Deven uncurled his fingers from Hamish’s sark. The boy ran off as fast as his short legs could carry him. “I’m finding it rather difficult to refuse ye.”
His words curled through her, settling in her heart with pleasure. “Is that such a terrible thing?”
“Dinna ken, but it keeps my days busy.”
Rooney looked into Deven’s face in hopes of catching a glimpse from last night. A flicker of reassurance that his lips so close to hers had not been a dream. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his eyes warm as molten silver. Rooney edged closer, prompting him to end the distance between them with a kiss.
He pulled in a breath, then stepped back. “Take me to the lad’s home.”
Rooney blinked in surprise. “Now?”
“Aye. I think it best.”
“What will ye be needing with Hamish?”
“Will ye trust me? Please.”
There was no retribution in his eyes. She did trust him, more than anyone she’d allowed herself to trust. Though she would’ve liked the kiss as well.
Shaking off her disappointment, Rooney led Deven out of the village and through the sanctuary of the woods to a cluster of mud bothies with scrawny chickens pecking the barren ground. The scent of cramped living conditions choked the air. Keeping to the trees, Rooney pointed at the last bothy that resembled a decaying mushroom slowly sinking back into the earth. A woman little older than she hung tattered clothing on a line. She was no more than skin and bones. Hamish raced down the path and flung himself around the woman’s legs, nearly toppling her. He held up his roll, as fat tears shimmied down his cheeks. The woman smoothed the hair from his face and led him inside the mud hut.
“These homes were once under my father’s care. Sir Leslie now owns them,” Rooney said. “Hamish’s father was killed in the Rising. Caitrine tried to find work, but her lungs are weak. I bring them food every week. Sometimes ’tis not enough.”
She leaned against a tree as the familiar ache of painful understanding rippled through her. “’Tis not right what Hamish did, but circumstances often bring people to a point of desperation they thought never to cross. Because they canna see another way in caring for those they love.”
Deven stared at the poor dwelling. “I am not immune to the hardships of this world, but I believe in order. Turning a blind eye to wrongdoings is no way to seek justice.”
Where was the man from last evening? The man whose compassion had saved her reputation while spiriting away a piece of her heart. “Can ye honestly look at this and think so coldly?”
Genuine surprise lifted his black eyebrows. “Ye think me cold.”
She had indeed, but as she looked closer, beyond the harsh detachment of reason, she saw the true hold it had on him. Not as a mantle of strength with which he perceived the world, but shackles he was unable to break free of. More than anything she wished for a hammer at that moment. “I think ye imprisoned by yer own ideals. The world can be cruel and unforgiving, but we’ve been gifted with the ability to show mercy.”
“My father showed mercy. It cost my family nearly everything. Took me years to recover what had been lost.” Deven crossed his arms over his wide chest, the leather baldric holding his broadsword creaked in protest. “He was never good at running a large estate. Money disappeared through the cracks. Tenants always owed but never paid. Accounts never tallied, fields left barren. Riches weren’t everything he would tell me until it became necessary. Even he couldna deny that. He took the one thing left of value my family owned, the laird’s brooch, and brought it to a man for appraisal.” Deven snorted. “The crook stole our most precious possession and ran. Ten years it took me to track him down. Made me buy it back at thrice the price.”
Coldness crept over Rooney at each word. “Why did ye not turn him in for theft?”
“Because he’d wormed his way into becoming the town’s magistrate. His word against mine.” Deven’s hands clenched into fists. “I’ve lost the brooch by another black hand. The Night Fox.”
“This brooch is an h-heirloom?”
“Passed from one laird to the next for generations. A legacy of the McLendons. Gone.”
Valor of my ancestors. The brooch’s inscription burned Rooney with guilt. A taunt really, against the new laird who dared come after her. She had been mistaken to think he was like the spoiled others and their riches. The fiscal would hardly miss a few coins, but the brooch was a piece of Deven. And she had stolen it without a second thought.
She swallowed hard. “Not truly gone, merely … misplaced.”
