Nothing but Trouble

by Allegra Gray

  They strolled off together, leaving the adults chuckling as they heard Graeme ask, “Shall we endeavor to be early to your grammar lesson tomorrow morn, as well? What say ye?”

  Near the stage, two giant drums were set up. A pair of bearded men walked over and, using large padded drumsticks, began beating a pattern that resonated over the noise of the crowd. People looked up and began moving toward the center of the square, heeding the signal that indicated the beginning of an event. Others simply kept doing what they wished.

  The dowager countess and Miss Boyd had their heads bent together. After a moment, Ismay led the elder Lady Maxwell toward a display of fans. Charity smiled to herself. Graeme’s mother surely had any number of exquisite fans, or the means to buy them if she wished, but even she wasn’t immune to the spirit of the festival. Or perhaps she’d reached a point in life where impressions didn’t matter, and a pretty fan was pretty no matter its maker. Hmm. Charity rather liked that idea. Perhaps she’d buy one as well.

  An earsplitting blast of bagpipes broke through the noise. Charity covered her ears and ducked, but the rest of the crowd surged toward the street, lining up along the sides to watch the parade. In the sweep of moving bodies, Charity looked up and realized she’d broken away from her group.

  Her breath started coming faster. Shallow. She couldn’t get a full breath.

  She called for Elizabeth, but the bagpipes were playing in earnest now. Being petite, she had no hope of seeing over the heads of those standing between them. Graeme, off with Nathan, was too far to hear her. The duke. He was tall. She strained to look for him. Apparently the Highlands bred tall men. The crowd was filled with them. She looked for dark, well-cut hair. Was that him? A group of laughing pipers passed between them before she could lock in on the man in question. The swirl of bright colors and noise assaulted her senses. Too many unfamiliar faces. The crowd seethed and eddied around her like a stormy ocean, with Charity a single, solitary island. Why had she ever thought she could do this?

  Too much. It was too much.

  She wanted to see little Nathan march about, wanted to cheer on Leventhal House’s head groom and his band…but the urge to flee was even stronger.

  She needed Graeme. Or Miss Boyd. There was no hope of finding either of them at the moment. No way could she do this alone—but she wouldn’t cause a scene. She didn’t want it bandied about for weeks to come that the countess had run screaming like a madwoman the moment a few bagpipes began to play.

  Calmly, fighting for a full breath while her heart banged around in her chest like the beat of the signal drummers, Charity turned and walked away.

  She thought to walk down to the line of carriages, to seek a few moments of solitude while she gathered herself. But the sound of the pipers and drummers reverberated through the streets, through her very flesh. The horses stamped, and even blocks away from the square, people milled about. People with strange faces who turned to stare at the young countess.

  Charity passed their carriage kept walking. Tears of embarrassment streaked down her cheeks. Just when she’d thought she was pulling her life together. She couldn’t let the townspeople see her like this. What would Graeme think? Would he worry? Would he know where to find her? She should have left a note. Where? On the carriage?

  She willed herself to turn around, but she couldn’t face going back there. Her feet kept planting themselves, one in front of another, seeking the place she’d begun to recognize as a haven. Slowly, the cacophony of music and people faded.

  When Leventhal House came into sight, she drew the first full breath she’d managed since arriving at Pipers’ Fest.

  She closed her eyes briefly as a shudder ran through her. She’d have to apologize to Nathan for missing the parade. Elizabeth would understand. So would Miss Boyd. And Graeme…she prayed Graeme would understand. In the two weeks since his return, he’d professed to understand, to empathize. She knew he no longer worried that her affliction could be passed on to their children. But she hadn’t actually done anything “mad” in that time, either. At least today she’d resisted the urge to run, or to hide, hands pressed over her ears. She didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the townspeople who so looked up to him. If anyone in the boisterous crowd even thought to question her departure—if they’d even noticed, she could simply say she’d felt unwell and walked home. The “alone” part of the walking might set some tongues wagging, but after all, she was a married woman now. And a countess. Surely that should give her some freedom.

