Bride

by Stella Cameron

  “I told no one.”

  “Then how would he know about the abbey?”

  “Diligence will produce whatever information a man wants to learn. He was taken with Ella. Then he turned his back on her. She must have told him about her early life and he decided my reasons for taking her under my protection were not pure.”

  A logical argument, but Saber had always been gentle. Deceit and vengeance would be beyond him. “I know Saber. He would not do this, Struan.”

  “He has underestimated me. And overestimated me. I have no means of putting my hands on the sum he mentions. And I also have no intention of waiting until tomorrow to retrieve Ella. Defiled under the guise of paternal affection? The man is a foul aberration.”

  She would not argue now. “What do you intend to do?”

  “Ride to Northcliff at once. I’ll take him by the throat and show him who is to suffer for this.”

  “Wait,” Justine implored. “Something is very badly awry here. It is an attempt to divert your attention.”

  “Because no relative of yours could possibly be a scurrilous bounder?”

  “Because Saber could not do this. And he could not frighten Ella. Also, he is a very intelligent man. He would know this cannot succeed.”

  Struan took back the letter and read again. “You may have a point there. But Ella is gone and this is a ransom note. Explain that, if you please.”

  “Is it in the same hand as the other letters?”

  He frowned. “I cannot be sure.” He glanced at the back of the envelope and sniffed the paper. “No particular scent and no seal made by… Possibly not.”

  “There, then!” Triumph brought blood to her face. “If Saber had been…”

  His smile was as much sad as cynical. “If Saber had written the other letters, this should be the same? How true. And, since it is not, it is perfectly sensible to assume the earlier letters were the work of another while this is, indeed, Saber’s hand.”

  “No.”

  “It is also the first mention I’ve had of my committing some crime against Ella.”

  “But not against… You have been accused of wrongdoing with a female at an abbey?”

  Struan’s face became expressionless. “That was suggested in the previous letters.”

  “And for that you were threatened with bodily harm.”

  “And worse.”

  “Such as retribution against your family?”

  “Yes.”

  She drew a slow, shaky breath. “Was Glory Smith the person at the abbey?”

  “Yes.” He averted his face.

  “The abbey where you were to have taken your final vows?”

  “Yes. But it is not as you imagine. She made me drunk and I had not eaten for days. I was wrong, but it was… I now know what manner of woman she was, and is.”

  “You did not touch her on the night when I saw her coming from your apartments?”

  He ripped his neckcloth undone and tore it off. “If you must ask, then you have decided upon the answer.”

  A light tap at the door brought his sharp “Come.”

  This time it was Mairi who trod reluctantly into the room. “I’ve a message from Mrs. Moggach, my lord. She says t’tell ye Robert Mercer’s at the kitchen doors. The tenants and Brother John have taken their search all the way t’Northcliff Hall and back.”

  Justine held her hand toward Mairi. “Did they see any sign of Ella?”

  “In a way.”

  “In a way?” Struan roared. “Be plain and be exceeding quick, my girl.”

  “Struan.”

  He waved Justine to silence.

  “It was the little filly the marquess bought for Miss Elizabeth. The one for when she’s big enough—”

  The last of Struan’s patience snapped before Justine’s eyes. “What of the filly?” he demanded. “The purpose for which she was bought is of no import here.”

  “No, my lord,” Mairi agreed. “Well, the filly was found in the grounds of Northcliff Hall. And Miss Ella’s new riding bonnet was tied t’the bridle.”

  Potts didn’t grumble in earnest until Justine told him to drive on. Struan had been given enough of a start toward Northcliff not to hear carriage wheels behind him.

  The coach would be slower than the stallion Struan rode, but if he even suspected Justine was following him he’d make her return to Kirkcaldy.

  She had pleaded with him to wait for Arran and Calum and seek their counsel. Struan had refused to listen to her. Struan had refused to speak to her.

  The Franchot town coach in which Justine had traveled from Cornwall covered the rough roadway toward Northcliff Hall with remarkable ease. Fine springs cushioned each jolt.

