A Question for the Ages (Questions for a Highlander Book 7)

by Angeline Fortin

  The wool runner muted the steps of his sturdy boots. The merry tune he whistled echoed through the wide hall. He trailed his fingers along the rail midway up the walnut paneling, raising them when the rhythm broke for the periodic door.

  They entire hall went that way. Dark walls interrupted by a door, a sconce, then a series of paintings, another sconce. A door. The symmetrical rhythm of it had become hypnotic as his days here passed. Door. Again a sconce, a succession of paintings punctuated by another sconce.

  The song on his lips slowed and went off tune. He slowed, then stopped, staring ahead. With a shake of his head, he paced backward several steps. Turning, he frowned at one particular painting cozied among a series of five between two sconces. He backed up some more, taking in a painting of a man and woman. Given their age and dress, it was a wedding portrait.

  A step forward once more. The second painting portrayed the same couple some years later with a young lad by their side. The boy had the look of the father, dark-haired, light eyes. A hint of cocky caprice Connor was all too familiar with. Harry Brudenall. His sister’s husband. He measured off a slow pace to the next portrait. Harry as a young man on a horse. The next…

  The girl portrayed there couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Black hair in ringlets, dressed in layers of poufy lace. In the background, a horse grazed while a puppy dozed at her feet. His gaze returned to the wee lass’s face. Bright blue eyes, an impish smile.

  Rocking back a step, he reconsidered Harry’s painting, then reverted to the one of the lass. The same coloring, same smile. They were clearly related…

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath, then louder, “Son of a buggering bitch!”

  A footman appeared at the head of the stairs, panting as if he’d run up them, perhaps he had at Connor’s shout.

  “M’lord? Can I be of assistance?”

  “Aye. I want Mrs. Davies up here right now.” The footman hesitated. “Now!”

  The servant skittered away as if the Furies were chasing him, as well he should. They would be indeed if he didn’t make haste.

  Connor stared at the portrait with a long string of curses. He’d walked by the bloody thing every single day for more than three months now and not once given it a second glance. Not that he’d had reason to. Nobles kept portraits on their walls dating back to the bloody birth of Christianity. No reason in particular to study them. No reason to note their subjects or any similarity to those around him.

  Until last night, when he’d seen Piper with her black hair down, tumbling in curls around her bonny face.

  That face.

  “My lord, you’re awake at last. I needed to speak to you…” Mrs. Davies climbed the final step and her usually brisk pace—along with her words—lagged as she noted where he stood.

  Because they knew. The whole lot of them knew.

  He rapped the back of his knuckles on the gilded frame. “Who is the lass in this portrait?”

  A bland disinterest descended over the woman’s face to wipe away that flicker of surprise. “I’m uncertain as to what information you’re soliciting, my lord. A random ancestor—”

  “Save that act for the gaming hells, Mrs. Davies. I want—nay, I demand an answer!”

  Not that he needed one. He knew who it was. Who had duped him for months, played him for a fool. Aye, he knew who she was. What he needed was something else entirely.

  “A name, Mrs. Davies.”

  The housekeeper drew herself up, jaw set and lips pursed so tightly Connor was sure he’d have to pry them apart to get an answer. Then to his surprise, the fight leached out of her. A hint of anxiety touched her eyes, the first real emotion he’d seen from her thus far.

  One hand extended in supplication, she took a step toward him. “She’s in need of protection, my lord. Now more than ever. You mus—”

  “A name.” The command resounded with the force of a hammer striking the forge, and she flinched.

  “Lady Philippa Brudenall,” she confessed. “Only daughter of Robert Brudenall, 18th Marquis of Aylesbury.”

  “Harry has a sister? One he never mentioned to me?”

  How was that possible? Granted, his few private conversations with his new brother-in-law had focused on farming and the needs of the estate, but how had it never come up? “Does my sister know?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Of course. As if it should have been apparent all along.

  Grim faced, he strode toward the housekeeper, then past her to the head of the staircase.

