by Jackie Ivie
Langston looked over their heads at the depths of forest they should have had the intelligence to hide among, opaque white fog that was enveloping trees and muting night sounds, and looking a lot like her little lawn chemise had when he’d first seen it, made transparent by the firelight and showing a form any sculptor would have to dream about in order to bring to fruition.
He groaned and moved on the saddle to make the leather creak and cover it over. What he’d most feared was happening. He’d lost his heart, and with it his mind. She didn’t know her power. She didn’t know a lot of things, but what she did know was dangerous.
“I suppose we’ll have to march them to MacCullough Hall, although the dungeons are in use. Blast! I should never have had the gunpowder stored down there.”
“May I make a suggestion, Captain?” Langston said smoothly, and moved the stallion forward with the twinge of his knees.
Captain Barton’s face glowed with the sheen of moisture. It wasn’t from sweat or the mist. It was the excitement. Langston hooded his eyes. “Monteith Hall has very good dungeons. Very strong irons. Lots of moisture. Lots of dark, dank, rotting walls. It’s got something else, as well.”
“And what would that be?”
“Time.” Langston said the word softly and waited.
“Time for what?”
“To fatten them up, of course.”
“Have you lost your wits? Who fattens up prisoners?”
“Healthy prisoners last longer. Torment further. And they’ll make the journey to London in fine shape. Makes it much more amusing to judge, hang, and then quarter a healthy man than one already dead on his feet. Trust me.”
“Why should I?” Captain Barton said. “For all I know, you’re one with them. Fatten them up? You’re daft.”
Langston chuckled. “Very well. Kill them with the march. Arrive in London with nothing. Don’t say I didn’t speak with you about it. I have no love for my fellow countrymen. It’s because of them I have to work so much harder than I’m used to.”
“You? Work? What work would that be?” Captain Barton asked.
“Why, spend gold, of course. If it weren’t for these wretches, and their uprising, I’d be spending much more of my time counting it than having to spend it buying up useless bits of land.”
The MacDonalds at their feet were shuffling and straining, but there wasn’t much else coming through their gags and the ropes about them. Langston looked down at them without a hint of emotion on his face.
“I suppose I should thank you, actually,” Langston continued.
“For what?”
“Ridding my ground of such vermin.”
“Vermin, are they now?”
“They’ve never shown other, have they? I heard a rumor there were MacDonald clan hiding near Loch Shin. I suppose I should thank you for going in and finding them for me.”
“We didn’t find them.”
“You’re ruining your own legend, Captain. Never admit such. It makes you sound like a man of nonaction, rather than one of action.”
“We didn’t need to go in after them. They were on the move. Something about joining up with another clan.”
“I can see the wisdom of that. Being a MacDonald is very bad for one’s health at the moment.” Langston laughed at his own words. No one else joined him.
“There’s rumors of another clan, one with strength and power and pride. That’s what they were moving toward. They wanted to join.”
“Good heavens! Where?” Langston asked.
“No one seems to know, at present. They’ll say more under torture.”
“Good for you, Captain. We’ve got to stop the hellions before they rise again. We can’t afford another bloodletting like last time.”
“That’s all right, Monteith. ’Twas mostly Highland blood that got let. I look forward to it, actually. There’s too many of them about still.”
“Captain, I am also a Highlander,” Langston replied smoothly.
“I keep forgetting. You’re so much different, but as you’ve reminded me, you are a Highlander. That being the case, I can’t possibly turn the prisoners over to you, Monteith.”
Langston would have been clenching his jaw and biting his own tongue if he allowed himself the emotion. Lisle had too much power. He was exhausted, and his mind wasn’t working, as well as a slew of other things.
“Very well, Captain. Have it your way. I wouldn’t give them a state bedroom at MacCullough, though. I spent an awful lot of gold getting those redone in the English fashion. I’d hate to see a MacDonald wretch in them.”
The Captain sighed. “There are outbuildings.”
“Too luxurious. These are prisoners. Worse, from my standpoint, they’re MacDonalds. Why, a live MacDonald is worth less than a sheep.”
“What’s a dead MacDonald worth, then?”
“Good sheep grazing land, of course. Why do you think I purchased it? Civic pride?”
This time, Captain Barton joined his laughter. There was a rumble of noise coming from the group at their feet, although after several of the soldiers shoved musket butts into them, they settled back down.
“Monteith has dungeons still?” Barton asked.
“But of course. I don’t have gunpowder to store, Captain,” Langston replied.
“And you’ll not treat them too well?”
“I promise to fatten them up. Nothing more. I doubt I’ll even check on them.” He shrugged. “Good Lord, why would I? They brought this on themselves, you know. Stupidity has a price. I insist they pay it.”
“I don’t want them too fat.”
“There’s no such thing, Captain.”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as too much health or too fat of a prisoner. Trust me. I already know all this. I learned it through my partner.”
“Your partner keeps prisoners, does he?”
“Of a sort.”
“He know much about torture and torment, does he?”
“Only if he has to, I assure you.”
