01 - Captured Dreams

by May McGoldrick

  “And you must know more than you are admitting to, milady.”

  “Pardon me, sir?” Ice could have easily formed in the air between them. She leaned forward in the chair, her eyes narrowing. “What is the meaning of this visit? What are you accusing me of? And what have you done with my Miss Edwards?”

  Turner had never been intimidated by a woman before—especially not one who surpassed him in age by at least a dozen years. But he found himself feeling strangely uneasy now. This was a woman with steel claws beneath her kid gloves. The thought flitted through his mind that this was a very dangerous woman, and it would be very easy for her to hide the body of an enemy in the deer park surrounding her genteel home.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get out of this room—out of her house.

  “I want answers, Captain,” she said severely. “And while you are at it, you evaded my question as to why you are here. Why does your Admiral Middleton wish to find Portia?”

  Turner had been prepared to say that Portia had abducted Helena, if it turned out that Lady Primrose refused to give up the two women. He had been certain they would be here, but now he wondered if he had miscalculated.

  Indeed, now nothing made sense, and sitting here and being browbeaten by this aging Jacobite would hardly serve his purposes at all. He should have known that direct tactics were the wrong approach with someone as crafty as Lady Primrose.

  “I believe I have overstayed my welcome.” He stood up and bowed stiffly. “Please give my regards to Miss Edwards when she arrives. Good day to you, milady.”

  There was no surprise at his hasty departure, and she made no attempt to delay him. He knew he had overplayed his hand, while Lady Primrose had held all the trumps. She was a very dangerous woman, but he was not through with her yet.

  As Turner rode away from Berse Drelincourt, he kept one eye over his shoulder and went directly to the village inn, where he would await his next appointment. The young man he was to meet, a trainer in Lady Primrose’s stables, was easily the most talkative of all the potential informants he’d interviewed…and the greediest. He was an Irishman from some place called Buttevant, north of Cork City. He was a horse trainer of some ability, if he was to be believed, and he’d been serving Lady Primrose for less than a year.

  The young man met him, as they’d planned, in a small glade beyond the churchyard, and he counted every coin in the bag before answering anything Turner asked.

  “Thankee, Captain. Much obliged to be sure.” He tucked the purse into his rough wool shirt. “Ye asked about two lady visitors?”

  “Did you see them?” Turner asked impatiently.

  “Nay, sir. For certain, there be no lady visitors in that house. No new servants, neither. Nothin’, Captain, but for a courier that brought some letters for her ladyship. ‘Twas not a fortnight ago, but it surely put her ladyship in all in a dither.”

  “Where were the letters from?”

  The man shrugged. “I cannot read nor write…not that I’d be able to lay me hands on ‘em, in any case. Just saw the courier bring the letters. Her ladyship was in the stables with her new hunter, sir. A fine steed ‘tis, too, sir. Got him from—”

  “How do you know your mistress was put in a ‘dither,’ as you say?”

  “Her ladyship went off calling for her steward, sending off letters of her own in every direction, turning the household topsy-turvy. I carried one to Dr. King myself. He be the Principal o’ St. Mary Hall. My understanding is she only asks him to come see her when something real important is going on.”

  Turner knew William King was another Jacobite ally of Lady Primrose. He reached inside his purse and passed another coin to the man. “I want those letters.”

  The trainer put the coin away and then shook his head helplessly. “I dunno about none o’ that, Captain. I would not e’en know where to look.”

  “You told me you had a girl inside the house who would get you anything you asked her,” Turner snapped angrily.

  “Aye, sir. I would ask and Mary would oblige, to be sure. But now, with her ladyship ready to go away, the lassie is far and away too busy with—”

  “Where is Lady Primrose going?”

  “Scotland, they say.”

  “When?”

  “Mary says her mistress is waiting for an answer to something first. It should be soon, but none of us knows exactly when.”

  “Listen to me.” Turner leaned toward the man. “You can earn yourself twenty pounds. Do you hear me? Twenty pounds,” he stressed.