  “My lord,” she cried, then lowered her voice. “Before you go down there, there is something you should know.”

  “I’m no’ a bloody fookin’ lord!”

  Connor stormed down the stairs determined to confront every lie he’d been told when a shrill voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in my home?”

  At the foot of the stairs, he came up short at the petite harridan at the door to the parlor. Aye, for certain the worst sort of shrew. It was obvious in the bitter pinch of her lips, her squinting eyes.

  Mrs. Davies was a damned benevolent Madonna in comparison.

  The finest fabrics and jewels draped the woman’s gaunt figure. Red hair a tinge too vibrant to be natural was twisted into an elaborate knot dotted with gems. On a Friday morn in Buckinghamshire, the effort was ridiculous. This wasn’t Mayfair. Even in Mayfair, such excessive efforts would be preposterous.

  The woman crinkled her nose at him, as if she caught the scent of something rank. Her dark, scathing gaze assessed him from head to toe, scrutinizing his canvas work pants and rough linen shirt.

  “You don’t belong here.” Her grating tone grew more strident. “You’ve the air of an Irish potato farmer.”

  He’d take it as a compliment coming from a woman like her. “Connor MacKintosh. And ye are?”

  She drew herself up as if she were Queen Victoria’s giddy aunt. “You question me in my own home? I am the Marchioness of Aylesbury.”

  “That so?” Connor rocked back on his heels, summoning the most pugnaciously skeptical demeanor he could muster. He was aching for a fight, ready to give it to anyone at the moment. “Strange, ye dinnae in any manner resemble my sister, whose new husband assured me now holds that same title.”

  “Dowager marchioness,” she bit out, flushing in the most unbecoming fashion.

  Connor nodded slowly—understanding much more than before—but maintained his doubtful expression. “Aye, well, neither the actual marchioness or the marquis are in residence at the moment, though I expect them soon enough. I’ll see ye to the door. I’m confident they’ll welcome ye wi’ open arms once they return.”

  In long steps, he went to her side, caught her elbow, and even managed to propel her toward the front door before she stiffened in protest. Much to his surprise. It would have been entertaining to have seen her to the front stoop first and locked the door behind her. Alas, he was denied such amusement.

  “Take your hands from me before I see you arrested,” she harped, regaining her arm with a jerk. He released her immediately, sending her off balance. He made no move to steady her as she righted herself. “I am going nowhere, you heathen.”

  “Then mayhap I shall be the one to summon the constable,” he offered mildly. “We’ve recently become quite good friends.”

  “You…you!”

  Connor left her blustering in the foyer and strode toward the servants’ hall with a flick of his wrist toward the hovering footman, and a more polite summons for Mrs. Davies that had them both scurrying after him.

  “The harpy?”

  “Lady Celeste Brudenall Addington, currently Viscountess of Sedmouth, formerly Marchioness of Aylesbury,” the housekeeper told him as she trotted along at his side. “She arrived this morning without warning. The marquis, that is Lord Harrison Brudenall, banned her from the property some years ago, though she’s visited a time or two. She shouldn’t be here and is well aware o
f the fact.”

  “Then why is she? To find Piper?”

  Mrs. Davies glanced at him askance, plainly curious how much he knew. “She has never assumed as much.”

  The footman hurried alongside of him and spoke low. “I saw her eyeing the silver tea service, my lor—er, sir. Before that, she tried the door to the marquis’s private office.”

  Connor’s brows shot up. “Ye think she means to abscond wi’ the silver?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” the housekeeper bit out. “She’s tried to slip out with valuable goods before. If she’s heard gossip that his lordship intends to reside here permanently…”

  “She might take one last shot at robbery?”

  Both servants shrugged as if they wouldn’t be surprised.

  Her greed knows no bounds.

  Piper’s words ricocheted through his mind. The fortunes of two husbands tied up in knots, leaving her mother in a bit of a conundrum. That was more than two years ago.