  Justine peered anxiously from the windows until, at last, a sharp rise gave way to a downhill sweep and a stone wall bordering a large estate. Not far from the wall stood a massive house.

  Potts brought the carriage to a stop beneath the statue of a stag atop an archway through the wall. Justine lurched to open the trap and shout, “Onward, Potts. As fast as you can now.”

  “I don’t like the looks of things, my lady.”

  “Please go on.”

  “I don’t like the feel of it, my lady.”

  “Potts.”

  “Your grandmother would never forgive me if anything happened to you. Your husband would never forgive me. My duty to you and your family comes first. It isn’t right. We should—”

  “Drive on, Potts!” Justine slammed the trap.

  Leather creaked. Wheels ground on gravel. The carriage shot forward, throwing Justine against the squabs. She held on to a strap while Potts contrived to hit every dip in the driveway. He shot around the building and came to a halt before the front door of Northcliff Hall.

  Grim-faced and breathing heavily, Potts appeared to open the door and place the steps. He handed Justine down. “You’ll rue this night,” he told her. “You mark my words. Not a light showing in the place.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. There aren’t many lights.” She hurried toward the house, passing Struan’s grazing black horse on the way. “No need to accompany me, Potts. Wait by the carriage. I don’t anticipate being here long.”

  That was when she noticed the front door was open and that a rumble of masculine voices came from inside.

  Justine pushed the door wider and stepped gingerly into a cold marble foyer. The voices she’d heard belonged to Struan and an aged, stooped butler.

  Struan was the first to notice her. “Justine!” He covered the space between them entirely too quickly. “How dare you disobey me!”

  “How dare I disobey you? Sin’s ears! One would think we were still in the eighteenth century! I did not disobey you. I merely did what I considered essential. I came to ensure you were safe—and that you didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

  His mouth remained open while Justine swept past him. “I am Lord Avenall’s cousin,” she told the butler. “I understand he is a guest here.”

  “I only do as I’m told,” the man said. “That’s all. What I’m told t’do is what I do.” He peered around the green and white museumlike space as if looking for approval—or an audience. “Nudge. I’m one of the Nudges. Butlers all, we are. Always have been.”

  “The man’s incompetent,” Struan said. “And he seems to be the only servant around. I’ve asked him to take me to Saber.”

  Shuffling, arching his head on its bent neck to squint up at them, Nudge pushed the front door shut.

  “Is Mr. North in residence?” Struan said.

  Nudge fumbled with his untidy neckcloth. “Gone t’the Continent.”

  Justine smiled reassuringly. “We’re sorry not to see him, but we came to visit Lord Avenall. He’s my cousin.”

  “Ye already said as much. Back t’his regiment, he said. Orders came, he said.”

  Justine looked as Struan, who narrowed his eyes. “Lord Avenall was recalled to his regiment?”

  “Aye. He’s left. Went in the night.”

&nbs
p; Suddenly weak, Justine sat on the lowest step of the staircase. “Only the servants are in residence at this time?”

  “Aye.”

  Struan began to pace, his boots echoing in the domed space. “Which night? On which night did Lord Avenall leave? Tonight? Yes, of course, he must have left earlier tonight.”

  “He left the night the gir-rel came.”

  Struan stopped pacing. He spun toward Justine. She got to her feet and took hold of the old man’s arm. “The girl? Was she dark-haired? Wearing green?”

  “Came from Kirkcaldy,” Nudge said, his head on one side as if he’d been cuffed. “Wanted to see Lord Avenall. Old friend, so she said. Ella.”

  “That’s right!” She accepted Struan’s steadying hand beneath her elbow with gratitude. “Ella. Did she see Saber?”

  “Wasna supposed to,” Nudge muttered. “She was supposed to follow me back here, but she didna come. I was too tired to climb up after her again. She let herself out.”

  Justine expelled the breath she’d held. “You saw Ella leave again?”

  He blinked slowly. “Aye. Ran out, she did. Wasn’t long afterward when Lord Avenall asked for a carriage himself.”

