by Gina Conkle
Will’s gape was comical. Eyes wide, jaw loose. Speaking of their assignations unburdened her.
“We weren’t as secretive as we thought,” she said.
Was it possible to hide young love? Its beacon shined stronger than a lighthouse on a clear night. Only the daftest person would miss it.
Aunt Flora had been her chaperone across Scotland along with Will and another outrider. A patient clansman drove Aunt Flora and all Anne’s worldly possessions. With Anne on her horse, the cart trailed far behind. She’d never been so unrestricted. Freedom was an elixir served to her by a handsome, attentive highlander. Aunt Flora was a dear. Talented with young children and healing tinctures, she excelled in many things. Escorting willful maidens was not one of them. The old spinster napped daily and slept soundly. Aunt Flora lacked the stern fiber God gave her sister in spades.
The wee life that once grew in Anne’s belly had proved it.
She rubbed a circle over her womb. “Morag warned me not to follow the drum.” Her eyes sought his. “A war camp is no place to bring a babe into the world.”
Will dragged in a long deep breath and righted himself. His eyes offered tacit agreement.
“It was no longer just you and me. I had a child to think of.” Her throat clogged. She couldn’t cry. Her well of tears had gone bone-dry long ago.
Yet, she still hurt. Breathing, standing, talking. Old secrets carried crushing agony. She’d been drowning under the weight too long.
“Where is the child now?” Will’s voice was a spare rumble.
Hands trembling, she clutched her stomacher. “She died in my womb. Not long after you left.”
“She?”
A jerky shake of her head and, “I just . . . knew.”
The final piece of her secret was out—the loss of her unborn daughter. A tear threatened to come. How she missed that little girl. She still dreamed of her. In quiet times, her heart conjured images of what could’ve been. The girlish giggles. Running with her in the sun. The sweet childish kisses on her cheek.
Will’s head hung low. “I’m sorry, lass.”
She wanted to stroke his hair, to comfort him, but theirs was a connection weathered by time. A lustful touch would satisfy the flesh, but a cosseting touch, with her soul laid bare and his defenses weak?
Frightening.
She could lead him into her unlit salon, lie down on her narrow settee, and bare herself to him. To what end? Touching Will would lead only to hurt. Once she had the gold, he would leave to find his kin and she would go north, as planned. Will was destined to find his father; she was destined to save their clan. Their futures couldn’t be more opposite.
Will was still staring at the floor, his hand covering his mouth. What more could he say? Eight years put much distance between them. What were mere words spoken to him equated to a new life that had once grown inside her. There was no joining, no erasing, no healing. Relief in the telling washed her clean. Her secret would quietly ebb as sad secrets did.
With careful hands, she opened a drawer in the table and touched a taper to the sconce. The humble flame showed Will had come a step closer. One pinch and the stubby sconce candle was out.
“Why did you marry Angus MacDonald?” he asked, his voice peculiar and calm.
She stilled. Don’t do this, Will.
“The babe was gone before I married Angus.”
Not a direct answer to his direct question, but it got the job done. Wild dawning flared across Will’s face, probably from the notion that she could have married Angus with Will’s babe in her. She wouldn’t have. Therein, was another tetchy point—having been the one left to face the consequences of their choices. It rankled then and it rankled now.
But Will was hunting a meatier point. He held her gaze, his jaw tense.
“Couldn’t you have waited?” Each word was razor sharp.
Couldn’t you have waited for me? was the message in gold eyes burning bright.
She trembled anew, with anger this time. The emotion welled up and burst. “I could ask the same of you! Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Her hair fell across her eyes. They were toe to toe, their harsh voices low in deference to the household. Morag had delayed her running to tell Will because the older woman feared she’d throw caution to the wind and follow Will after all. She’d brought Aunt Flora as reinforcement. Had it been an hour? Half an hour that she’d spent stunned at the news of a child, then assuring Morag and Aunt Flora that she wouldn’t follow the drum?
Such costly minutes those were.