  “With all that money, sir, I c, Captainset myself up in Cork City with a—”

  “I care nothing about what you do with the money, but you get nothing unless you do as I say.”

  “I’m your man, Captain. Just say the word.”

  “I want that letter when it arrives. I want to know who that letter is coming from, and I want to know where and when she is supposed to go.”

  The man frowned, thinking hard.

  “Do you understand what I am asking for?”

  He finally nodded. “Aye, Captain. For twenty pounds, I’d sell my mother, sir.”

  ****

  In the course of a sennight, every sitting room, salon, and bedchamber in Baronsford had been turned upside down and shaken. Every idle person within five miles of the place had been pressed into service and put to work. Every window had been opened. Every floor had been scrubbed. Fresh cut flowers had been scattered throughout the rooms, on the great staircase, in the halls, and in the ballroom.

  For the day of the arrival, Millicent Pennington, Countess of Aytoun, had directed that every villager and tenant farmer was to come to the castle and to bring their spouses, parents, children, and dogs. Today was to be a celebration like no other.

  Indeed, Millicent was determined to present a different view of Baronsford to her brother-in-law than that which had greeted Lyon when they had come home last winter. She had already warned Walter Truscott, who managed the estate, that she wanted the grounds look like fair day. She would not allow the formality of any receiving line in evidence when Pierce’s carriage rolled up to the front door.

  Mrs. MacAlister, the normally stern housekeeper, patrolled the castle like a regimental sergeant-major, directing her mistresses wishes with barely concealed glee. Mr. Campbell, the steward, struggled to keep up with the women. Peter Howitt, the earl’s secretary, was not spared from the work either. He was directed to play with little Josephine while the bairn’s nursemaid helped with other chores.

  It was early in the afternoon when Lyon Pennington, coming back from the village with Truscott, cornered his wife in the library.

  “You are finished working,” he announced with finality, directing the housekeeper and the steward to take charge and complete the preparations.

  “But there are so many other things that I should like to see to,” she protested when he closed the door on the madness outside. “Really, Lyon, I have not told them everything that needs to be done.”

  “If you have not told them already, then that means you have not thought of it, which means it does not need to be done.” He leaned heavily on his cane as he took a step toward a settee by the window. Just as he’d expected, Millicent’s reaction was immediate. She hurried toward him, taking his arm.

  “You are the one who has been doing too much. I cannot believe you rode to the village this morning instead of taking a carriage.”

  He kept up the pretense of pain until she had sat down on the settee beside him. He placed an arm around her shoulder and drew her against him. His wife’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes were evidence of her excitement. She was glowing from the inside. As it was becoming his habit these days, Lyon laid his hand protectively over Millicent’s swelling belly.

  “The house is ready for him, my love,” he said.

  “What about you? Are you ready?”

  He nodded and gathered her tightly against him, laying his cheek against her hair. She understood his apprehensiveness. Pierce’s ship had
arrived on the west coast of Scotland nearly a fortnight ago, but rather than coming directly to Baronsford, he’d sent a messenger first, bringing the signed documents annulling the transfer of lands. His brother’s letter had said that he didn’t want their visit have anything to do with business. Pierce was back in Scotland to visit with his family.

  Lyon wished that he’d just come—that their first meeting was behind them. This anticipation of what his brother thought, and if indeed that letter was meant to be a peace offering, continued to tug at his heart. But the wait was coming to an end. They should be arriving before dark.

  “I wish the dowager were already here,” Millicent said wistfully.

  “My mother will arrive soon enough.” Lyon’s mother had taken a liking to Millicent’s estate, Melbury Hall, so much so that she spent months at the time visiting there. Lyon knew that the truth was that the old woman’s friendship with Ohenewaa, a black healer that Millicent had freed from slavery, was the main reason that kept his mother there. “Though she’s probably badgering Ohenewaa right now about coming with her to Scotland.”