  “We’re wasting time here,” Struan said. “Come. We’ll return to Kirkcaldy. This only becomes more impossible.”

  When they emerged into the cool night, Potts had already tethered the black to Justine’s carriage and resumed his place atop the box.

  “Back to the castle, man,” Struan shouted, helping Justine into the coach. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Potts made off with one of his bone-jarring bursts of speed, jostling Struan and Justine together. They flew from the Northcliff drive to the straight road home.

  “You should not have followed me,” Struan muttered, staring into the mirror-black glass of the windows. “I’d have been faster on my horse.”

  “You are a stubborn man, Struan. You are my husband and your concerns are my concerns. I told you from the beginning that it is my mission to help women find equal footing with their husbands.”

  “Not now.”

  Justine turned her back and moved as far from him as possible. Argument would accomplish nothing, and they were both deeply fearful for Ella.

  An abrupt turn tossed Justine against Struan.

  “What the … ?” He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her while the vehicle gathered speed. “Damn it all! Damn the man I say. Has he taken leave of his senses?”

  Justine clung to Struan’s arm while they were jounced wildly. “This isn’t the way,” she gasped.

  “Don’t concern yourself. These coachmen have a nose for short routes.”

  “Potts has a nose for nothing but the expected. We have left the road to Kirkcaldy, I tell you.”

  Struan reached across the carriage and hammered a fist on the trap.

  Another sharp turn sent him sprawling on top of Justine.

  “My God!” He tried to brace her safely in a corner, only to slip to the floor when Potts drew the team to a complete halt.

  Justine slid down beside him. “Something’s wrong.”

  Fury strained Struan’s features. “Obviously.” He deposited her back on the seat, opened a door, and promptly drew back.

  A hunched figure flung itself through the door and the carriage rushed forward before they were completely closed inside again.

  The crackle of Pott’s whip split across the rushing air, and the crazed protests of abused horses.

  Swathed in a hooded black cape, the newcomer knelt on the opposite seat and opened the trap.

  “What is happening?” Justine asked, expecting no reply.

  Struan squeezed her hands reassuringly.

  “Through the trees ahead, Len,” came the interloper’s cry.

  Justine shifted forward on the seat. A woman. “Len? Potts’s name is William, not Len.”

  “This is your coach?” Struan asked.

  “It’s her coach,” the woman shouted without turning around. “I preferred my own coachman, is all. Now, Len, my lover! Yes, here! Stop here.”

  Once more the carriage slowed down amid the screech of wheel blocks and a deafening chorus from the team.

  Another figure in black leaped aboard, this time closing the door tightly.

  The woman sat and pushed down her hood.

  Glory Smith stared at Justine with unconcealed hatred.

  The latest arrival left his cowl draped about his stark face. “A job well done,” he complimented Glory. To Struan he said, “I could not have hoped for more willing cooperation, Viscount Hunsingore. You have followed the trail I prepared to perfection. In fact, you even did what I hardly dared to hope for. And your lady was deliciously predictable. You alone might have been enough. The two of you are a prize beyond compare.”

  Justine saw the pistol the instant Struan made to rise from his seat. “He will kill you!” She hung on his arm. “He has a weapon.”

  “And you are right, my lady. I will kill him. I’ll kill both of you. But not until the moment is right. First you shall have the pleasure of seeing me grow rich from the bounties Stonehaven and Franchot will pay for you.”

  Struan pushed Justine behind him on the seat. “Let my wife go. She has no part of this. Your argument is with me.”

  The man sneered. “I think not. After all, I warned you what the appropriate retribution for your crime would be.” Cold eyes sought out Justine. “She’s a fetching piece, despite her deformity. I’ll admit, I’m titillated at the thought of having my first cripple—in front of her husband.”

  Justine restrained Struan with both of her hands and her entire weight.

  Glory tipped back her head and laughed raucously. She leaned against a window and pulled her skirts up about her hips.

  Justine averted her eyes, but not before she saw Brother John Grably slide his fingers into the black curls between Glory’s thighs.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The pistol, held to Justine’s temple by Grably, ensured that Struan held still while his wrists were bound behind him and a blindfold applied by a heavyset, loudly belching coachman he’d never seen before.

