She’d created a sanctuary for them, a small haven within the city where they were protected from husbands who beat them or their children. And she’d made arrangements for a more permanent building, a shelter named after Jonathan’s mother. It had given her a purpose, another means of filling the endless days without her husband.
She took a deep breath, willing away the dizziness, though the nausea remained.
“Do you feel well enough to return to the dining room?” Lady Rumford asked, holding out her hands.
Victoria shook her head. “I’d rather not. I can’t bear the scent of the oysters, if you don’t mind.”
“I remember those days well.” The matron shuddered. “Thank the good Lord, the sickness passes. Else none of us would have more than one child.”
Victoria rose from the stairs, taking Lady Rumford’s hand, and excused herself. She pushed open the door leading outside and went to sit in the garden. The morning sunlight warmed her face, and Victoria sat upon a stone bench beside clusters of budding crocus and tulips. No longer did it feel quite so threatening to be outside, though she had not yet managed to pay calls upon her sisters.
Each day brought her closer to overcoming her fears, and she believed that she would eventually have the freedom her sisters took for granted. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face up, breathing in the scent of spring and of thankfulness.
The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted her reverie.
“Your Grace, forgive me, but there’s a caller for you,” the footman said. “Mr. John Melford is here on behalf of the Earl of Strathland. He says he has a letter from your mother. I’ve left him waiting in the drawing room, but I can show him out if you are not receiving.”
At the mention of Strathland, Victoria’s heart quickened. Although no one had been able to prove that the earl had been implicated in the house fire, she had no doubt that he’d been responsible. The instinct to refuse Mr. Melford was strong, but she wanted the letter more.
“Can you ask him to give you the letter and I will see him another day?” She had no desire to speak with a stranger, much less a man involved with Strathland.
The footman shook his head. “He refused to leave it with me. But I have seen it, and it was indeed from Lady Lanfordshire.”
Her nerves tightened at that. “Then I will receive him. But only if you and another footman are present in the room.” She could have asked Lady Rumford to stay as well, but she suspected the contents of the letter would not be welcome news.
Steeling herself, she rose from the stone bench and followed the footman to the drawing room. The man sat on the edge of a chair, his hat in his hands. He wore a tattered gray tailcoat, and the cuffs were worn and frayed. His gaze slid over the room, as if taking note of her husband’s wealth.
“Your Grace, I am John Melford, the Earl of Strathland’s factor,” he said, rising at the sight of her, and inclining his head. “Thank you for receiving me.” From within his coat pocket, he withdrew the letter. But he held it in his palm, instead of offering it to her. Victoria glanced behind her to ensure that the footmen were still present.
“Why have you come?” she asked.
He glanced behind him for a moment, then turned back to her. “Lord Strathland is aware that your family is rebuilding their house with help from His Grace’s men.”
“After the fire, yes.” A prickling sensation crossed her spine, but she forced herself to gather courage. Already she knew the answer to the question she hadn’t yet voiced. “The earl’s men started it, didn’t they?”
“Your footman, Mr. MacKinloch, started it,” he corrected. “For reasons unknown to us. By now, he’s on the other side of Scotland. It’s unfortunate that the accidents continue.” His brown eyes held a warning, and at last he held out the letter. “It would be better if your family sold off the land and returned to London. Ballaloch is a dangerous place.”
The unveiled threat lingered between them, and Victoria took the letter. At the familiar sight of her mother’s handwriting, a chill flooded through her. She’d believed Beatrice would be safe enough among the crofters, but now she wondered.
A wave of homesickness rushed over her, and she tore open the letter, skimming the contents. Her mother had written that both Jonathan and Victoria’s father had returned to Ballaloch. Though her mother had never questioned why the duke had come alone, it was as if Beatrice had sensed their estrangement.
The duke might return to London if Victoria mentioned her pregnancy, but she’d only just become aware of it. Then, too, she wanted him to return of his own free will—not because it was expected of him.
The loneliness of being here without him left an aching emptiness inside her. If she were a stronger woman, she would return to Ballaloch and confront him. But the idea of making that journey again was unthinkable.
“I can bring your reply with me when I return,” Mr. Melford said. “It would be no trouble.”
“And what did you want me to write in the letter?” she demanded. Clearly, Melford had not come merely to deliver the message. His presence was here for another reason entirely.
“Ask your family to return to England,” Melford said. “Sell the land and leave the crofters to us. Lord Strathland will offer an excellent price for the property, and you needn’t finish building the house.”
In other words, he wanted them to relinquish all control of the Highlands to the Earl of Strathland. That was the purpose for his visit—to threaten them unless they left. She could hardly believe he’d suggested it.
“I thought the earl lost part of his land in a gambling debt to my husband,” Victoria pointed out, but Melford ignored her.
“The Scots can relocate along the coast and find new homes there,” he finished.
“And if my family refuses?” Her skin had gone cold, just thinking of the fire. In her mind, she could remember the choking smoke and the wretched fear that she would die. Not only were her mother and father in danger, but so was Jonathan. It was entirely possible that he could be killed, and the thought was an anguish that rippled through her. She rested her hand upon her unborn child, as if to protect the baby.