  Weary now, she climbed the steps before the entrance and pushed the door open, breathing in the now-familiar scent of home. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the tension give way. It will be all right, she told herself. So I don’t like crowds. That doesn’t strip me of my sanity. It only means I should avoid crowds. Some people avoid spiders. No different. Pleased with her reasoning, she headed past the library and up the stairs. A bath with lavender would be the ideal balm to her frayed nerves, but she’d have to wait until the staff returned for that.

  Clunk.

  Muttered curses spilled from the library door.

  Charity jumped, whipping around.

  They’d left the house empty. Or had one of the servants stayed behind?

  One of double doors separating the library from the hall stood open.

  Ice flooded her veins and she stopped in her tracks. Frozen.

  Standing before her was the embodiment of her nightmares, rummaging in the drawer of her husband’s desk.

  Chapter 20:

  “The fact that you are willing to say ‘I do not understand, and it is fine,’ is the greatest understanding you could exhibit.” —Wayne Dyer

  Charity couldn’t breathe. Again.

  Her mind said to back away, but her blood had turned to ice, her limbs to wood. Before she could convince her unresponsive body to obey the command, Jasper Morton looked up.

  “Bloody hell!” He fumbled, reaching for a pistol lying several feet away.

  Too late, her mind grasped the significance of the item he sought. He leveled the weapon at her. “Now ye’re here, ye may as well come all the way in.”

  She couldn’t budge. This was worse than her nightmares.

  “Now, wench!”

  Her feet moved of their own accord, stepping forward as commanded. Traitors. Why did they obey his command and not hers?

  Morton circled around her, keeping the gun trained in her direction, and shut the door. “Stay right there.”

  She nodded, her lungs screaming for air as she struggled to draw breath. She had to get out of here. Had to. This could not happen again. Not here. Not now. Not when she’d finally, almost, had it all.

  Morton set the pistol down, needing both hands as he maneuvered some of the smaller furniture in the room up against the door.

  The window caught Charity’s eye. The glass was thick, and the latch often stuck, but if she could get before he realized—

  “I said don’t move!”

  She stopped, realizing her feet had given away her plan even before she’d decided on it as a course of action. Damn. Her feet seemed bent on betraying her. The rest of her body was in on the plan, too. Her heart beat so loudly they could probably her it back at Piper’s Fest. She couldn’t let him see her fear.

  He glanced at the end tables stacked against the door, then looked wildly around the room as though he’d forgotten something. His glance fell on one more small but solid table. He moved toward it.

  Desperate, Charity leapt for the gun. She snatched it as he lurched forward, nearly dropping it before getting both hands around it and raising it toward him, hands trembling.

  “You don’t know how to fire that thing.”

  She eyed the pistol, hefted its weight in her hand. He spoke true. She’d never even held one before. But he didn’t have to know that. “It doesn’t look too complicated. You threatened me with it. So it must be loaded. You seem like a smart man. Too smart to threaten a woman with an unloaded pistol.” Her vo
ice came out remarkably steady.

  She knew from the curl of his lip she’d guessed right. Privately, she had significant reservations as to his intelligence, but intuition told her flattery would gain her far more than ridicule with this man.

  “You won’t know how to aim.”

  She shrugged. “True. I might miss. But I might not. Do you think luck is with you today, Mr. Morton?”

  He scowled. “Never had a lucky day in me life.”

  “In that case, I would think very, very carefully if I were you. I am tired. And when I get tired, I tend to lose my patience. I have rarely had a restful night’s sleep since last summer. And do you know why?” Ire gave force to her words. “Why, yes, I believe you do.”

  He stared at her for a full minute. “I’m tired, too.”

  “You cannot possibly expect me to feel sorry for you.”

  “Naw. Not asking ye to. I done some bad things. Don’ expect pity from no one.”