The Ccaptain chuckled. “I think I like this fellow better the more I hear about him.”
“Don’t let words fool you, Captain. Solomon deals in slavery. Afrikaners. Very good profit. Very good cargo…if you keep them healthy. He makes twice as much as any other slaver, just because he knows the goods at the other end are what people pay for. The goods on the other end, Captain. London. The courts. Trust me. A healthy man bleeds better, lasts longer. Makes a better spectacle.”
“I vow, Monteith, you make even me acceptable to these barbarians, if the other option is yourself.”
Langston chuckled, tightened his hand on the rein, and convinced himself it was to keep them from slipping.
Chapter Eighteen
A thump woke her, and it was followed by a bolt being dropped, a swish of coat falling to the floor, and heavy steps that were what she’d have expected of Monteith’s arrival…except for the heavy steps. Lisle swiveled her head from where she had it pillowed atop the armrest of the chair and looked for him.
It was Langston, all right. She could tell that much from his size, and the blackness of his attire, and everything else the last of the fire coals and the first vestiges of dawn were showing her. He looked haggard, drawn, and was moving like an old man…all of which she would have expected of a man out and about all night when he’d already admitted to exhaustion before he started. Lisle lifted her head and watched him take first one step up, and then the next, forgoing the top one to simply fall forward onto his mattress, landing on his face.
She put a hand to her mouth to stop the giggle. She needn’t have bothered, for Langston had turned his head and was making a rumbling noise loud enough to cover over anything she might have voiced. She unfolded her legs with difficulty, since she’d curled into a ball to wait for him and it hadn’t been conducive to sleeping comfortably. She hadn’t planned to be that way for as long as she had. She’d been waiting for him to return, so she could tell him she wanted to be
in his bed and in his chamber, and very much so. Now there was no telling him anything.
Lisle had to wait for the deadened sensation to leave her left leg in particular before she could sneak toward the bed, although she told herself even as she was doing it that it wasn’t necessary. Any man falling into bed and starting up a snore of racket when he hadn’t even taken off his shoes first wasn’t going to hear anyone, whether they approached on tiptoe or not.
His legs were still hanging over the side. Lisle started unbuttoning his shoes, gently at first, and then with as much efficiency as if she did it every day. He didn’t move. He didn’t even break the rhythm of his snores.
Getting his legs onto the mattress presented a challenge, and it was only by going to a semisquat and putting her shoulder into it that she managed to heave him onto his own bed. That didn’t stop his snoring, although he had rolled over. That position just made him louder. Lisle shook her head. If this was his normal sleeping mode, she was in for some very wakeful nights. Unless she found sleep before he did. She giggled again, and climbed up beside him.
Langston was even more handsome, without a line showing anywhere on that face, and not one sneer touching his lips. Lisle reached out and ran a fingertip along his lower one, making him snort a bit, but not much else. This was not what she’d planned. All through the night…or at least in the time she’d been awake, she’d been thinking through what would happen, what she’d say, what he’d do. Then she’d had to take herself to task for making her own breasts feel like they were overflowing the chemise, and putting such a wellspring of something illicit and wicked-feeling everywhere else that she shook with it more than once. Now, in the light of early dawn, there wasn’t much of the breathless, stirring, shaky feeling left.
There was interest, however. Langston Monteith was a very handsome man. She wondered how many other women had thought so, and then answered it to herself. Probably every one he’d ever met.
She reached out again and slipped a lock of his hair behind his ear.
Then, she started untying the necktie thing that was wrapped about his throat more than once. Such attire still made no sense, and she wondered why the English designed such an item. All it did was hide a man’s chin, force him to hold his head high enough to look down at others, and make it difficult to get it off, if he was unconscious and blowing snores of breath across where the stupid chemise really needed more material.
Lisle’s fingers got clumsy, but she finally had the cravat undone, and there wasn’t much farther she could go without having him awake and helping her. She lifted it up and out of the way of his shirt placket. The Sassenach had taken a good design and added a line of ruffles to either side of his buttons. That was interesting. They’d gone a step further and double-layered the placket with some sort of starched material, making it hold the buttons like they were tarred there.
Lisle got onto her knees and leaned over him, and stuck her tongue out to concentrate and not fall on him in that position. He had his shirt tucked too far into his trousers to pull out, so she did the next best thing. She parted the shirt opening and put her hands inside, placing her right one on a very healthy-sounding heartbeat, and flesh that was very hot to the touch. He hadn’t been snoring for some time and Lisle looked up into surprised, amber-colored eyes.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” he said.
“Uh…”
“I’d better be dreaming,” he replied to that.
“You’re dreaming,” she said finally, although her hands were still inside his shirt, and his heartbeat seemed to be increasing at the same tempo her own was.
“Good thing. I’m too tired for much else.”
His eyes closed again, and he sighed heavily before resuming the deep, even breathing. Lisle pulled her hands back out and reached forward to put a kiss on his forehead. Then she was crawling from the bed and going back to her own chamber, and preparing herself for another wonderful, luxurious bath, with the expensive softening salts he’d brought over special that made her feel like she was floating and everything was warm and muted, and pleasant.