“The Fox misplaces nothing. He kens precisely what he’s about.” Deven leaned a forearm against the oak tree, curling his fingertips into the bark. “I’ve done everything I can to abide by the rules. I expect others to do likewise. Unfortunately, circumstances exist beyond our control and the rules are broken. Items are stolen. Fathers killed. Lives forever altered. ’Tis my responsibility to repair them as much as I am able.”
“Ye place too much burden on yerself.”
“Not nearly enough. But some wrongs can be fixed. Ye’ve helped me see that shades of gray are permissible.” He stroked her cheek with the tip of his finger. “Starting today.”
Whirling, he strode from the trees toward the small bothy. Rooney wrapped her arms around her middle as her legs began to shake. What had she done?
Chapter 9
“WILL THAT BE ALL, my lord?” Hamish asked as he cleared the plates from the dining table.
Deven nodded. “See that the kitchen is in order, and ye may retire for the evening.”
Hamish’s little chest puffed up as if he were truly given charge of the kitchen and off he scampered with his loaded tray.
“He’s too wee for carrying such things,” Jean said from across the table.
“He’ll grow.” Deven stood and pushed his chair in. “How is Caitrine settling in?”
“Well enough as a kitchen maid. At least there she can taste the food and put a bit of meat on her bones.” Jean rose, the slightest smile curling her lip. “If I dinna ken better, I’d say that redheaded lass had some persuasion with yer decision to bring them here yesterday. Dinna look at me like that. There isna a villager who hasna noticed ye with her. Helen Logan is practically spitting grisses in her morning parritch.”
That was a sight Deven would give his sword arm for, as long as she didn’t spit the nails at him. However, the village putting him and Rooney under glass for observation was another thing entirely.
“Miss Corsen is …” Deven searched for an explanation, but no mere words could express her spirit, or charm, or unrivaled heart. Nor the affect she had possessed on him. “Captivating.”
“Ye mean to say she’s the only one to scale that insurmountable wall of defense ye’ve built around yerself.”
“Good night to ye, Jean.” Deven ducked out of the dining hall as her verbal darts hit with irritating accuracy.
“Bring her ’round. Mayhap to the McLendon’s ball the night after next,” Jean called after him. “I want to meet this woman who dares to brave ye.”
Deven bounded up the stairs to his chamber, thoughts of Rooney trailing after him. Closing the door, he leaned his head against the smooth wood. She was never far from his mind. Prodding him to think beyond his governing restrictions to seize opportunities with grace and compassion. The sensation was unknown, like a creature stretching into its new skin after winter. Not quite uncomfortable, but it would take time before he understood the intricacies of it.
Rooney had gifted that to him. He could spend a lifetime showing her his gratitude.
A figure moved near his armoire.
“Hamish, is that ye? Told ye to go to bed, lad. No need to tire yerself out the first day.”
The figure darted for the window. A small, round object fell to the floor. Ruby stones winked in the candlelight. The laird’s brooch. Anger bolted through Deven. “Night Fox.”
The Fox slipped out the open window and shimmied up a rope tied to the roof.
Deven followed, the rope damp between his palms and the stones slick beneath his feet as he heaved himself on the roof. The night air hung heavy with thick mist as the Fox raced ahead of him.
“Canna run now, Fox. Not when ye’ve returned to the scene of the crime. Was once not enough?” Deven sprinted after the thief who was no more than a smudge of darkness through the fog. “Stay and face me like a man, ye wee gealtair!”
The Fox tripped. Deven closed in fast. Scrambling to his feet, the Fox sprinted the last few feet to the edge of the roof and leaped with arms stretched wide to the towering rowan tree leaning on the side of the house. He hit a branch with a small cry.
The sound punched Deven in the gut. Air ripped from his throat, he stumbled to a stop.
The small figure dangled from the branch with gloved hands gripping tight. Twisting his legs, the Fox swung himself onto the branch in a crouch. The figure stared at Deven from within the hood’s shadow. In a flash, the Fox disappeared into the leaves. Deven moved stiff-legged to the edge of the roof and watched in numb silence as the shadow slipped to the ground and raced across the grass toward the woods.