  Millicent lifted her head off his shoulder. “Were you able to learn anything more about Miss Edwards and her mother, other than what Pierce mentioned in his letter?”

  Lyon shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Pierce had said the two women were traveling with him and that their ultimate destination was Wales. He wrote that he’d succeeded in convincing Portia to delay their plans for what he hoped was an extended stay at Baronsford.

  “But unless I was reading too much into that letter, there was certainly more than a hint of interest in Miss Edwards on the part of Pierce.”

  “Well, there is nothing like love to help heal wounds. I believe I am going to like Miss Edwards. I only hope that Pierce is not disappointed in me.”

  Lyon looked into his wife’s beautiful eyes. He knew she was talking of a comparison between herself and Emma. Two women a world apart in character and affection.

  “He shall not be anything but thrilled. You are my life and my love. Pierce would be a fool not to see that if he wants to make peace, it must be not with me…but with us.” He kissed her lips. “And I do not believe my brother is a fool.”

  *****

  As the carriage rolled eastward in silence, Pierce’s mind continued to battle the dozens of questions that had been haunting him since the ship had docked at Greenock.

  The letter he’d received from Lyon in Boston had been sent early in the spring. The few words were the only communication he’d had from his brother. Now he wondered about the state of Lyon’s health. And whether the earl’s marriage was still as blissful as he described it in the letter. Was he happy? And did he still want to see Pierce after having his letter left unanswered for months?

  There were more practical questions, too. He didn’t even know for sure that Lyon and his wife were in Scotland. Pierce had just made the assumption and sent off the correspondence, announcing his arrival on a designated day. Perhaps he should have requested an answer, or at least waited for an invitation. Perhaps he was not even welcome.

  Pierce put aside his misgivings when Portia’s hand moved onto his knee. She was sitting across from him and leaning forward. She entwined her fingers with his. He looked at her beautiful face and saw the lines of tension in her face, too. Next to her, Helena’s head bobbed gently while the older woman slept. Pierce tugged on Portia’s arm, and she moved across and sat next to him.

  “You are tearing yourself up,” she whispered, reaching up and with feathery softness caressed his brow, the line of his jaw. She brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth and quickly drew back.

  Pierce wrapped a hand around her shoulder. He pressed her head against his chest and kissed her silky curls. She was responsible for his sanity. This fortnight, as they had gone from Greenock to Glasgow to give his letter time to reach Baronsford, he had kept his attention focused solely on Portia.

  Whatever hours they could steal had been the only hours of the day worth living. When she could, Portia had slipped into his room in the middle of the night. He’d even cornered her several times in a secluded corner during the day when they would snatch a few minutes of frenzied lovemaking. Neither seemed to be able to get enough of the other. Pierce was as aware of her every touch as she was of his. Memories of other women who had occupied his time were dashed from his mind. She was the only one that he wanted to remember.

  She managed to make him smile in a dozen ways. She had given him no end of trouble when he had tried to order a new wardrobe for her and for Helena in Glasgow. With any other woman, it would have been an easy feat. With Portia, it required the same strategic maneuvering—with enough promises and conditions of reimbursement—as some great international treaty.

  He looked outside the window and his mind again turned to thoughts of his brother. Pierce hoped Millicent was everything that Lyon had described her to be. He looked down at the woman in his arms and realized he’d been imagining Millicent to be like Portia. But that was too much to ask.

  “’Tis a beautiful sunny day outside,” she whispered, straightening up and staring out the carriage window. “Certainly unlike the other time I was in Scotland.”

  “A welcome sign,” he said hopefully.

  Portia’s dark eyes shone with agreement when she turned to him. “Tell me about Baronsford.”

  “’Tis a house.”

  “That is very helpful, Mr. Pennington,” she said, checking on her mother. She was still asleep. Portia looked up at Pierce. “Then tell me about the people. Whom I should know?ould be wary of? Where should I go and what should I say or not say?”