All of which made accepting his plans easier.
It wasn’t until she was bathed, pampered, and sitting amidst the dozen women still sewing and gossiping and making her ears hurt with the barrage of words that Lisle found out what he had planned. It was a good thing the warm cocoon of well-being was still firmly in place when she was told, too.
The ladies were working on a special dress and all the accompanying undergarments such an ensemble needed. It had just been started yesterday, and His Lordship wanted it finished before the tea hour. It was a ball gown. He was escorting her to a ball at MacCullough Hall, the same castle he’d given over to the Highland Regiment for its use. The same castle that had seen centuries of Highland lairds birthed and put into the ground when they had died, and that was now so full of Sassenach evil that there had been a secret Celt ritual performed on the entire estate before the captain and his troops had moved in.
The real Lisle was afraid of the place. This Lisle, that had been bathed and towel-dried with heated towels and had her hair massaged with oils prior to braiding, didn’t feel much, especially not fear. She’d suspicioned what Langston was doing just yesterday—although her mind was fogged with dates and recollections and suppositions, and watching the blue material they were fashioning, and not hearing much the entire time—when they’d been met at the chapel doors by an armed Monteith who had stolen her breath because he was so barbaric, muscled, and very Scot. That was when he’d aroused her suspicions about this bath he’d ordered. Mary MacGreggor was following orders…his orders…about the bath…and about the salts. Lisle stirred herself. Monteith was putting her into this fog on purpose.
This was no aphrodisiac, although if it was, it was wasted. She’d felt much more aroused and sensual, and a hundred other emotions, when she was with him, in control of all her faculties, and without this strange, muted feeling overpowering everything. Lisle lifted her hand and noticed how elegant the motion was, and also that there was no wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. He hadn’t given her a wedding band. She hadn’t noted it earlier. She wondered if that meant something, but couldn’t get her mind to work on what it might be. She wondered if he wanted her like this: compliant, weakened, loose-feeling, free….
That was a strange word for it. She wasn’t free. She was locked in a fancy prison with a dozen gaolers, all dressed like seamstresses, and all talking ceaselessly, in time to their fingers, as they sewed. They held up the light, silken gown for her inspection. Lisle smiled vacuously. It was blue. It was floor-length. It had little gathered cap shoulders, with transparent blue material floating down to cover her arms and pretend to be sleeves. It was in a myriad of hues, from the royal blue band that was supposed to be her bodice, all the way down to an almost translucent white blue at the hem.
She supposed it was beautiful. She would probably look beautiful in it. She might even feel beautiful in it…if she was wearing it anywhere except to the MacCullough estate, and doing anything other than attending a ball with Captain Barton, his troops, and the hussies from Inverness who didn’t know how to be loyal, who were posing as their dance partners and feminine companions.
Cannons. The instant thought filtered through the cacophony of voices and words and giggles that was surrounding her. Monteith had cannons on his walls. He had an army. He wore a kilt. He was training an army. He was playacting. It was all for show. She was being put on show, too. He was an actor, and such a good one no one suspected differently. And if anyone did—such as his own wife—then that person was going to be put into a semidazed state to ensure continued acquiescence to every bit of his every plot. Such a thing was diabolical. It took a diabolical mind to envision it. She should be insulted and angry and anything except soft and compliant and very feminine-feeling.
Lisle looked at her barren left hand again and let it drop, once again with an elegant motion. That was strange, too. She didn’t
do much that was elegant, although they’d certainly tried to instruct her often enough about it at school. It must be the salts making it feel so. She wasn’t going to allow it to happen again. Mary MacGreggor wasn’t going to follow that order again, if Lisle had to invent an accident to spill the potion all over the carpet, rather than into her bathwater, to guarantee it.
Someone rang a gong at the hour of two in the afternoon. That was odd, too. They never rang anything on the hour. They only piped long, slow, notes into the air that alerted everyone in hearing distance of some unknown event.
Or maybe it was known.
Lisle tried to puzzle through it while she was escorted to her suite and prepared. That was better than sitting at her mirrored table and watching as one of her servant women brushed out the dried braids of hair and started looping it into a mass of curls. They were doing the impossible, and Lisle almost giggled at that. Her hair wasn’t going to obey long enough to stay anywhere atop her head, but that didn’t seem to stop the woman.
It took more pins than there seemed to be strands, and two more sets of hands to hold everything in place, but at some point it was finished. Lisle looked at the finished result with interest. A reddish shine touched every strand as she moved, and it made her neck look elegant and long and very bare.
The chemise was a different one, although it didn’t have much material to support her, either. Perhaps Langston ordered them made this way. That would explain it. A man might want all this flesh on display, whereas a woman would rather have the support and enclosure and not be bouncing with every step and every movement. Lisle giggled at that, and the ladies all about her seemed to think that a good sign.
There were gossamer, blue-tinted stockings for her legs. He’d had the stockings dyed blue. Lisle shook her head as someone helped her don them, although she roused herself enough to tie the garters into place herself.