“I ran to tell you about the babe but . . . you . . . weren’t . . . there!” Her words sliced with accusation.
Will’s eyes were stern slits. He was flint to her steel.
If he wanted to go down this path, then by all that was holy, she’d take him.
“I searched everywhere!” she hissed. “A passing shepherd boy had to tell me you’d already left with two outriders.” She gripped a handful of his velvet coat and yanked with all her might, but Will was a fortress. He hardly moved. “War and rebellion . . . that’s what you really wanted.” She breathed against him in cold fury. “You couldn’t even wait for me!”
Brows heavy and teeth bared, Will was feral. “I did wait.”
“Not long enough!”
“You knew I was supposed to bring weapons. Men were counting on me.”
She tried shaking him. “I was counting on you.”
“I left because I thought you had second thoughts.” Will huffed a noise worthy of a lion. “Why didna you write to me? An’ tell me you were with child?”
“I did. Three letters and none were answered.”
Will’s mouth was a grim line. “I didna get any of them. If I had, you know I would’ve answered you.”
She had tried. The need to reach Will had fueled her legs when she ran to Castle Tioram’s ruins, and it had fueled her letters: the first full of longing, the second full of need, and the third full of desperation. By the time she wrote the last letter, her unborn child was gone, taking her heart with it.
“I needed you,” she said, letting go of his coat.
Will flinched. She’d thrust a dagger into the heart of the matter—Scotland or their young love. All the fiery speeches and impassioned arguments came down to that one simple thing. Her best laid plans had gone awry years ago. Trouble happened. A seasoned woman accepted this and learned. A strong woman fought back and forged her own path. Only fools and untried innocents believed life was an even field to tread.
Anger was a form of baptism. In it was the power to hone the mind. She had a duty to think of the stolen highland treasure. A duty to their kin who were hungry for what those gold livres would bring.
But she’d send this final bitter salvo. “The rebellion was first for you. Always.”
“The war was for Scotland. Our home.”
Will’s brogue was rich, the cadence of tranquil days tracking red deer and golden eagles, of tasting Western Isles sea spray, and walking through wide open glens. Clanranald MacDonald lands. Home to many. Heaven to her. She’d do whatever it took to save it. The irony—Will letting go of Scotland, and her, holding fast—was not lost on her.
“I’ve often wondered, what bothered you more?” she said, righting his coat. “The loss of Scotland? Or the loss of me?”
Will was frightening, his face pale and eyes burning, a touch of the half-crazed soul she’d found in chains at Marshalsea.
“The war divided us from the start.” His voice was a deep rumble.
“Perhaps it did, and we were too blind to see the truth.” She was sad, tired, and in need of a good night’s sleep. Cupping the taper, she walked around him and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You can come with me or find your way in the dark.”
Stubborn pride tensed his shoulders. Hers was not a carnal invitation. Will’s eyes pierced her all the same, reading her, wondering. Though near in body, Will may as well be miles and miles away. Out of reach. Forever.
How lonely.
She turned to hide what must’ve been her own blanched features and went stiffly up the stairs with Will behind her. No hint of the evening’s sensual flirtation remained. Whatever had been between them could never be resurrected. It was as dead as the dream of Scotland’s independence.
Will now knew why she was late to meet him at Castle Tioram that fateful August day when a war started, and an unborn babe was revealed. During that same war, she’d fallen in love with Clanranald MacDonald. Their tenderhearted chief, the hardy crofters, and gorgeous isles. Aunt Flora had healed her broken heart and her ailing body after she’d lost the babe. There’d been so much blood.
She eventually honored her father and married the man he had chosen, then she buried Angus three months later when he died of a war camp fever. She’d learned, and she’d loved.
Duty burned brightest in her now. Loyalty to the end. Pure and direct, no messy emotions with those ideals. Love was a luxury she could ill afford. She’d had her chance and lost it.
Tarrying in the hall, she gave light for Will to find his way. His footfalls sounded an even tread. He would sleep alone, her part of their trade done. Tomorrow, Will would deliver the key, the first part of his promise to help the league.
