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

by Angeline Fortin

  “He dinnae.”

  They stayed like that for a long while. Piper welcomed his touch, though she was no longer in desperate need of his support. Sunlight filtered through the windows, tracing a path from one side of the room to the other, and he persisted in cuddling her close. Kissed her brow with tenderness and reverence. Words of praise and encouragement on his lips. Arms, strong and secure, around her.

  She’d never before spoken aloud of what Rutledge had done to her that day. Fearing censure, admonishment that in some way it had been her own fault, she’d never dared to speak of it. Honestly, she’d never been able to imagine sharing those painful and humiliating details with another.

  Deep inside she’d known Connor would listen without judgment, and it had all spewed out like a water pump too readily primed. Regardless of how he disparaged himself in comparison to his multitude of brothers, he was the best of men. Undoubtedly the best of them all. He had more than proven himself trustworthy and deserving of her honesty.

  And more.

  He’d won her over, body and soul.

  And he was right in saying the blame was Rutledge’s alone. Not hers. Not even Harry’s.

  She saw that now.

  “It is his fault, isn’t it?” She nestled against his chest with a sigh. “All this time, I’ve equated what happened to me solely with Harry’s absence. Whatever reason he had didn’t matter because I suffered in his absence. I’ve never realized the connection until this moment. I held him accountable for Rutledge’s actions rather than the duke himself. I never doubted it.”

  “Logic born of a young lass’s pain and trauma,” he said softly. “Ye needed someone to lash out at. Someone to blame.”

  “Perhaps it was easier for me to find Harry at fault than to dwell on that moment. What I’ve seen as his betrayal wasn’t in not coming for me, it was in not sparing me the duke’s assault. I realize now I cannot continue to blame Harry for what the duke did to me.”

  “Aye.”

  She raised her lips to his. A long, languid exchange that righted her world. No, her universe. And Connor at its center, shining warmth and comfort down upon her.

  “You’re a good man, Connor. The best of men. You have shown me everything that is good and joyous.”

  “As ye have me, lass.” At last, his somber expression gave way to a slight curve of his lips. His fingers skimmed the line of her jaw.

  “It gives me such pleasure to behold you, to touch and kiss you.” Her whispered words brushed his lips. “You have the power to banish the darkness. To bring light, and laughter, and—” The word leapt to the tip of her tongue, shocking her into silence. Tasting it, she found the admission as delicious as she found him.

  And love.

  He had shown her much in such a short time. Kindness and assurance. Security and challenge. Laughter and passion. How could she not adore and admire a man who shared so much with her?

  “I knew beyond a doubt that making love to you would only give me more of the same. In answer to your question, it was never a matter of bearing to have you touch me, Connor. I wanted you. I always will.”

  Chapter 23

  Edith brought a few of my personal belongings up from the cottage for me, including my journals. I thanked her most profusely for her efforts as she was quite nearly caught in the process. I add here now as an addendum to a previous entry: I have discovered that despite circumstances to the contrary, there is some happiness to be found at Dinton Grange after all.

  ~ from the diary of Piper Brudenall, September 1895

  Piper awoke to find the room lost in shadows but for the light of a single lamp. Connor emerged from the attached washroom, hair damp and a towel in his hand. A muted scene from one of her many fantasies, clad in nothing more than a pair of trousers. Partially open to hang low on his hips, they were all that concealed his nudity.

  Her sleepy nerves woke at the sight and warmed at the memory of those hard planes beneath her inquisitive hands and between her thighs. She stretched with smoldering desire. The flickering lamplight cast every angle of his lean, muscular body into sharp relief. The muscles in his arms and chest shifted and bulged as he wiped the towel across his face, then tossed it aside. The many ridges of his abdomen faded into a defined V from his hips, disappearing into his trousers.

  Rolling onto her side, she watched him as he crossed the room to the wardrobe, passing by the dark windows she’d last taken note of lit by the light of a hazy autumn afternoon.

  That afternoon.

  It all came back to her then. Some of it happy. The rest—no, she would focus on the good.