  How far would desperation drive her?

  “Put a guard on her,” he commanded, slashing a hand downward. “Dinnae let her leave wi’out a thorough search. Do what ye can to hasten her departure, though. I’ll no’ have my sister come home to this.”

  He hastened his pace, leaving them behind.

  “My lord, there’s one more thing.”

  “No’ now, Mrs. Davies.”

  “Where are you going?” she called out.

  Surely it was a rhetorical question.

  Connor shook his head. His destination had to be easy enough to guess, even for the simplest of minds.

  Och, simple minds.

  His must be the dullest of them all not to have figured it out before. He’d never seen Piper stray from Aylesbury’s lands but for that reckless trek into the village. She’d openly fretted at the news of Harry’s return. All the people here protected her.

  He slapped a palm to his forehead. When she said they were her people, she actually meant they were her people.

  Gravel ground beneath his boots as he strode out of the manor and along the drive to the stable. Every conversation they’d shared replayed through his mind. Had there been more clues? Things he’d missed? The story was pat, well-practiced. Enough truth to deflect suspicion. And who would expect such deception from a visage so bonny? He hadn’t. Even knowing Piper hid something from him, he’d never guessed at the depths of her duplicity.

  Her presence here. Her visit to church prior to the wedding. The encounter Temple mentioned between Miss Langston and the Marquis of Aylesbury. All of it pointed to a link between Piper and Harry. He’d known it. He simply hadn’t been able to determine what the connection was.

  It would have been easy enough to deduce the truth if he’d known Harry had a sister to begin with.

  Reaching the stables, he strode inside to fetch his horse and stopped short at the sight of a certain bay palomino sticking her head out of the far stall. Aye, he knew he’d seen the bloody horse before. Right here in the Aylesbury stables.

  The answer had been right under his nose the entire time.

  How could he have been so fookin’ blind?

  Leaving his horse behind, Connor pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the stables. He found the pathway leading north and followed it. A dim memory and dumb luck brought him up short at the sight of the quaint cottage. The old thatch roof, overgrown ivy-covered walls, and the straggling bushes that disguised the walk. If not for the tended flowers, one might easily assume it was abandoned.

  An excellent hideaway.

  With a grumble of disgust for his own idiocy, he crossed the short distance and pounded on the door. A moment later, Piper opened it with a smile of such felicity, he had to steel himself against her dimple’s intoxicating effect.

  Her unbound hair hung around her face and down her back in riotous curls, reminiscent of how it had been spread in stark contrast across a pillow…and his chest the previous night.

  And reminding him of the child’s hair in the portrait, along with her smile that bore a fair amount of resemblance to someone else’s. How had he failed to realize it?

  “Connor, what a happy surprise. What brings you here at such an early hour?” Her full lips pursed in a suppressed smile. “More tea?”

  His heart knocked off kilter with a pang of regret. If only. “Nay, I’m in nae mood for tea, Lady Philippa, I just had the unmitigated pleasure of meeting yer mother.”

  Chapter 20

  I should have run sooner.

  ~ from the diary of Piper Brudenall, January 1893

  The ring of her true name on Connor’s lips so flabbergasted Piper it took nearly a full minute for the remainder of his words to sink in. All the questions raging in her mind—How had he found out? From who?—were muted by a rush of apprehension.

  And questions more. When? Why?

  Hand frozen on the latch, she stared at him blankly until, with a curse, he bodily picked her up and set her aside. Once inside, he closed the door behind him.

  Finally, she found her voice. “My mother is here?”

  Green eyes, usually filled with laughter and light…or better yet, passion, narrowed on her. “Is that all ye have to say for yourself?”

  Piper shook her cobwebs away, clearing her throat to rid it of the hoarse croak she’d managed before. “Connor, I was going to tell you.”