  “Good.” The pistol felt heavy. She contemplated her choices. To get past the door, she’d have to move the furniture. To go out the window, she only had to manage the latch and crank it open. The one to the right was smoother than the left. Keeping the pistol pointed in his general direction, she moved to the window. She felt for the handle. It turned, but barely. She risked a good look at it and pulled harder.

  With a garbled cry, he tackled her. “Not this time, bitch.”

  Charity’s head smacked against the windowsill as she went down, making the room spin. The pistol went flying. Both of them went after it. Morton was faster.

  “Now, if ye know what’s good for ye, you’ll do as I said the first time. Don’t move.”

  She nodded, her head sore. “This won’t work.” She gestured to the stacked up furniture. “He’ll get past those. Lord Maxwell is on his way back this very moment.”

  He shot her a scornful look. “Of course he will. But not without makin’ some noise. An’ by the time the door is open, I’ll have me pistol pointed at yer pretty head, an’ I daresay he won’t come no further when ‘e sees that.” He went back to the desk he’d been searching when she first interrupted him.

  Damn. It was true. Graeme would never knowingly endanger her. Maybe the windows could work in her favor after all. When Graeme found her, he’d have no choice but to back away. But he could come around outside…

  As though reading her thoughts, Morton looked at her, scowled, and drew the drapes.

  Feeling beleaguered, Charity asked, “What are you looking for? Whatever it is, just take it and go.”

  “Bit late for that, now. Why couldn’t you just stay away?”

  She frowned. Why did that question seem so hard? “Why would I? This is my home.”

  “Well, all I’m looking for is a way out of it. Out of this whole bloody country. Ye may not believe me, but I did no’ come here today to kill ye.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He shook his head. “Ye’re leavin’ me no choice.”

  “Even if you kill me, you’ll never make your own escape. The others will be here any moment.”

  “Charity?” Her sister’s voice echoed outside.

  Morton frowned. “Who’s that?”

  “My sister. She is with my husband, and hers.”

  He swore. He had more creativity than she would have given him credit for, Charity thought detachedly.

  “Charity?” Graeme this time.

  “Don’ say nothin.’”

  She kept her mouth shut. The lever turned on the library door, and the door ran into the resistance her captor had contrived.

  “What the…”

  “Don’t come any farther. I’ve got yer wife in here, and there’s a pistol pointin’ at her. I see so much as a hair on your head, an’ I shoot.”

  The oath she heard from outside the door rivaled that of her captor. Then there was silence.

  She stared at the man she’d hoped never to see again. He stared back. Now what? She wanted to ask, but had the wisdom not to.

  It looked as though the past months had not treated him kindly. His clothing was rough and patched, his fingernails ragged and dirty. His words filtered through her overwrought brain. Don’ expect pity from no one… All I want is a way out of it. Out of this whole bloody country… Ye may not believe me, but I did no’ come here today to kill ye.

  He could be lying. Probably was. But if he spoke the truth, maybe she could rescue herself.

  “Why are you so tired, Mr. Morton?”

  He didn’t reply. She watched as he eyed the fine furnishings of the library, then reached out to stroke the spine of a leather-bound book with one dirty finger.

  “I never growed up in a place like this,” he answered, if it could be called an answer. “Didn’t even know such places existed. Ma died when I was six. From then on, I only ate what I could steal.”

  “No one would take you in? Or give you work?” She really, really did not want to feel sympathy for this man.

  “Not likely. Not on account o’ Pa. When your Pa ‘as swindled most everyone in the neighborhood, folks get to feelin’ less charitable toward ye.”

  Charity’s own father had left a few creditors feeling swindled in his day. “But you were just a child.”

  He shrugged. “Not all that uncommon, boys on the streets. Only orphanage for boys was always full, ‘specially in winter. In summer the older ones would run away, thinkin’ they could fend for themselves. And ye could, if ye was willin’ to take whatever work came along, honest or no.’”