  “I fell asleep?”

  He spun around, though without the smile she expected. Coming to the bed, he sat on the edge and smoothed her hair back. “In my arms. I dinnae have the heart to wake ye. Rest more if ye need to, mo chridhe.” His lips brushed her temple before he pulled away. “Ye stay here and keep quiet. We cannae risk anyone finding ye here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  With a grunt, he stood and circled back to the wardrobe. “I’m going to have a word or two wi’ Rutledge.”

  “What?” Piper sat straight up and gawked at him in surprise. “Why would you do that?”

  “To hurry him on his way. Ye’re safety is all that matters right now.” He selected a charcoal gray suit and hung it over the back of a wooden valet stand. “Wi’ any luck, I’ll send him back on his way to London wi’ a boot to his arse. If no’…”

  That dangling threat sounded awfully portentous.

  “If not, what?”

  “Then I may well have to kill him.”

  Since he’d rather recently assured her that he was no murderer, Piper shook her head with a strained laugh. “No, seriously.”

  Connor turned his back with a shrug. She gaped in wordless astonishment as he withdrew a crisp white shirt and midnight blue silk vest. It was the finest suit of clothes she’d yet to see him don.

  He’d assessed his opponent accurately to choose such a suit of armor. He wasn’t joking. He meant to kill Rutledge.

  “Connor, you cannot kill him.” Piper rose from the bed, straightening her blouse and skirt as she went to him.

  He shrugged on his shirt. “He deserves retribution for what he did to ye, lass.”

  “I’m not arguing his culpability. I’m arguing your role in his punishment.”

  “Ye think there’s another way to bring him to justice?” he asked with a shake of his head as he worked the buttons. “A duke and friend of the Prince of Wales? There is nae other way.”

  “Then let him be.” Piper couldn’t credit the words even as she uttered them. Prior to Connor’s arrival and a more agreeable repertoire of fantasies, many a night had been spent imagining the ways she might wreak vengeance upon the Duke of Rutledge. Even so, she couldn’t summon the will to recall the plea.

  Despite the very real threat that lingered within Dinton Grange’s walls, she felt unburdened for the first time in years. As if, in speaking of the past, she’d been freed from its hold. All that mattered now was the future.

  A future she wanted to share with Connor.

  She could only hope that he reached the same conclusion. She’d sensed a flip side to his gentle affection and humor, and witnessed it now. A formidable man. A fighter.

  But not a killer. She prayed he would realize it before it was too late.

  “You told me you were not a murderer, and I would not want you to become one. I’ll not have you lower yourself to his level. Not over this. Not for me.”

  “Och, mo chridhe.” He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to her temple. “Ye’re all the reason in the world I have to consider it.”

  As complimentary as it was, it did not sound at all like capitulation. Piper shook her head. While she had confidence aplenty in Connor, she was far more familiar with the duke’s tenacity than he.

  Too familiar.

  “Unconsider it.” The threat Rutledge presented set the words aquiver.r />
  A light tap sounded on the door. Piper froze as the handle rattled then rotated. A well-dressed, sandy haired man slipped into the room.

  “Connor…” The man likewise stilled as he spotted her. He made a swift examination of her disheveled state and the rumpled bed behind her. “My lady, my apologies for the intrusion.”

  “Dinnae fash, Piper,” Connor responded to her cautious retreat. “This is a friend of mine, Lord Captain Anthony Temple formerly of Her Majesty’s Scots Guard. He assisted me in questioning Granger.”

  The gentleman made a proper bow over her hand with the loveliest of manners and a courteous pleasantry. He didn’t seem the sort one would call upon to undertake a task like questioning Mr. Granger’s criminal behavior. Appearances notwithstanding, Connor had, and Lord Temple possessed presence enough to convince Piper that there was more to him than met the eye. He wasn’t as mild as he seemed.

  “Formerly of the Scots Guard, Lord Temple? And currently of…?”

  Temple smiled blandly. “I like you, my lady.”

  Certainly not an answer.

  “Is everything ready then?”

