face registered, and Caithren’s jaw dropped open. Her hands went to her heaving chest. It took a moment to find her tongue, but when she did, she let loose.
    “You!” The Englishman had said he felt responsible, but she hadn’t figured he was insane enough to follow her. “You scared me half to death.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only—”
    “What are you doing here?” Still trembling, she leaned on a gravestone. “Did you follow me? I told you I don’t want your help.”
    He shrugged in answer as he gazed around the cemetery. “You’re shaking. I suppose you believe in ghosts?”
    “I’ve yet to meet a Scot who doesn’t,” she said shortly.
    His lips curved as though he found that amusing. He motioned his head toward the gray stone kirk. “Why didn’t you go inside?”
    She glanced from him to the building, then back. “You were watching me?” The thought was disturbing.
    She’d wanted to explore the elaborate medieval kirk, not to mention pray there for the stamina to put up with Mrs. Dochart for eight and a half more days. Heaven knew she needed some help. But she’d been afraid the coach would leave without her, so she’d stayed outdoors instead.
    And he’d been watching her. A vague sense of unease stole over her. Her hand went into her pocket, feeling for the familiar comfort of Adam’s portrait she’d put there to remind her of her goal.
    “I-I must go. Please, just leave me alone.”
    “It’s a beautiful building.” He gestured at the bell tower, where no less than sixteen pinnacles crowned the battlement. “You really should have a look inside.”
    The sun came back out, dispelling her anxiety somewhat. She took a deep breath and straightened. “I don’t have time to go inside. The coach is leaving.”
    He nodded. “I’ll walk you through.”
    “There’s a door on the other side?” She frowned but followed him, dimly wondering why she was cooperating with an Englishman. But she felt that he meant her no harm.
    Inside, it was cool and deathly quiet. Deserted as well, at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. The flames of votive candles made shadows dance in the dim light that filtered through the kirk’s beautiful stained-glass windows. She paused to silently admire the ancient grandeur, loath to disturb the utter peacefulness with unnecessary words.
    With a tug on her hand, he urged her down a side aisle.
    “Last call!” The driver’s voice managed to pierce the thick stone walls. Looking up, Cait could see that some of the colorful windows were old and broken, no doubt letting in the sound, as well as the wind that had frightened her in the graveyard.
    “Let go of me,” she whispered, trying to pull from the Englishman’s grasp. He had no business touching her. “I must go.”
    He held tight and continued doggedly toward a small private chapel that projected outside the main wall. It would be near Church Street and the inn. She guessed she’d find the door there.
    But when they stepped through an archway and inside, a scan of the wee chapel revealed only a single wooden bench and a simple altar with three small burning candles. Afternoon sun shone through a cracked window, projecting brilliant colored patches on the stone floor.
    Alarm skittered through her. “There’s no door.”
    “I never said there was a door.”
    She stifled her urge to yell—she couldn’t be making a racket in the kirk. “I must go