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Her heart sank.
“You cannot be serious,” Cringlewood said.
“She’s completely serious. Legal and true in every sense.” Royal gave the marquess a taunting smile.
The marquess clearly had to struggle for a moment before he could continue. “Ah, yes, but then there are those pesky little contracts.”
“I don’t care if she signed the damn Magna Carta,” Royal growled. “Ainsley is not yours, and she never will be yours.”
“In any case, my daughter certainly is,” the marquess said with malicious triumph. “It’s Tira, I believe, such an ugly, Scottish name. I’ll have to change that, certainly.”
Ainsley didn’t remember moving but she found herself on her feet and standing only inches away from Cringlewood, her hands balled into fists.
“You’ll never lay a hand on her,” she ground out. “I’ll deny everything.”
“Too late, my dear,” he said. “Your dear mamma already told me the entire truth. You will divorce Kendrick and return to me, or I’ll take your daughter from you and you’ll never see her again.”
“That will never happen,” Royal said. “Tira stays with the Kendrick family, no matter what.”
Tira stays.
Ainsley’s heart shriveled at the possible meaning of those words. But how could she blame him? Her daughter’s safety must always come first, even if it meant . . .
“And what if I agree to your demands?” she asked. “Would you leave Tira alone?”
Royal’s hand closed around her arm. “Ainsley, stop!”
She shook him off and kept her attention on the villain in front of her. “Well?”
The marquess gave her that famously winning smile again. It made her want to vomit.
“I’m sure I could be persuaded to leave her here in Scotland,” he said. “And if you become the biddable wife I know you could be, I might even let you visit her now and again. If you were very good, that is.”
Royal stepped around her and grabbed the marquess by the cravat, lifting him onto his toes. Cringlewood’s eyes went wide with shock and he started to struggle. Royal shoved him hard against the bookcase behind him, tightening his other hand around his throat.
“If you ever come near my wife or daughter again, I’ll kill you,” he said in a voice as cold as a Highland winter gale. “On my mother’s soul, I’ll end you.”
“And if he doesn’t, I will,” said Logan, striding into the room.
Royal glanced over his shoulder. “It’s about bloody time you showed up.”
“Took the kitchen boy a while to track me down,” Logan said. “What do you want me to do with the bastard?”
“Just get him out of here,” he said, shoving Cringlewood away.
The marquess staggered, coughing. “That was a fatal mistake, Kendrick,” he hoarsely managed.
Logan clamped a massive hand on Cringlewood’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door. “Let’s have a little chat about mistakes on the way out, shall we? Then we’ll see who’s made one.”
“Get your blasted hands off me.” Cringlewood shot Ainsley a look of pure hatred as Logan pushed him toward the door.
After a quick, troubled glance in their direction, Logan hurried out too. In the ensuing silence, Ainsley could hear Royal’s fractured breathing as he struggled to control his anger.
“Royal, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Ainsley, why didn’t you tell me about those blasted marriage contracts?”
“I . . . I was afraid.”