Immediately, Victoria wished she hadn’t done so. Melford hadn’t missed the gesture, and his knowing look made her even more afraid.
“It’s possible that your family would refuse the offer,” he acknowledged. “But you remember what happened to your husband the last time he went to Scotland.” His eyes drifted down to her womb. “It would be safer for all of you if you remained here.”
Victoria tightened her grip upon the letter. He was trying to intimidate them, and she needed to warn her husband. “I will write to them,” she agreed. “But I’ll send my reply with my own messenger.” That way, she could be assured that Melford wouldn’t alter the contents of her letter. Cain Sinclair was in London, and she intended to consult with him. He, of all people, would know what to do.
As Melford departed, she closed her eyes, afraid for her family. But most of all, she feared for her husband.
“Victoria won’t come,” Margaret insisted. “She rarely leaves the house.”
“You’d best hope she comes,” John Melford insisted. The dull tone in his voice revealed a man who held no qualms about killing.
The air within her coach seemed suffocating, and Margaret eyed the door, wishing she were close enough to get out. They had pulled to a stop in front of the Duke of Worthingstone’s town house. Rain spattered against the roof of the coach, a drenching downpour that made it impossible to see. She heard the driver dismount and suspected he’d gone to knock at the door.
Her thoughts spun out in a thousand directions as she prayed her sister’s fears would keep her firmly ensconced in the house. But what if Victoria agreed? What if her sister defied her fears and ventured into the harsh weather? This man might kill them both.
Margaret steeled herself. She couldn’t let that happen, especially now, when her sister was expecting her first child. She eyed the door,
wondering if she should attempt to flee.
“We’ll wait here,” Melford said. “She’ll come out to the coach as soon as she reads the note.”
But Margaret shook her head. “Victoria won’t leave the house. She’s too—” Afraid, she almost said. Then again, she’d seen a change in her sister since she’d married the duke. Several times Margaret had come to call, only to find Victoria sitting in the garden or cutting flowers. It was as if her sister was determined to overcome her fears.
“When she reads my note, she’ll come,” Melford insisted. “If she values your life at all.” To emphasize his words, he nicked the back of her neck with his blade. The warmth of blood dripped against her skin, the sting of the blade a harsh reminder of what was to come.
Margaret’s pulse was pounding, and she wondered if the man would kill her when Victoria didn’t arrive. She could only hope that her maid would know that she was missing and fetch help. Yet, doubt overshadowed her hope. Even if her maid did discover the truth, how would she know where Melford had taken her?
“Are you going to kill me if she doesn’t come?” she asked, fearful of the answer.
Melford shrugged. “There may be other uses for you.”
She didn’t even want to think of what those uses might be. Margaret gritted her teeth, staring outside at the rain.
Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come, she pleaded. Or if anyone came, let it be Cain Sinclair. The Highlander might be ill-mannered and rough, but he could save her easily.
The minutes ticked onward, and when nearly an hour had passed, the door to the coach opened. Outside stood Victoria, holding an umbrella over her head with a footman behind her. The moment she saw Margaret with the blade across her throat, she blanched.
“Get in the coach, and I’ll let her go,” Melford said.
“Run,” Margaret begged. But Victoria stood frozen in shock, the umbrella falling from her hand. The expression of terror on her face meant she wasn’t going to move and she might even faint.
The footman saw what was happening and tried to pull her back. “Your Grace, no!”
Melford met Victoria’s stare with his own. “Tell your footman to get back, or I slit her throat.” He pressed the knife harder, and more blood welled up on her skin. Margaret remained motionless, a tear rolling down her cheek. She didn’t know what to do, but she believed this man would kill her.
“Please,” she whispered.
Victoria turned to the footman. “Stay back.”
“I decided that a visit to Ballaloch would suit better than a note,” Melford said. “You’ll come with me and convince your husband to leave.”
At that moment, the footman lunged inside the coach to protect them both. In that moment of distraction, Margaret wrenched herself away from Melford.
“Go back!” she shouted to her sister. “Hurry!”
Victoria hadn’t moved. Her face was stricken while rain poured over her, dripping from her bonnet as the two men struggled. Margaret grasped her skirts and tried to push her way out, but Melford caught her. In a last, desperate urge to escape, she threw herself from the coach. The world tipped, and a searing pain cracked against her skull as she struck the cobbled stones. She faded out for a moment, her head ringing.
When she opened her eyes, the last thing she saw was Melford forcing her sister inside the coach. The footman lay slumped upon the ground, a pool of blood widening beneath him.
Chapter Twenty
THE JOURNEY to Scotland was grueling, a teeth-rattling journey that numbed Victoria’s mind and body. Melford had changed drivers and coaches several times, never bothering to stop for the night. The food he’d given her was stale and tasteless, but she could have dined on the finest cuisine and never tasted a bite, for all the fear within her.
She was his hostage now. After he’d killed her footman, she didn’t doubt that he would do anything necessary to achieve Strathland’s wishes. But at least Margaret was free. She prayed her sister could go and get help.