  His eyes rolled to the rafters and he shook his head. “Aye, naturally.” Sarcasm was heavy in his brogue. “It’s been on the tip of yer tongue, nae doubt. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do ye think me that great a fool?” Connor held up his hand to stall any response to that. “I am, I ken. A bloody fool no’ to have figured this out on my own. Chump that I am, I saw only a lass in need of a shoulder, a friend. I never imagined ye duped me so.”

  His accusation tore at her heart. “I never wanted to dupe you, Connor. I never wanted to lie at all. I’ve learned to be wary of strangers. Despite that, I offered you more of the truth than I have anyone else. I gave you my trust.”

  Sardonic laughter filled the room. “Truth? Bah! I shared no’ more than a dozen words wi’ yer mother, and I kent, even in that wee amount of time, nae merchant would ever come up to snuff in her mind.”

  “Connor, if you would jus—”

  “I cannae believe I dinnae figure it out before I ruined ye.”

  Weariness set in, dragging Piper’s spirits down with it.

  “Is that what you did? Ruin me?”

  Despite the apprehension that plagued her through much of it, the day on the whole had elevated her to a level of joy she hadn’t experienced in quite some time. She’d found laughter, fulfillment. Because of Connor. In him. With him.

  She didn’t feel remotely ruined. She felt alive. Happy. Joyously in lo—

  But no. It had been nothing like that, had it? Loneliness more suffocating than any she’d known in years descended over her.

  For more than two years, the company of a handful of the staff and the few grooms who dared speak to her had been the sum of her companionship. She loved them. Trusted them. To the last, valued their friendship, however, in all that time, none of them had been able to forget who she was. She was always my lady, and as such, a social barrier kept most of them a step apart. No matter how many fireside chats they shared, how many days she worked by their side, she wasn’t one of them. But for Hilde, none of them saw her simply as Piper.

  That truth had left her not alone, though often lonely. Desperate for Jane’s sporadic visits.

  Then Connor had come along. They might have no more than a handful of conversations between them thus far, but he’d brought something to her life that she’d been missing for so, so long. A hand to hold, a welcome ear, and a friend to trust.

  More than anything, she didn’t want to lose what she’d found with him.

  Truly, she wished she could have come to accept the truth about him instantaneously. That he was a good and honorable individual. That would have been the most convenient scenario. Unfortunately, li
fe was rarely convenient.

  How dare he suggest otherwise?

  A rush of frustration sizzled through her veins. She wasn’t naïve enough any longer to leap from the frying pan and into the fire. To blame her for her caution was nonsensical. Nor was she clairvoyant, able to see how their relationship would rapidly transform. Yes, she’d had opportunity to confess all to him and hadn’t seized it when she should have.

  Nevertheless, she refused to bear the entirety of the blame for not tenaciously commandeering those moments. He’d unwittingly cut her off or distracted her nearly each time she initiated a confession.

  “Don’t you lecture me, Connor MacKintosh.” Piper poked a finger to the center of his chest. “Most of my precautions went out the window the moment I met you. I may not have told you the whole truth, however, I gave you more than I’ve given another in years.

  “How was I to know I could trust you with everything? Take your word for it? Hmm? I’ve been a fool in the past but I’m not one any longer. It wasn’t until yesterday when I could finally accept in my mind what I knew in my heart. That I could trust you. That you’d never hurt me. And I was going to tell you the whole truth. I planned on doing so as soon as you got back from Aylesbury. In fact, I began to several times. Then we started…” Her frenzied homily faltered, and her voice cracked slightly. “That. Then you were hungry.” She swallowed back the quiver in her throat, her tone shifting. “And I was ravenous. And all I could think about was you.”

  Connor glowered at her, fuming. “Are ye done, then?”

  “I think so… No.” She frowned back at him and gathered her scattered thoughts. “No. Honestly, if you believe there was a single moment last night where I was clearheaded enough to summon a coherent explanation, then you are the fool you claim to be.”

  Seconds passed in tense silence before his lips twitched. “Ye’re saying yer defense is that ye were too drunk on desire to form a rational thought?”