The world was falling neatly back into place. As it should.
Will pushed open the door to his bedchamber and waited. Skin around his eyes softened. With his stockings and boots gone and hair half-loose, he could be a world-weary, barefoot philosopher.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “You’ve lost much and you’re itching for a fight.”
“Am I?”
Her words delivered more challenge than inquiry. Will appeared to consider them, the orange glow of a welcoming fire lighting his room and limning his silhouette. He filled the doorway as if he would impart wisdom yet hadn’t found a way.
The best he could offer was, “Let it go, Anne. You canna save Scotland.”
“Watch me try.”
Chapter Twelve
A ridiculously ostentatious carriage carried them down South Audley Street. The interior exploded robin’s egg blue. Polished brass buttons shimmered. Gold tassels swayed. Will stroked the butter-soft squab where he sat, its tufted leather a cushion running from behind his calves to the ceiling.
“Have a care where you touch,” his cousin warned. “This carriage belongs to a courtesan. It’s her favorite vehicle for assignations.” She batted a tassel in the corner. “Equipped to meet diverse appetites.”
Anne and his cousin were crammed in the seat facing him, their panniers bunching.
“It doesna look big enough for sport of any kind.”
Cecelia giggled. “She manages.”
His cousin poked her nose out the open window, basking in sunlight. It was a perfect late summer day, if overwarm. With most nobs still in the country, West End streets were clear. To all and sundry, they were a harmless trio out for a lazy drive.
“What glorious sunshine. I hope it stays.” Cecelia flopped against the squab. “There’s a cricket match this week at the Artillery Ground. It’s London’s club versus the Marylebone men. Could be fun.”
“Cricket . . . fun?” he intoned. “Turtles move faster.”
She cast a worldly, knowing look at him. “One doesn’t go purely for the sport.”
“Sport? Try tossing a caber. That’s sport.”
“Men throwing a log. How original.” The carriage rolled to a stop and his cousin dashed on lace gloves. “Everyone knows the best part about cricket is drinking beer and watching all the interesting people.”
A footman opened the door, allowing her to pass. Outside, she set a straw bonnet on her head and tied a flirtatious red bow at her left cheek.
“Think about it, will you?” Her gaze flittered from Will to Anne. “A little gambling and whatever else we can stir up.”
“It’s the stirrin’ up part that gives me pause,” he said.
His cousin was fun. Barely two days in her company, and her appetite for life was infectious. The woman didn’t possess a solemn bone in her body, yet she’d disembarked at a somber pile of gray stones known as St. George’s Chapel. He checked the road. Not a soul in sight. Their carriage, in fact, was the only conveyance on the street.
The footman shut the door, moved from view, and a thump signaled the driver onward. Cecelia yanked her bodice lower and called out, “Wish me luck.”
Lace trim on her bodice fluttered, revealing a tartan rosette pinned underneath. Clanranald MacDonald tartan. The knowledge pleased Will, a fine secret shared. A hefty one already followed him since midnight. Extra baggage, and he ill equipped to carry it. He’d slept poorly for the weight.
Him . . . almost a father.
Alone with Anne, he stared out the window and watched Cecelia swan into the chapel’s courtyard.
“It’s Thursday,” he said. “What the devil is she up to?”
“Prayer and supplication.” Anne’s voice was a smoky purr, the aftereffects of too much rum.
“Humor, Mrs. Neville. I wasna expecting that.” Not after last night.
Her brows arched. I don’t scare easily was her message. If ever a driven woman existed, Anne Fletcher MacDonald Neville was first of the mold.
“Do you find it hard to believe in your cousin’s piety? Or my sense of humor?”
He rested gingerly against the squab. This might be a test.
“Why do I feel like answering that is a trap?”
