Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland

by Karen Hawkins

  “Yes, but I was in the middle of the fire. You were not.” Seeing her struggling for a witty retort, he hid his satisfaction and glanced at the door. “How did you open this door?”

  “I used the handle of the foot warmer on the hinge pins.” She reached inside and held up a pin, one end oddly flat. “See?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I did what I had to.” She tossed the pin onto the floorboard.

  He could tell from the timber of her voice that her emotions were calmer now and not so raw. Good. The last thing I want to deal with right now is a weepy woman. He jerked his head toward the coach. “Get inside. I’ll find Poston and we’ll leave.”

  “Oh? Where are we going?”

  “Back to your room, where you’ll give me the artifact so I may save my brother.”

  “William, I must—”

  “Hush.” He picked her up and set her on the seat. “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t even think about leaving while I’m gone.”

  Her chin lifted. “If I’d wished to leave, I could have, and yet I stayed here. I was in plain sight the entire time and made no effort to return to the inn, though I could have done so.”

  “True. Just don’t get any bright ideas now.” He tossed her cloak at her.

  She caught it, and as she did so, William caught a glimpse of one of her palms.

  He grasped her wrist. She tugged, trying to free herself, but he ignored her and turned her palm upward.

  A bright angry stripe of raw skin glared back up at him. “Damn it, how did you do that?”

  She curled her fingers over the stripe. “It’s nothing.”

  But it was. “You got that from carrying water buckets.”

  “I couldn’t just sit by and not help. I knew how much your ship meant to you and I—I suppose I felt responsible, in some way.”

  He looked into her upturned face, noting the delicate rings beneath her eyes and how her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

  She brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, unwittingly exposing the angry red stripe across the palm of her other hand.

  His gaze narrowed, his heart oddly twisted. Damn it, don’t begin imagining that her actions mean any more than her words. She’s an actress—and a brilliant one, too.

  His gaze flickered over the delicate lines of her face and throat, obvious even through the fine coating of grime. “That does it,” he said, straightening. “When we return to your hotel, I want to see every bruise, cut, and burn on your body.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “I’m not removing my clothing for you.”

  He shrugged. “Then strip for a maidservant. I don’t care, so long as someone sees to your bruises and cuts.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t. But if you’re patched and cleaned at least—ah, there’s Poston now.”

  The groom hurried up. “There you are, sir! I was lookin’ all over fer ye and I—” He leaned forward, frowning. “Why, the door is completely off its hinges!”

  “Miss Beauchamp decided to take a walk.”

  “A walk, sir?”

  “Yes,” Marcail said in a bitter tone, “a walk.” Why did they both seem surprised that she had wished for her freedom? She’d wager her last penny that neither of them would have accepted being locked in a coach.

  “I found Miss Hurst wandering the pier and I convinced her to join us here.”

  “I was coming back on my own,” she retorted. “If you’d been ten minutes later, you would have found me here.”

  Poston glanced from her to his master before saying in a quiet tone, “Pardon me, Cap’n, shall I fix the door so we can get under way? Or do you—”

  “No, no. Fix the door.” William climbed into the coach and sat across from Marcail. “Once you’ve secured that, drive us back to the hotel. Miss Beauchamp has something of mine that she would like to return.”

  Marcail sniffed.

  “Yes, Cap’n. Right away.”

  Marcail lifted a hand to brush her hair from her face, caught sight of her filthy fingers, and winced. Her gown was streaked with soot and dirt from the buckets, her stockinged feet quite black. She was almost afraid to see how her face and hair had fared.

  The coach dipped as John Poston replaced the hinge pins. Though it had taken her some time to undo them, he seemed to have no problem replacing them, though the final pin stuck out at an odd angle.

  Upon seeing the sadly bashed pin, the groom had sent Marcail a concerned look, but he never said a word. He checked that the door would still work and, satisfied that it did, he closed and latched it. Soon, they were under way.

  Suddenly weary beyond words, Marcail leaned back into her corner of the coach. When they arrived at her room in the inn, William would demand the artifact and she would give it to him. She had no choice, now that she knew what the stakes were for him and his family.

  But what would she do about the blackmailer? Could she negotiate a settlement, exchange the artifact for another one, perhaps one that was worth more?

  Whatever it took, she’d pay.

  A letter from William Hurst to his brother Robert, written from the deck of his first ship.

  I named my ship the Agile Witch. She’s a wonder. She’s swift and cuts the water like a cutlass. I wonder now why I hesitated so long to purchase her.

  It’s odd how often we face a change in our life that can only yield benefits, and yet we fight that change as if it carried poison and not opportunity.

  CHAPTER 9

  William broke the silence before the carriage had rounded the first corner. “I’m still astonished that you thought to steal the artifact from me to begin with. You had to know I wouldn’t stand idly by and allow you to escape.”

  Marcail glanced at William from under her lashes. He seemed so calm, so controlled all of the time. He didn’t used to be that way. Life hasn’t been kind to him. A thought struck and she looked down at her hands, clasped loosely in her lap. I hope he’s not this way because of me. Surely our break was easier on him, for he had the benefit of being angry. All I had were regrets and—

  “Marcail?” He shot her a hard look. “We must talk about the artifact.”

