“Dinnae say much exceptin’ that she be very fair. Light hair and very small in frame. He dinnae say more of her looks, but she must be pretty because Blane be tongue-tied around pretty gels.”
Feeling dreadful presentiments, Edward demanded, “What the hell would Wickham be doing at Alpin Hall?”
Darcy nodded toward the drawing room. “What else? Pretending to be something he is not.”
Elizabeth softly added, “And, of course, pilfering the silver.”
Edward shot a knowing glance at Darcy. The glance said that he understood how much Darcy must truly love Elizabeth to have aligned himself with a scoundrel such as George Wickham. Indirectly, he, too, was part of Wickham’s extended family. However, ice would blanket Hell’s fires before he would allow the man anywhere near Georgiana.
He had counseled Georgiana to face the worst of her fears after Darcy had aborted his sister’s attempt to elope with Wickham. Edward had hated what a person’s sudden demise did to the man’s family, and even though he had spent what felt like a lifetime as a warrior, he had never killed a man in cold blood. Yet, he had considered killing George Wickham because the man had preyed on Georgiana’s naïveté. Had disregarded it as if Georgie’s girlhood innocence was not the most precious gift a man could ever receive from a woman. Had robbed Georgiana of her schoolgirl dreams of romance. To satisfy his need to revenge himself on Darcy, Wickham had manipulated, undoubtedly by design, Georgiana’s first experience with love—souring her relationships until she had committed herself to their marriage.
“I would hear it all,” he grumbled. Edward’s heart experienced the creeping doom that the shadows held. Georgiana had disappeared, and the loneliness loomed like an apparition.
They quickly settled in the chairs, and Elizabeth lit several braces of candles while Darcy explained Georgiana’s departure from Pemberley, their denying the Wickhams a presence at Kitty’s party, Darcy’s journey with Matthew Joseph, Mr. Wickham’s attack along the road, Darcy’s frantic ride to Dumfries to save the man’s life, Elizabeth’s meeting with Edward’s brother Rowland, the news of the Countess’s letter to Georgiana and of Mrs. Jacks’ note chronicling Georgiana’s disappearance, and of Elizabeth trailing Darcy to Scotland. During this time, Elizabeth had handed Edward a hastily prepared plate, which he had devoured without thinking.
“How long has Georgiana been missing?” Edward asked as he returned the plate to Elizabeth’s waiting hands.
“A sennight.” Darcy swallowed hard, and Edward noticed his cousin struggling for composure. “We have a lead. It is believed that Georgiana’s horse has been located at an estate in the next shire. On the moors.”
Edward understood his cousin’s unspoken warning. When they had spent youthful summers at Alpin, their chaperones had warned them repeatedly to exercise caution around the moors, with their bogs and juniper scrubs and fields of heather. The moors were beautiful, but dangerous. “Then you and I will call at this estate tomorrow morning.”
“Mr. Jacks and I have recruited extra staff. I want a more thorough search of the area. Georgiana cannot be very far away. She could be injured, or my sister may not recall from whence she came. Possibly, the horse threw her.” Darcy refilled Edward’s glass of brandy.
Edward thought of how expertly Georgiana sat a horse. The likelihood of her being thrown was slim, but it was possible in such rough terrain. “We will find her, Darcy. My wife is lithe and elegant, but she is also tenacious and intelligent. If anyone can survive for such a period, it is Georgiana.”
“I have assured my husband,” Elizabeth said softly into the silence between the men, “that Fate would not be so cruel as to bring you and Georgiana together and then separate you forever.”
Edward’s gaze fell on the woman. “I do not feel Georgiana’s loss,” he murmured. “That is why I was so certain she would be at Alpin when I reached it.”
“Neither do I,” she confirmed. Silence rose again. Finally, Elizabeth stood and picked up a brace of candles. “I shall confirm your room’s readiness. You and Mr. Darcy finish your plans, and then I expect both of you to seek your beds. I realize it will be difficult to sleep, but you must make the effort. Georgiana requires a brother and a husband who are fully rested to save her.”