Hands folded demurely on her lap, Anne was the very picture of a woman who belonged in carriages with supple leather and velvet curtains. Peach petticoats covered the seat and pretty silk shoes poked out from her hem, but he knew better. She had a knife up her taffeta sleeve. Anne was as nimble with weapons as she was with words, which left him staring at the clean cut-stone faces of passing homes.
“Cecelia is meeting a contact in the burying grounds behind the chapel.”
He turned from his survey of houses. Was Anne offering an olive branch?
“A man of the cloth?”
“No, she’s meeting—” brows pinching, she snapped open a lacy fan “—I dare not say. The less you know, the better.”
“You didna hold back last night, madame. No need to hold back now.”
“Last night was personal.”
“No, it was an act of trust. The same as today.” He looked pointedly at her. “I’m part of this.”
I’m part of you was the deeper message.
They’d spent the morning navigating an unspoken truce. Her scratching notes in a ledger while he stood, arms out, in her salon with Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora fussing over him. The final product wasn’t bad. His coat was brown velvet trimmed in gold at the sleeves. The matching velvet breeches felt good on his thighs (velvet—one thing nobs got right). The bigamist’s shoes pinched his toes, but for a few hours work, they’d do.
Appreciation gleamed in Anne’s eyes, but he’d rather see faith in him.
She fluttered her fan with an indolent wrist. “Cecelia is meeting someone who works at General Seward’s School. They talk over the stone wall that separates the school from the burying ground.”
“Clever.”
“She is indeed.” Anne’s carmine smile was pretty. “Cecelia cultivates contacts throughout the City and places beyond.”
They trundled into Grosvenor Square, daylight blessing Anne. She reminded him of a proud mama, warming to her topic with words of genuine respect and friendship. She was the league’s leader, but each woman was a talent in her own right.
“Cecelia negotiates for information with the French coins reminted by Mary, or—” she gave an eloquent shrug “—she uses whatever means to accomplish her goal.”
“Who would’ve thought, my cousin, procurer of information and queen of the barter.”
“Don’t crown Cecelia yet. You’ve not seen Aunt Flora at work. The woman contrives her way into places Cecelia cannot.”
“Aunt Flora? I thought she
was just keepin’ your house.”
“Have a care or she’ll box your ears. Aunt Flora may be an older woman but she’s no less capable.” The carriage rolled to a stop. “Both Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora are the perfect foil. No one would ever suspect them.”
“What about you?”
She looped her fan around her wrist. “I am exactly what you see. Leader, organizer, general shepherdess.”
The door opened. Anne exited the carriage, her garnet earbobs swinging like great drops of blood against her neck. He followed, mild unease in his belly. They were at the mouth of Duke Street. At the next corner was Denton House. Its slightly superior three-story height was a sniff above the neighbors, and its five bay windows, dismissive despite pots of cheery red flowers and a bright blue door.
Never thought I’d cross that threshold again.
“Meet us by St. George’s Chapel in an hour,” Anne said to the coachman.
The coachman touched his hat. “Aye, ma’am.” And the garish vehicle rolled on.
The Garden Oval at the center of Grosvenor Square was just as he remembered. Low hedges, trimmed lawns, and elm trees. A little girl and her nursemaid admired the statue of King George I on horseback in the garden center. It was by that statue he’d bade farewell to Ancilla. Her tears had flowed, tiny droplets rare as diamonds. She’d sniffled and whined (another rare occurrence), but when he gently disentangled himself, she’d cast him out with the fury of a flaming cherubim sealing the Garden of Eden.
Black railing encircled the exclusive oval, a reminder that neither he nor Anne belonged. Only keyholders who lived here and paid for the privilege gained entry.
He donned his hat, the wax lump solid in his pocket. Another key was more important.
Anne was tying a peach silk bow under her chin, scanning the environs. A sharp-eyed treasure huntress.
She was most important of all.
Letting Anne know this—how and when, in particular—was the hard part. It required skill and thoughtfulness after what she’d gone through, and he’d be the first to admit, finessing matters of the heart was not his strength. Her secret rocked him. How was he going to overcome her sense of desertion?