  “Well, I’ve told you about Lyon and the very little I know about Millicent. As far as the estate, that is run by Walter Truscott. He is my cousin by the way of my mother’s brother. He is younger than David, and he grew up with the rest of us at Baronsford. Walter is very much like a brother to all of us. Then, there is Mrs. MacAlister, the housekeeper. She is a dragon…a tyrant of a woman.”

  “Like Mrs. Green?” she asked uneasily.

  He shook his head. “Not at all. The woman truly has a heart of gold. Still, she brooks no nonsense and likes to order everyone about. Let me see…the steward is Martin Campbell. Short, wiry, and old, but has a great deal of energy. As far as the other servants, I really cannot help you for I do not know who is still there and who has left.”

  Considering the cloud of scandal and uncertainty that had hung over Baronsford for so long, it would be amazing if any of the servants had remained.

  “But to answer your question about what to say...” Pierce looked down into Portia’s expectant expression and felt the mischief rise in him. He leaned close to her ear and lowered his voice. “You should tell Mrs. MacAlister that you are my lover. Then, simply insist on having your trunk taken to my bedchamber.” He nibbled on her earlobe. “Oh yes, and tell her if she does not like it, she can just go straight to the devil.”

  “You are incorrigible, Mr. Pennington.” She jabbed him in the chest and pushed him away.

  He smiled at the pretty blush that had quickly reddened her beautiful cheeks. Selfishly, he enjoyed her denial of what had to be the obvious to others around them. But it was not just physical attraction that she held for him; he loved lying together and talking with her. Her quick wit and her idealism made her exceptional in every way. Since that night that she’d run into him in the Admiral’s garden, the two of them had grown into something more than lovers. They were friends, companions, even confidantes. He wanted no end to where they had come, to all that they were sharing.

  There was only one choice that lay before them. And Pierce was just waiting for the right time to ask her the question.

  Helena stirred. Portia immediately went across and sat next to her mother as the older woman’s eyes slowly opened.

  “How close are we?” she asked sleepily.

  Pierce looked out at the familiar countryside, and his gaze was drawn immediatel
y to the rocky rise and the large castle rearing up arrestingly on top. Baronsford.

  “We have arrived.”

  ****

  It was mid-afternoon when the Irishman showed up at the rooms Turner had taken. Obviously excited and very eager, the man asked twice if the officer’s offer of twenty pounds still stood. Turner assured him of it and asked the man to follow him inside.

  “A messenger arrived last night, bringing a letter for a Miss Fines. I happened to be up by the front of the house, seeing as my Mary was pickin’ flowers for the house. So I stepped up to take the horse for the lad. From his accent, we could tell he was a foreigner. A Frenchman maybe, I’m thinkin’. Now in the time I’ve been working there, there’s been no Miss Fines at Drelincourt. Seeing the fellow come in, though, a maid to Lady Primrose come runnin’ quick and takes the letter, though. And off she goes with the letter, runnin’ up into the house. Have ye anything for a lad to wet his throat, sir?”

  A pitcher of ale sat on the sideboard, and the trainer downed a cup in one gulp before continuing.

  “Well, sir, I saw her run and I quick sent my Mary in after her. My gal is thinkin’ now how all that money—you do have the money, sir?—that money’ll set us up. So she follows her in and puts an ear to a door, so she tell me. My Mary heard a fair bit o’ the talk between her ladyship and the maid. Near as we could tell, the sender o’ letter agreed with Miss Fines suggestion, and would meet her at some place called Barrisford…or Bearsford…or—”

  “Baronsford. I know the place,” Turner said hotly. “Did they say when they’ll meet?”

  “Aye, Captain, that they did. On the last Wednesday in July.”

  This was too good to be true. Everything was being tied neatly to Pennington.

  “Aye, sir. Mary said she thinks the place must be in Scotland. After coming out o’ the room, Lady Primrose started givin’ orders for traveling north.”

  “Who was the letter from? Give me a name.”

  The man’s face fell. “I’ve got no names, sir. But I’ve no doubt this was an answer to the message she sent out before.”