Edward caressed her hand. “My wife is blessed to have you as her sister.”
Elizabeth bent to kiss his forehead. “And I was blessed the day Mr. Darcy brought you into my life.”
She waited until all in the household had taken to their chambers before she eased her weight from the small simple bed she had occupied for the past few nights. Death’s images, those which had emerged during her earlier conversation with Lord Wotherspoon, had lingered, and now she felt compelled to know the truth. Her palpable fear held her in suspension. Her foot halfway to the floor. Could she do this? Could she find her way to the cells? Could she learn the truth?
Swallowing her incapacitating fear, she slid her feet into the half boots before making her way to the door. When Normanna’s lord had escorted her to her room, he had lingered long enough for her to ease the room key from the peg beside the door. She had hidden it under a book he had brought her from the estate’s library.
Now, she retrieved it and silently slid the key into its hole and turned it to the right…slowly…waiting for the soft click…breathing at last. Her damp palms reached for the knob. Her heart seemed to cease beating as she drew the door inward—just a crack. A wall sconce offered a flicker of light along the passageway, and in the weak shadows she could observe Rankin, the ever-present guard, sleeping on a pallet along the wall. The urge to quickly reclose the door and return to the relative safety of her bed nearly stayed her movement, but she forced herself to open the door wider. She kept her eyes focused on the sleeping figure. A slight gurgle deep in his throat indicated the man slept soundly. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she slid through the narrow opening and set the door ajar. She sidestepped her way along the wall, keeping her gaze locked on her jailer until she could see him no longer, and then she raised her skirt and raced in the direction she had seen Lord Wotherspoon go when summoned by the servant Ronald only yesterday.
Not a sound came from inside the great hall as she slid into its emptiness. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be to act as the mistress of this estate. If she pursued what Lord Wotherspoon offered, would he place his mother elsewhere? A household could not divide its allegiance between two mistresses. As dark and mysterious as Domhnall MacBethan appeared, she much preferred him to his younger brother. At least, the estate’s master had a future and had had instruction as a gentleman. With Aulay, she would be a mother twice over.
Bracing her courage by forcibly relaxing her hunched shoulders, she crossed the open area to the stairs leading to the lower levels. She would have liked to take a candle, but she would not risk anyone’s notice. Her normally soft tread echoed loudly in her ears, but no one else stirred. She had waited for the clock to chime one before executing her escape.
Following the narrow spiraling stairway, she held tightly to the wall’s stones to steady her step. At the northwest corner, the stairs took a deeper slant into what most likely was the cellar. Again, she spent a moment to bolster her composure before plunging further into the darkness. The air had cooled dramatically. Lord Wotherspoon’s description of the monastery’s ruins had reminded her that she descended into the earth, as if she stepped into a grave.
A shiver ran down her spine as the stairs opened to a narrow, uneven passage. She wished once again for a candle, but she could not chance it. Allowing her fingertips to slide along the damp walls, she edged forward. Praying not to encounter a rat or other creature of the night, she stepped carefully into the darkened passageway. Slowly, she silently cautioned herself. The space opened further with a cross passage, and for the span of several heartbeats, she panicked. The wall she had been following suddenly disappeared, and she fought the feeling that she was falling into a pit. Into the nether regions. I
nto the ash-filled memories. Panic ricocheted through her like a bolt of lighting. Stifling her own scream, she reached for the wall and was thankful to find the bricked corner. Clawing at it for safety, she embraced it with both arms. “Thank God,” she murmured.
Righting her position, she fought to discern anything in the complete blackness. She could not tell whether to continue straight ahead or whether she should follow one of the cross halls. Would she walk into another wall if she continued along this route? Concentrating on the openness, a pinpoint of light gave her hope. She turned to the right and walked toward the flicker of truth awaiting her. With each of her tentative steps the light grew more pronounced, and her heart pounded harder.