  Temple redirected his attention to Connor’s question. “In the works, though it won’t be as simple a matter as I anticipated. Rutledge is in a state. He has a dozen men searching the grounds, and none too kindly. He’s convinced Lady Phillipa is here and is infuriated by their lack of results.”

  “Granger maun have been his man after all.”

  “No. You didn’t come back last night or I would have told you. It was Aylesbury who hired Granger.”

  The news gave him pause.

  “What?” Piper echoed his shock. “Aylesbury hired a man to threaten his sister?”

  Temple shook his head. “To find, not threaten. Granger admitted that he overstepped his assignment.” He glanced at Piper with a wink. “Nice work on that nose, by the by. It will vex him for months. Anyway, seems Aylesbury spotted his sister in town in June and hired Granger to stay in the village for as long as it took to find her. When that hadn’t provided any results, he got the marquis’s permission to approach Miss Langston only to be expelled from her doorstep several times. He regrets that months of frustration led him to frighten the ladies, but he was anxious to return to London.”

  “If Granger wisnae the duke’s man, how can Rutledge be convinced Piper is here?” Connor wondered.

  Temple shrugged with visible annoyance. “I’m still attempting to determine the source.”

  Connor shook his head. “It willnae matter when he’s dead.”

  “He’s serious.” Piper must have sensed an ally in Temple. “He means to kill the duke.”

  “Whoa.” Temple caught his arm. “As much as you would like to—as we would all like to—you cannot kill the duke.”

  Piper’s appeal echoed in Connor’s ears. To his mind, the duke deserved to pay for his crimes. Because of his actions, she’d lost much. Regardless of her claims, he refused to believe she didn’t want revenge upon Rutledge. To see him suffer as she had suffered. It would take more than a prison cell or a few years in isolation to balance the scales.

  “Why no’?”

  “First of all, you cannot confront the duke with pistols—or fists, as it were—drawn. You’ll confirm what he merely suspects.” Temple crossed his arms over his chest with an imposing scowl. “Second, he is a duke of the realm. He might be deserving of it, still, we are civilized men living at the dawn of a new century. There is no place in Britain for swords at dawn any longer.”

  “I’m no’ feeling terribly civilized, I’m afraid,” Connor ground out. “And I dinnae plan to politely call him out.”

  “I feared as much, you being a MacKintosh and all. I’m familiar with the temperament. However, you are not savages. All any of you has ever been in need of is a voice of reason and a moment for logic and rationality to sink in,” Temple told him. “I understand your anger, but you cannot act rashly. Think of Lady Phillipa and what is in her best interests.”

  “Aye, I am. A life wi’out Rutledge in it.”

  “And what will I do when you’re locked away in prison?” Piper retorted. “Visit you each Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Lass.” His jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

  Piper wrapped her arms around him. Perhaps if she hung on and refused to let him go, he might relent. If she had months. A year. It might work. For all the tenderness in his embrace, a steely resolve held him stiff. He wouldn’t bend. She definitely couldn’t break him. He would avenge her even if it defied her will or the law’s.

  With a sigh, she took the ends of the silk tie hanging around his neck. “If you mean to persist in facing him, at least do it with a knot the duke will respect.”

  He gave over the duty, bending his head until his lips met her forehead with a troubled sigh. “How did ye learn to tie a double four-in-hand?”

  “Sedmouth taught me. He’d make a game of it.”

  “He was rumored to be something of an authority on the matter,” he murmured. “A leader in fashion.”

  “That was part of what Mother liked about him. If she truly liked anything at all.” With a pat to the completed knot, she returned to his embrace.

  “You are an incredibly stubborn man,” she whispered into his neck.

  The lips at her temple curved into a smile. “I’m a Scot, and as Temple pointed out, a MacKintosh. I had nae choice in the matter.”

  Another tap sounded at the door, this one fraught with urgency. Connor opened it a crack, then wider as he motioned Bram inside.

  “M’lady. M’lo…er, sir.” Bram bent over and braced his hands on his knees, panting hard. “That man? He says he’ll see Dickie sacked and he has been holding Albert for insub… inboard…”

  “Insubordination?” Piper supplied.