  “You’re right. It’s time we dealt with this.” She sighed. “I told you I’d handed it over already, but … I lied. I still have it.”

  “I know.”

  “How could you know?”

  He appeared faintly amused. “Because you were still here in this town. Charming as it is, I can’t see the great Marcail Beauchamp staying in Southend unless you were waiting to meet someone.”

  “I enjoy charming towns as much as I enjoy London,” she said stiffly. “They’re small and—and charming.”

  William lifted his eyebrows.

  “I stayed in Brighton before—”

  “Which is ten times the size of Southend.”

  “—and I enjoyed myself very much.”

  “I daresay you went with a houseful of guests.”

  Blast it, she hated it when he read her so well. She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “So you weren’t alone … as you are here.” His dark blue gaze flickered across her. “Suppose we begin again and you tell me why you’re here and why you took that artifact. Only this time, tell me everything.”

  She felt a deep flicker of anger. “I am trying to be honest with you, and you just—” She took a slow breath to calm herself. “William, we’re facing a horrible conundrum. You need that artifact to free your brother, and I need it for—” Should she tell him? Could she afford not to?

  She met his quizzical gaze. “William, it is as I told you before: I am being blackmailed.”

  The words hung between them like the light from a candle, flickering uncertainly, so weak that the faintest breath could extinguish it.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He sends—”

  “He?”

  “I think so. He sends a woman—a Miss Challoner—to deliver messages and to collect the funds.�
��

  “Miss Challoner. So the messenger has a name, at least.”

  “Yes. I don’t know much about her. She says where to meet her, then when I arrive, she takes the money and disappears. I’ve tried to have her followed, but she always manages to slip away. She’s very good at evasion.”

  “She’s never been followed by John Poston.”

  “Your groom?”

  “He’s more than that. Poston was with Wellington’s army in Spain and was the best tracker they had.”

  “Perhaps he could do better,” Marcail said, though William thought she didn’t sound very certain. “I must discover my blackmailer’s identity.” She sighed. “I think Miss Challoner’s afraid of him. She gets a look on her face and—it’s fear. I know it is.”

  William studied Marcail. Her expression was earnest, but then it always was. Yet it was her voice that caught him and made him weigh her words more cautiously, tasting them for their truth. “How much has this person gotten from you thus far?” he asked.

  “A lot. More than I can afford.”

  “What did you do, that you are willing to pay a stranger to hide it?”

  She passed a hand over her forehead wearily, leaving a black smudge on her pale skin. “It’s—It’s complicated. I don’t want to explain it all and—Just know that’s what has happened and please, leave it there. I shouldn’t say more.”

  He almost ground his teeth in frustration. “Marcail, I am not going to play games. I want the truth. All of it.”

  “It’s not my secret to share.”

  His jaw tightened. “If you won’t tell me what’s happening, then don’t expect my help.”

  “Oh! You are so—I’ve told you all that I could and—Damn you, William. I-I’ve had a horrid day.” Her voice quavered, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m being blackmailed and they forced me to come to this tiny town and—Fine, it’s charming, but there’s nothing here for me, and then I had to wait and wait and then you showed up and then you threatened to spank me and then I find out that the artifact was really your brother’s and now you want me to just give it back to you as if nothing else is of importance and—”

  William held up a hand. “Stand fast!”

  She stopped, her eyes wet and sparkling.

  He lowered his hand. “Marcail, my brother’s life is at stake. Surely that means something to you.”

  She leaned her head against the squabs, exposing the slender line of her throat. “Of course it means something, but I … this affects so many people other than myself.”

  “Let me put this in plainer terms, then. I must have that artifact back or Michael could be killed by the heathen devil who has taken him prisoner. To save his life, I must take this artifact to Egypt. What’s at stake for you?”

  She turned her head to look at him, her thick black lashes casting a shadow over her violet eyes. “I know you need the artifact. I-I can’t forget that I took—no, I stole it from you.” She swallowed, though it seemed to be difficult. “It’s more rightfully yours than mine, but … I don’t know what to do. The cost is so high, yet if I hand it over to Miss Challoner and something happened to Michael, I couldn’t forgive myself and—Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

  There was such anguish in her voice that he knew it must be real. “Marcail, you must tell me … what do you stand to lose if you face your blackmailer with empty hands?”

  “Everything.” The words were a broken whisper. “Everything I’ve ever worked for, and I’ve given so much. There are people who depend on me to protect them, and I can’t—” Her voice broke. “Perhaps … perhaps there is another way. Maybe my blackmailer will understand if I explain things, convince Miss Challoner that I have no choice but to return the artifact to you. If she could see things our way, and then tell the person who is blackmailing me the truth about the artifact—”

  “Do you really think this blackmailer doesn’t know the importance of the artifact to me? They sent you to fetch it. Why would they have done so unless they were aware that I need it desperately?”

  Her eyes darkened, a shadow passing over her face.

  Is that fear?

  She bit her lip. “Perhaps I can bribe him, give him enough funds that he doesn’t care about the artifact, or—or find something else he may want in its place.” Her expression was desperate. “I have some funds set aside. I was hoping to save them for—” Her gaze flickered away. “But if this will solve the issue, it would be worth it.”