  “Now you, m’lady,” the man said, his voice heavy with cockney overtones.

  “Touch my wife and you’ll die,” Struan told him. Thank God they had not noted his knife.

  “Keep the coach here, Bottwell,” Grably ordered. “We’ll take them the rest of the way on foot.”

  “ ‘Ere,” the coachman said in complaining tones. “I was the one what done for the other one. Don’t I get to take a turn with the cripple?”

  “Later,” Grably promised, shoving Struan ahead of him.

  “What have you done with Potts?” Justine demanded.

  The cry that followed could only be hers. Pebbles rolled past his feet and he heard breath jarred from lungs.

  He jerked around in the blackness. “Justine! Justine!”

  “She’s all right,” Glory said sweetly. “Had a little fall, is all. You know how it is with the infirm. We’ll just have to take her down a bit slower.”

  With his entire body, Struan thrashed at the air in impotent rage, only to be sent to his knees with the force of a blow to the back of his neck. Grably’s pistol butt shot a shaft of white-hot pain into Struan’s head.

  “Get up,” Grably demanded. “Try anything else and it’ll be the lady’s neck next time.”

  “Struan! What have they done to you?”

  “Nothing.” He stumbled to his feet. “All’s well, my love.”

  “Free with the love talk, aren’t you?” Glory said. “Told her about cold cells and hot bodies, have you? And about red wine and—”

  “Enough from you,” Grably snarled. “You can drop your story now. No more need for playacting. We’ll get everything we want.”

  Slipping, tripping on sliding rock and shale, Struan staggered under the weight of Grably thumping into him. He hit a rock face and felt his sleeve tear.

  “Stand there,” Grably tol
d him. “Hold the woman, Glory, while I move this away.”

  Grunts accompanied the sound of scratching.

  A hand, roughly applied to the top of his head, bent Struan double and he was shoved forward to sprawl on the ground. Old dust and dank air assaulted his nostrils. The blindfold was yanked off in time for him to see Glory push Justine, and trip her as she overbalanced.

  Struan fought with the bonds at his wrists—to no avail. Justine fell. Her head smacked a trunk evidently used as a table in the middle of a cave strewn with sheepskins and heaps of tartan.

  Blood welled from a gash at Justine’s hairline.

  “Leave her!” Struan made his way toward her on his knees. “Do not touch her. Either of you.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Grably said, hauling Glory back as she would have used her fists to add to Justine’s misery. “I have to return to Kirkcaldy and make sure our highborn friends get the messages I intend to send.”

  “We’ll get there soon enough,” Glory said. “We’ve matters to deal with here, first.”

  Grably smiled, a smile that didn’t warm his cold eyes. “Time enough for that when I return in the morning.” He raised the pistol and leveled it at Justine, who lay, her eyes closed, beside the trunk. “Untie their hands.”

  “Why?”

  “It will not be conventional bonds that keep these two waiting for what we have in store for them. Use the viscount’s knife.” He laughed. “Thought I hadn’t seen it, didn’t you?”

  Struan shook his head in frustration.

  Glory passed her tongue over her lips.

  “Do as I tell you,” Grably ordered her.

  She reached beneath Struan’s arms and coat to remove the knife, then cut between Justine’s wrists with a cruel, twisting stroke. The sight of Justine, slowly moving her arms in front of her and pushing to sit up, was the best Struan ever remembered seeing.

  Next Glory freed him, taking much longer over the task and using the opportunity to nibble his earlobe and feel him intimately.

  Struan stared straight ahead. His body remained in complete accord with his mind. Neither was aroused.

  Temper didn’t suit Glory’s striking features. She finished freeing his wrists and flung away.

  Never taking his eyes from his prisoners, Grably had lighted torches in alcoves around the cave’s walls. Then he took a glowing lantern and swung it slowly. “This is how you will die,” he said softly. “The only question is when. If you’re very good, it may not happen too soon. If you’re bad…”