For a brief second, she wondered whether she truly wanted to know what the light held, but she continued her slow progress toward the unknown. Finally, she reached a locked door. With her fingers, she traced the hinges, the handle, the door’s width. Nothing moved as she went on tiptoes to peer through the grated opening. The light remained far removed, and the shadows held their secrets in a tight grasp. She had failed to discover the truth. She would have liked to see what the door held behind it, but she felt the pressing need to return to her room. She had tarried long enough.
Reluctantly, she turned toward the blackness behind her. Lifting her hand to trail along the wall again, she had taken no more than a half dozen steps before a blood-draining scream filled the depths of the ruins. Frozen in place, she debated whether to run or to return to the door. Finally, her curiosity won out: she had to plumb the door’s mystery.
Moving quickly, she stumbled toward the grated closure. She leaned once more against the wooden door and stared through the small opening. At first, she knew disappointment, but then two figures stepped into the circle of light.
“That be a difficult one,” the first figure said.
“I expect no more trouble.” The voice was one she knew well: that of the house’s mistress. “I want him prepared by mornin’.”
She heard the finality in Dolina MacBethan’s tone. She needed to escape before someone found her. Turning to the wall again, she traced the bricks. Lifting her skirt, she moved quickly away from the opening until she reached the corner. Her hand grasped the wall’s edge and she stumbled, but she had no time to worry about the sudden pain in her weak ankle. A scraping sound announced the door’s opening. In a panic, she raced to the stairs and climbed to the main level. She fought to keep her balance on the narrow, damp stairway.
The footsteps quickened behind her as she reached the grand hall. She glanced about to assess the open area before breaking into a run. Like many of the traditional Scottish keeps, Normanna Hall required anyone wishing to reach the private quarters and the battlements to cross the hall to the second staircase. Previous lairds had designed their houses with security in mind, but at the moment, all she wanted was the secrecy of the upper passage.
“Lady Esme!” Dolina’s voice rang out in the empty hall.
Caught, she skidded to a stop, but she did not turn to face the woman. Fear crept up her spine. They would return her to the cells below ground, and she would meet the same fate as the person she had heard screaming only moments earlier. Lady Wotherspoon’s purposeful approach held her in its grip.
“What be ye doin’ here?” Dolina hissed close to her ear.
Terror ran rampant through her chest. Her throat would not permit a response. She simply shook her head in denial. Of what? She could not think: denying her presence seemed paramount. Yet, she could not.
“I ast ye a question, gel,” Dolina said threateningly.
A familiarly calm voice took both women’s breaths. “I asked Lady Esme to meet me here.” Domhnall MacBethan stepped from the shadows and placed his arms about her. Instinctively, she slumped against him. “I would show the lady the battlements. The stars are brilliant when the world is silenced by sleep.” His hand brought her head to rest against his chest.
Dolina protested, “Lady Esme’s room…”
“Will remained unlocked,” Domhnall announced. “Lady Esme has earned my trust. Is that understood, Mother?” The girl felt him stiffen with the recognition of his mother’s presence. His tone spoke of disappointment, of hatred, and of revulsion, but the girl had never felt safer in her life. Tentatively, her arms encircled Domhnall’s waist. Evidently, she had made her choice in the MacBethans’ battle of wills.
Chapter 14
HE SAID NOT ONE WORD as they climbed the steep stairs leading to the battlements. Domhnall had rarely felt such strong feelings: such anger that she had placed herself in danger and such thankfulness that he had reached her in time. Unable to sleep, he had wandered through the deserted passageways of his ancestral home. He had done so on a regular basis ever since he had returned to Normanna and had discovered the evil his mother had welcomed to the manor’s every corner. Of late, he had spent his time grieving for Maighread and their son. His grief was too much to bear in the daylight. He had failed Maighread. He had failed his ancestors. He had failed his descendants, because he had not acted quickly enough to put an end to this madness.