  Charity didn’t know what to say. But she wanted to keep him talking. “That must have been hard.”

  “Didn’t occur to me to think whether it was hard or not. Wasn’t raised with folks who knew any kind of life besides hard.”

  She scuffed the toe of her slipper along the edge of the rug.

  “But like I said. I done some bad things. I know it. Things what canna’ be undone, either. That’s wha’ makes me tired. These things I’ve done, they walk around wi’ me. I been doin’ honest work in Grantown. But there’s no amount o’ honest work that’ll stop me from bein’ a hunted man. Not now. I know it.”

  She waited, eyes narrowed.

  He rubbed at his bulbous nose with the back of his hand. “I came looking for coin. I know, I know. Still a crime. But I wasn’t meaning to hurt no one. I thought if I could get enough for passage to the Americas, or maybe Barbados…”

  “You should turn yourself in.”

  “Ye’re mad.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she acknowledged wryly.

  “They’ll condemn me to death.”

  “You’re going to die anyway. There is no escape, Mr. Morton. Even if you somehow slip away today, my husband and my brother-in-law will not rest until they find you again. The duke’s men won’t chance losing you a second time. They will kill you first. If you turn yourself over now, though, you’ll stand trial.”

  “If I turn myself in now,” he countered, “your husband will shoot me on sight.”

  It was a possibility, but Charity didn’t want to dwell on that. She sensed Morton was starting to weaken. If he grew desperate, he might act suddenly. Rashly. Which would not be good for her.

  “Lord Maxwell is a just man. I believe he’d allow you to go to trial—especially if you let me be the one to ask him. Perhaps you have valuable information that would aid your case,” she suggested. If he’d been hiding here the whole time, he might not know the others were dead. Charity wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. If he thought he could bargain for his life, he might let her go.

  She continued on, keeping her tone as polite and rational as she could. “Besides, even if you were condemned at trial, there’s an awfully good chance you’d get a reprieve. You weren’t the leader of that group. The authorities know it, too. Likely you’d be transported instead. Surely that’s better than certain death.”

  He shrugged. “Mebbe. Mebbe not.”

  “It’s more of a chance than you’ll have today.”r />
  “You could make ‘em promise to let me go.”

  “You know they won’t.”

  Jasper’s lip curled. He punched the solid desk in frustration, then yanked his hand back, wincing at the pain. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Let me go first,” she cajoled. “I will explain to the duke and to Lord Maxwell that you wish to turn yourself in. They will see you have not harmed me, and that will give credence to your claim.”

  He heaved a sigh. Seconds ticked by.

  Charity softened her voice nearly to a whisper. “There is no other way out, Mr. Morton.”

  His lips twitched, his jaw worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he grunted and jerked his head to the door. “Go.”

  Charity backed slowly toward the door. The end tables had been knocked askew by Graeme’s earlier attempt to enter, but it still took her putting her full weight into her hip to nudge them out of the way. She felt for the latch behind her, not trusting her former captor enough to turn her back on him. She found the latch and the door gave way, sending her tumbling through.

  Elizabeth was the first to see her. She ran forward, throwing her arms around her sister.

  “Where are the men?” Charity asked, breathless.

  “Outside. Trying to—wait.” She stopped, eyeing the door. “Is he still in there?”

  Charity nodded. “Get Graeme.”

  Elizabeth was back with the two lords in seconds. Both bore weapons. Seeing Charity safe, they hesitated barely a fraction of a second.

  “Don’t shoot him!” Charity shouted, realizing their intent.

  That stopped them. “What?” Graeme, halfway into the library already, kept his weapon trained on Morton so he couldn’t escape out the window. How ironic would it be, Charity thought wildly, if he made it out the window when she hadn’t?

  “He surrenders. He wants to stand trial,” she explained.

  “You want me to cart this no-good miscreant all the way back to London so he can stand trial?” the duke asked incredulously.