  William wished he didn’t feel so damned guilty. She’d stolen the artifact from him—she’d drugged him to do it, too, and he was foolish to forget it.

  This was the trouble with her. He could overlook her beauty, ignore her intelligence and wit, but he was no match for the thing she possessed in the least amount, and yet used with such unconscious power—her vulnerability. It slayed him as surely as her potion-laced port had frozen him in place on the ship.

  And that’s why I cannot afford any weakness. I must never forget that my reasoning is flawed where she is concerned.

  He shoved his uncertainty aside. “Unless you wish to tell me the specific reason you are being blackmailed, as well as justifying that the cost of it is the equivalent of a brother’s life, then there is nothing more to say. I want that artifact and I’ll have it this very night.”

  She closed her eyes and slumped against her seat. “Fine. I—I will give it you. I can’t justify being the cause of anyone’s physical harm. I just wish—” With the back of her hand, she pushed her hair from her forehead, unwittingly exposing the raw stripe on her palm. “But wishing is a waste of time.”

  The sight of her injured hand reminded him of her selfless actions on the dock. Now she was offering to return the artifact, as well. Somehow, he felt as if he’d misjudged her. But how? How could he be so wrong about her?

  She crossed her arms as if cold. “The artifact is still in my room at the inn. You missed it when you searched.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in my portmanteau. I stuffed it under my bed while you were searching my trunk.”

  “Blast it, someone could take it.”

  “They won’t. It’s hidden under a false bottom that’s impossible to detect.”

  He supposed it was a safe enough place, then. “If I’d known that, I would have brought it with us. I don’t like its being unprotected.”

  “Neither do I, but I hid it well. I know people cannot be trusted.”

  The faint bitterness in her tone hinted at numerous disappointments.

  He suddenly realized that her reserved composure was no longer due to her overwhelming confidence. Now she used it as a shield against others. Somewhere along the way, she’d become aloof. No longer the innocent, fresh young woman who’d faced life with such cool fearlessness, she’d become a worldly, rather caustic, cautious woman.

  He knew little of life on the stage, but he knew that it exposed one to unwanted aspects of life, like the advances of unwanted suitors. Some wealthy lordlings attempted to increase their apparent virility by hanging a beautiful woman on their arm, and those less well off thought it fashionable to fall violently in love with unsuitable women.

  But she’d welcomed Colchester’s attentions. She probably courted the fool until she’d secured his promise to provide her with the style of living she’d wanted.

  She turned to him now, the lantern light playing across her silken cheek. “Where will you take the onyx box, once it’s yours?”

  Her voice was the husky ripple of black velvet, stroking him as surely as a hand. He shifted away, wishing he’d ridden up on top with Poston. “Michael is in Egypt. I shall set sail as soon as I can replace the Agile Witch.”

  Her brow lowered. “William, I’m genuinely sorry for the loss of your ship. I know you cared for her.”

  He had, of course. His ship was more than his way of making a living; she was his home. Or had been. A vision of the Agile Witch as she slowly sank, burning brightly in the moonless night, flashed
into his mind. He instantly banished the memory; there would be time to mourn later.

  He forced a shrug. “I shall purchase another ship.”

  “You can afford—” She caught his hard gaze and flushed.

  Fury sharpened every word to a point. “I’m no longer a poor man, Marcail. I’m very well off.”

  Her rejection all those years ago had fanned his ambition to new heights. He’d accepted the first and farthest assignment he could find, and had set sail.

  Before their break, he’d been more taken with the adventure of an assignment. Afterward, he focused solely on profits. He pushed his crew as few others would, and had taken assignments no one else would or could. And he’d done it all to put funds into his account, and to prove to himself that Marcail Beauchamp had been wrong: he wasn’t a hopeless failure “destined for nothingness.” The words still burned his soul.

  A temperate person would not dwell so much in the past, but would celebrate the benefits that her push had given him. He’d honed his skill and his crew to perfection, sailing dangerous shoals, through pirate-infested seas, and into storms others might avoid.

  Over the years, his success had become the thing of legend, and the more success he’d had, the more influential people had sought him out—powerful, important people, people willing to pay generously for his services and his reputation for scrupulous integrity and astonishing good luck.

  He was now a wealthy man. Though Colchester was rumored to be richer than Croesus, William knew he could hold his own.

  Sadly, he found that his wealth now mattered little. He had dreamed of confronting Marcail with a coffer of gold coins. In his imagination, she would have been overcome by the sight of so much wealth, and he would have sneered at her, laughed, and walked away.

  But now, even that petty revenge seemed like too much effort. His soul was too tired to indulge in such mawkishness. All he wanted was his feet firmly planted on the deck of his own ship, and Marcail gone from his life.

  He watched as she unconsciously began to smooth her silk skirts but winced when her wounded palms touched them. Who is this woman who tossed her Bond Street cloak to the ground to carry dirty, heavy buckets until her hands were raw in an effort to save my ship? What does she have to do with the woman who sent me away, the man she’d claimed to love, because my income no longer suited her? Which is the real Marcail?