Tonight he had spent several hours divining ways to extricate the family name from his mother’s immorality. He had allowed the woman free rein, and she had betrayed him and all the MacBethans. Had not his father warned Domhnall on more than one occasion of Lady Wotherspoon’s deviousness? His mother had never been the type to coddle her children—except for Aulay. He and his other brother and sister had raised themselves and each other. It was the reason he had tarried in England after his years of schooling. He had never wanted to return to the coldness that permeated Normanna’s walls. Even when he had returned to visit his family—and those incidents had grown further and further apart over the years—everything had appeared normal. Little had he known of the struggle between his parents—how much his father had despised the woman he had married, how Coll MacBethan had turned to others with ulterior motives rather than true benevolence, and how his mother’s despair had taken a twisted slant. At first, he had been grateful for the unexpected income. It had settled many of the debts from Normanna’s former lords. Now, only abhorrence remained; yet, even his father could not have imagined how his mother had set the family roots on a rocky base before grinding them into the dirt with the heel of her boot.
The woman beside him stumbled, and he automatically caught her to him. “Thank you, my Lord,” she whispered hoarsely.
He realized belatedly that he had been walking too quickly for her. Startled by the loss of his flawlessly varnished control, Domhnall glanced down at her flushed face. He studied her shadowed profile. “I apologize,” he said contritely. “I allowed my anger to set a punishing pace. I have neglected the fact that for a woman the steps are difficult to negotiate. They are steep and uneven in spots.” Her liquid blue eyes held him.
“The steps were steep, but I did not object to the ascent,” she said with a frown.
She was like no woman of his acquaintance, and Domhnall was sore to explain his attraction to her. To touch her would be overwhelming pleasure. Every time he looked at her, he approached a fever point. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Then let us finish our climb.”
Domhnall had brought her here because to him this was the most romantic place in the keep. Standing on top of the battlements, he could imagine reaching up and catching a shooting star as it flashed overhead. “This is magnificent,” she said softly as they stepped into the open. Her head tilted backward to absorb the view.
Unable to control his desire for her, Domhnall encircled the girl with his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her back plastered his chest with her warmth. “You make it magnificent,” he whispered in her ear. A long silence ensued. Finally, he felt the sobs shaking her shoulder. “Tell me,” he said as he brushed the hair from her face.
She turned her head into his palm and brushed her lips across his hand. Her tenderness rocked his composure. He had to protect her at all costs, even if it meant choo
sing her over his flesh and blood. “I saw…saw the cells…heard the screams. I…I remember,” she sniffed. “The cold…the smell of blood…the prayers…” Her voice broke on a sob. Domhnall turned her in his arms and pulled her closer. His hand stroked her back, and he whispered endearments. “How can…how can a man…a man of your tenderness… keep prisoners in his home?” She clutched his shirt as if holding on to her only lifeline.
“I never knew,” he rasped. “You must understand. I never knew. I should have. It was my responsibility. As Normanna’s lord, I should have known.” He cupped her face in his large palms. “My wife. My child. They were taken from me. And then my Da passed. I was thrust into a life I was not ready to live. She be my mother. I trusted her. I thought she had found a solution to my father’s growing debts. I never questioned her methods.” He searched her eyes for understanding. For empathy. A moment of breathless anxiety followed.
“What do we do?” she whispered. Strain showed in her eyes.
The lady’s use of the word “we” had delighted Domhnall. It meant that she would not run from him. “I have taken steps to deal with the chaos, but, Esme, I cannot see her in prison. Despite everything she has done, she is still my mother. I will send her away, where she can never hurt another.”
With a tightening of her shoulders, she sought to rationalize his motives. “I wish I could say something that would relieve your anguish, my Lord, but I fear that I cannot reconcile myself with your tolerance of what Lady Wotherspoon has done, even in the name of love.”
Domhnall shivered as apprehension ran up his spine. He had spoken to no one else of the horrors he had discovered under his roof. He wanted Esme to understand how he had made great strides to correct the wrongs. “We will speak of this in detail tomorrow. It is late, and we cannot reason without proper rest.”
The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery Page 22