“Rooney.”
Rooney peeled off her black cloak, wincing as the rough fabric dragged across the scratches on her arm. She’d never lost control on a landing, at least not since a bairn learning to swing from branch to branch. Rolling up the Night Fox’s clothes, she stuffed them into the small chest between the rocks and pulled her shift and gown on. Her arm burned where the tree bark had scraped her. As long as she kept it covered with sleeves, her sisters would never notice.
She shouldn’t have lingered in Deven’s chamber after replacing the brooch. She couldn’t keep it after learning what it meant to him and the anguish he had endured to retrieve it once before. But then the glow of candlelight had fallen on a stalk of heather placed on the nightstand. The same flower she’d gifted him that day out in the field. Surrounded by stark order, Deven kept a piece of wildness near him. A piece she had given him.
Then Deven had burst in and chased her across the roof, calling her a coward. Would he have called her such a thing if he knew she was behind the mask? Rooney dug her fingernails into her palms. Did she want to find out?
No. She did not.
Deven had built his life on the truth. She’d built hers on lies. He thought her worthy of esteem—and the guilt of it broke her heart.
Stepping from behind the cluster of trees, Rooney walked toward her cottage with heavy steps. The mist had thickened, hazing angles and edges to shapeless outlines in the blackness. Without a doubt, the wet chill had seeped inside and dampened the walls and floors, to say nothing of the bedding. Rooney swept aside her guilt and shouldered her resolve. Her sisters deserved a dry roof to sleep under.
“Dreary night for a stroll through the mist.” Sir Leslie’s voice crept out from the dark.
Rooney jumped, hand reaching for her dag. She’d left it at the rocks with her other Night Fox accessories. “What are ye doing here?”
He emerged from the shadowy corner of the cottage. The pale outline of his face shone like wax under his wide-brimmed hat. “To make you an offer.”
“I’ve already told ye. I willna marry ye.” She brushed past him, but he caught her arm and twisted her around. Rooney yelped.
“You have not heard it yet.”
“I doubt ’tis changed from the last time. Any new caveats ye’ve placed on it have my utmost revulsion.”
A sparkling white object flashed in front of Rooney’s nose. A diamond bracelet she’d taken from Lady Flincher two months prior. Horror slithered into her stomach.
Sir Leslie brushed the cold stones over Rooney’s cheek. “Do I have your attention now?”
Rooney ceased her struggles and took a shaky breath. “I see no way to avoid it.”
“How did I not know it was you all this time? A girl of your meager means should never have been able to scrape together a monthly rent, much less repay a debt. Then that comment about the pearl hairpins. No one knew they existed except me and whoever took my spoons. My clever little fox.” He held the bracelet up. The diamond facets shone like starlight in the drops of rain. “How brilliant of you to pay me back in stolen treasure.”
“Ye’ve no right to go through my things.” Panicking, she yanked her arm, but he held tight. “Where are Ruby and Rose?”
“Safely inside with my manservant while we have our private tête-à-tête.”
“Keep them out of this. I willna have them linked to what I’ve done.”
“Calm yourself, my dear. Arrangements can be made to the satisfaction of all.”
“What do ye want?”
“For you to keep doing what you are doing, but instead of exchanging your treasure for gold coin—I assume you have a middle man with whom you trade—you will give me the trinkets directly. I, in turn, will give you my silence.”
“What will ye do with bracelets and pocket watches?”
“That is my concern.” He pocketed the diamond band, giving it a comforting pat. “I can see in your face that silence is not enough. Ah, yes. Your family’s house. Your sisters may return to it once we are married. Rent free.”
“Married! I will never—”
Sir Leslie grabbed her chin and jerked her head up. She tried not to gag on his brandy-soaked breath. “You are not in a position to refuse my magnanimous offer. One word from me and you’ll be hanged as a common thief. Your sisters flung out onto the streets for men to leer at and rats to gnaw at, but with you as my wife, they will have the entire protection of my position.”
Rooney’s retort died.