  Pushing his ginger forelock aside, Bram nodded up at them, with his freckles stark against his pale face. “Like mutiny, Albert says, for him refusing to let the duke take Horse. He means to have him whipped.”

  Fury reignited in Connor until steam could have literally been rising from him. His body was taut, face afire, and blood pounded in his temples. Hands fisted, what he’d been about before Piper distracted him returned to the forefront of his mind.

  “He’ll do nothing of the sort, lad. Never fear.”

  With a foul curse on his lips, Connor strode toward the door. Piper leapt after him but it was Temple who caught his arm.

  “We need a strategy.”

  “I have one. A verra simple one.” And the justifiable anger to excuse anything he said or did.

  “Beyond homicide?”

  Unable to swallow back the entirety of his deadly wrath, Connor nodded noncommittally. He would guarantee nothing.

  “Care to join me?” He directed the invitation to Temple. “Make certain I behave myself?”

  “Alas, as much as I’d love to offer my support, Rutledge knows me and what I do. He will be more suspicious if he’s aware of my presence.”

  “I want to come,” Piper leapt in. “Albert is very dear to me. I want to know he’s unharmed.”

  “I will see that he is,” Connor insisted. “All of this is for naught if ye’re presence is compromised, lass. Yer safety is all that matters.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m getting rather tired of hearing that. There are other things to consider.”

  A flash of humor chased across Temple’s eyes. “You MacKintosh men have a way of attaching yourselves to ladies of equally indomitable will. I’ll see what I can do to convince her.”

  Piper lifted a hand to Connor’s smooth, freshly shaven cheek and tried once more. “Promise me you’ll do no more than talk?”

  A brisk negative shook his head to the side. “I cannae make ye that promise, lass.”

  As his hand touched the handle, she offered one last piece of advice. “Then do not underestimate him, Connor.”

  He nodded abruptly, his jaw clenching anew. “He’d be best no’ to underestimate me.”
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br />   * * *

  Satisfied that Piper was in the safest of hands, Connor toyed with his cufflinks and considered his next move as he strode down the hall with Bram trotting alongside. What happened beyond their notice wouldn’t hurt either of them. Temple’s warning and Piper’s entreaty aside—though he admired her sacrifice for his sake—Rutledge deserved more than the slap on the wrist the crown would provide. A secluded island in the North Sea wouldn’t be prison enough to hold the duke or force him to change course.

  He’d never given much thought to killing a man. Never had the need. Days ago, the concept had been abhorrent. Unthinkable. Apparently, he’d never had sufficient foundation to rationalize such thoughts before. Now, he had something he’d defend to the death. His own or another’s. That made all the difference. Thrashing the duke no longer offered a satisfactory degree of recompense for what he’d done. Murder, pure and simple, danced freely through Connor’s mind.

  As he jogged down the central staircase, he wondered if it made him anything like the duke that he so cheerfully considered it.

  A bullet to the head. Knife to the heart. Pleasant fantasies. Alas, he didn’t have a gun in hand or a blade. There must be an armory about where he might find one. On the other hand, using his bare hands might provide far more satisfaction. Then there were other alternatives.

  He descended into the main hall only to realize with some disappointment that his favorite among them wasn’t going to be an option. Indeed, none of them were. At least, not at the moment.

  A quartet of armed guards were stationed behind the tall, slender man who stood central in the tense scenario.

  Rutledge. Blond, with an arresting yet stoic face, he appeared irrationally angelic to have committed the atrocities rumored of him.

  This was the man who’d hurt Piper. Who’d instilled fear in her. Who tried to rape her and nearly succeeded. Too bad his guards were unlikely to stand aside and watch him drown the duke in his soup.

  “I said, you will have him whipped within an inch of his life or I will come out and do it myself.” The duke stood toe to toe with the Grange’s stablemaster, a coiled whip in one hand. “I promise you, if it comes to that, you will find yourself next in line. Is that clear?”