Every mile was a torment, the world closing in on her. The last time she’d traveled, she’d been with Jonathan, holding tightly to him the entire time. It had terrified her, but she’d managed to endure it. This time, she pressed her hand to the glass window, uncertain she could bear it. Every mile brought back memories she couldn’t face.
Deep inside, she felt a slight pressure within her womb. The barest flicker of movement, like a tiny hand reaching out. Victoria closed her eyes, pressing her hand to the small bump. Her throat tightened, and she pushed back the terror. The movement was a calming touch that gave her hope and the courage to continue. No longer was this about her own fears—it was about protecting her loved ones. She would not sit back and become this man’s victim. His act was of desperation, and that spoke of his own fear.
Though she didn’t know what she could do to stop him, she was determined to make her escape when possible. Her unborn baby’s life depended on it.
The snows had melted in the Highlands, but the roads were muddy and difficult to travel upon. When they reached the stretch of land near Glencoe, the driver abruptly stopped. Melford opened the door and the driver called out, “Someone’s following us.”
“Then go faster. We’ll outrun him,” her captor countered.
“It’s too dangerous,” the driver answered. “The mud’s getting deeper, and the horses are having trouble.”
“If they catch up to us, there will be more trouble for both of us. Do it,” Melford ordered. He slammed the door shut and regarded Victoria. “I suppose your sister thought to send help.”
She met his gaze. “She did. I’m certain of it.”
The driver urged the horses faster, and the vehicle slid against the mud, veering sideways before they corrected their course. Victoria gripped the seat, fully aware that they were miles from Ballaloch. The rider would catch up to them, and she would seize her chance to get away. If only they were closer to home, the crofters might help.
Without warning, the coach slid sideways. She heard the horses rear up, and a harsh cracking noise resounded. A scream caught in her throat as the coach slid further and broke free of the horses. Instinctively, Victoria shielded her stomach, her body colliding against the coach as it turned upside down and rolled down the steep hillside. Pain lashed through her, and she heard Melford call out to the driver. When at last the coach went motionless on its side, he forced open the door and climbed out, closing it behind him.
Victoria’s back ached, and she prayed that her child was unharmed. Dizziness swept through her, and she took a moment to gather herself before she attempted to stand up. The moment she did, a harsh cramp seized her.
Dear God, no. Please. Her hand moved downward to the baby, and she prayed she wouldn’t miscarry.
The air inside the coach was suffocating, while outside the rain poured. She tried again to reach for the door handle, but she wasn’t strong enough to force it open.
After minutes of pounding against the door and shouting, no one came. Victoria struggled against the handle, fighting back tears.
It’s just like before, her mind warned. You’ll be left here to die.
She closed her eyes, forcing back the memories of being outside in the cold, with no food or shelter. The terrifying isolation, of not knowing if anyone would find her, had paralyzed her with fear.
But she couldn’t remain stranded here. Not again. She’d been lost the last time, wandering off the road in search of her family. This time, she knew better. If she could get out of the coach, she could follow the road, using the tracks of the horses that had gone before her. If she had to walk every last mile to Ballaloch, she would. Her hand closed over the handle, but just as she tried to push it open again, she heard gunshots.
Then silence.
Minutes later, the door opened and a shadowed face stared down at her.
“It’s an ill wind that blows,” Mrs. Larson claimed, nodding to Jonathan as she barreled inside with her basket. “I saw two crows circling the
house in this rain.”
“Do come in,” he said drily. The housekeeper came to visit the crofters on a regular basis and felt it her God-given duty to report to him about their welfare.
She eyed the footman Franklin and instructed, “Ye had best open all the windows.”
“The windows?” The footman sent her a blank look, and protested, “But the rain will come in.”
“I presume you wish to let out the evil spirits?” Jonathan asked.
The housekeeper shrugged. “It’s your business if you’re wanting tae keep the bad spirits lingering. The omens are there, and ye must pay heed.”
“Go and open them, if you wish,” he offered, gesturing for her to come in.
“I’ll leave that to your man. He’s your servant, not I.” Mrs. Larson held out the basket to him. “Lady Lanfordshire sent these.”
Jonathan lifted the cloth and saw hot currant buns inside. “You made them, I suppose.”
“I did, though I don’t know why she thought I should bring some to you. Leaving your lady wife in a town like London.” She let out a frustrated sigh and lifted her hands up in surrender. “The poor wee lamb is surrounded by wolves. What kind of a husband do ye call yourself?”
“She’s safer there than here,” he pointed out. “Or are you forgetting the fire?”
“It’s not right, a husband and wife apart. How are ye expecting to get any bairns on her?” She wagged a finger at him. “If ye were my lad, I’d—”
Her voice broke off when a crow suddenly struck a glass window. “Dear Lord, preserve us.” Mrs. Larson glared at the footman. “Evil spirits indeed.”
She lifted her shawl over her head against the rain and opened the door. At that moment, Jonathan saw a man hurrying across the glen, the rain pounding against him. Though he could not see the man’s face, Mrs. Larson’s prediction made him wonder why he was hell-bent on reaching the house.
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