Protection, food, a roof that didn’t leak. Ruby and Rose deserved safety after hardships no children their ages should have to endure. But to marry Sir Leslie in order to obtain it? Rooney’s stomach convulsed. She’d rather spend a lifetime of running from the hangman than pledge herself to such a loathsome creature. Was her pride truly worth more than her sisters’ happiness?
“Ye’ve made yer offer, now I offer mine,” she said. “In two nights, the McLendon is hosting a masquerade ball where all the lairds and their ladies of the land shall be in attendance.”
“The McLendon. Wasteful tradition if you ask me, all these barbaric clans ruling themselves under a detestable Scot deigning himself as chieftain.”
“The guests will be dressed in their finest, dripping with jewels and expensive baubles. Enough riches to pay ye back tenfold over.”
“The Night Fox strikes again.” Sir Leslie’s eyes glittered beneath the brim of his hat. “Bring me the payment, and I shall consider all debts paid in full. If you fail, you belong to me.”
This is what it had come to. A deal with the devil. Rooney could turn herself over to him or risk herself one last time before the noose.
Everything balanced on the edge of her success. Even her chance with Deven. For years she had locked her heart away, but the first moment with him had sprung it free. Life could begin again. Her only burden left to carry would be guilt from the lies—a silent penitence. She pushed away all thoughts of Deven before she could change her mind. “Do we have an agreement?”
Sir Leslie grabbed her hand and pressed cracked lips to her palm. “We do. One I most eagerly anticipate collecting on.”
Rooney yanked her hand away. “Ye are despicable.”
“I’m a man who knows how to win no matter the circumstances.”
Rooney spun away, leaving the serpent to crawl back into his hole. She had a ball to prepare for.
Chapter 10
SHE SHOULD HAVE CUT the tail smaller. Rooney swept her furry train out of the way as another guest disguised as Robert the Bruce slashed his sword in a show of weaponry for his giggling companion who flitted about in a flurry of swan feathers.
Skirting around a court jester attempting to juggle empty goblets, Rooney walked the perimeter of the great hall. The chieftain of the McLendons had created a magical night filled with candles, sumptuous food, caskets of drink, and merry mus
ic spilling from the minstrels’ gallery high above. She’d had no difficulty in slipping in unnoticed without an invitation.
Leaning against the stone wall, she watched as couples spun in an intricate dance before her. Peacocks and troubadours, medieval ladies and knights, a sun and his companionable moon. They dripped with jewels in every color under the rainbow as they floated in whispers of silk and satin. Any other night, Rooney would have loved nothing more than to enjoy the wondrous spectacle, perhaps even learn to dance, but tonight she could afford no distractions. She had a single purpose for being here, and not one thing could keep her from—
A man dressed in black with a wide hat walked toward her. Rooney’s heart lurched. He winked from behind his mask and kept walking. A cockernonny of blond hair swished across his back. Rooney slumped. Not Deven.
Concentrate. How was she to perform when he brushed her every waking thought. Those keen eyes piercing her, twisting further the guilt of what she was about to do. She pushed it away, pushed him away. Nothing mattered beyond the task.
Across the hall, a woman costumed as a pale pink rose downed cup after cup of wine. Her falcon-feathered companion whispered in her ear, and she doubled over in a fit of laughter that sent wine sloshing from her cup. Never once did she glance down at the drops staining her bottom petals. Pink stones clustered around her thick neck and arms.
Perfect.
Rooney readjusted her mask and took a deep breath to calm her jittering nerves. She’d done this a hundred times. Only tonight she didn’t have her hood, her pistol, or the cover of darkness. Taking another breath, Rooney slipped between the dancing couples as if she belonged here among the finery. She moved neither fast nor slow, a small smile on her lips so not to draw unwanted attention.
She approached the food table and took an offered cup of wine. Pretending to sip, she strolled around the table and stood behind the rose. A simple clasp held the choker in place. A quick flick of the thumb would undo it. The bracelets could prove a challenge as they would need to be pulled directly off. The woman’s gloves should help ease the friction of dragging stones over her pudgy hand. Rooney glanced at the woman’s elbows and determined the left was better to stumble against.
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